Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss: Chapter 2

“How long am I going to be in here?” I ask Gianni as I step into the bedroom.

“As long as it takes.” He slams the doors shut, causing me to jump.

I gasp, run to the stylish French doors, and then hear a click. Jiggling the door handles, I yank and pull, realizing I’m locked inside. With my fists, I pummel the wood as hard as I can. “Let me out of here, Gianni! I will not be held prisoner. Open the damn doors!” I try jiggling the handles again, sneering when they don’t give. I plant my feet against the ground and pull, hoping the lock breaks, but all I hear on the other side is a chuckle.

Gianni is laughing at me.

I kick the door for good measure. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Who locks a woman in a room?”

“The kind who don’t trust women who make deals to clear their father’s name. You can’t be trusted, Delilah. Not yet. And I won’t risk Carmine’s safety. For all I know, you’re a crazy person.” His voice is muffled from the door between us.

I growl with impatience, beating my fist against the door yet again. “I’ll show you crazy!” He pays me no mind. I hear the expensive clicks of his loafers carrying him away. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Get back here!” I slap a hand over my mouth when a booming laugh echoes down the hall. It goes on for a few minutes.

What have you gotten yourself into, Delilah?” I whisper to myself, pressing my forehead against the door as I take a few deep breaths.

I really did this. I came to a mafia boss to save my father’s life, made a deal to marry him, and give him a child. My pulse begins to race, and my breathing becomes erratic. Holy hell, my entire life is in this man’s hands.

What have I done?

I toss my hair in a messy bun and massage my neck. “You’re going to be fine. You don’t have to like him. Your father will be alive. That’s all that matters.”

I spin around and sag against the double doors, fanning my eyes around the room for the first time.

For a guest room, it’s huge. The bed itself is the size of my room. The paint is masculine yet elegant, a light grey on three of the walls, and the fourth is a navy blue. The ceramic floor tiles are breathtaking, probably imported from Italy. They are an array of blues, greys, whites, and opals, creating a gorgeous mosaic.

I bend down and trace the tile’s grout, a stark black, such a contrast to the light design. I straighten myself up then explore my prison cell. Overhead, a mural reminding me of the night sky was painted on the domed ceiling. Intricate patterns of vines, leaves, and grapes were carved into the moldings.

“Wow.” I am in awe, impressed by the detail that’s gone into this room.

Wrapping my hand around one of the bedposts, I spin then slide my free hand across the fluffy, white comforter. The bathroom has the same ceramic tiles on the floor to the right. Flipping on the light, my brows raise at the extravagance. A chandelier hangs from the middle with crystals reflecting and shining on every surface. There are twin sinks; the counter is made of gorgeous, polished, purple stone.

Is it amethyst? There’s no way. That would be so expensive. The soaking tub matches too, and it’s big enough for three people. If I’m going to live here, I will use that tub daily.

The shower is nothing to sneeze at, either. There are no doors, no curtain, just a huge walk-in stall made of onyx that glimmers when the light hits it. The rainfall showerhead takes up the ceiling, and I bet it would feel like standing under a giant waterfall.

“Wait.” I turn my head to see a toothbrush in its holder, and then there’s water sprinkled on the silver drain as if it were used this morning.

There’s another door, and I fling it open, revealing a giant closet lined with suits and shoes.

This isn’t the guest room.

It’s his room.

“Oh, no. I did not agree to this.” I sprint into the bedroom and slip on the floor, latching onto the handles just in time before I slam onto the ground. I pull myself up and try to open the doors again, frantic when I realize I’m in his private space.

A bed he sleeps in.

A bed he fucks in.

And it’s all too much.

He surrounds me, and I don’t want to be. He affects me in ways where I need to be ashamed because he isn’t a good man. He isn’t giving me options that do not require my body to save my father. Good men don’t do that.

I’ve never had sex. I’ve been too focused on school. That’s not to say that I haven’t had the opportunity, but I’ve never wanted to have sex with a frat guy three beers in.

“Come on,” I continue to try the doors, but it’s no use.

I’m trapped.

I stare at the bed, and the white blanket and sheets mock my innocence. Is this where he plans for us to have sex? Is this where my entire life will change? Maybe I was too hasty in accepting the offer to clear my father’s debt. But what other choice did I have?

And if I give him a child, does he expect me to give up my rights as a mother? I can’t do that. No way will I leave my baby in the hands of a monster.

My phone chimes, and I’m reminded I could call the cops if I wanted, but then I remember my dad. He’s counting on me even if he doesn’t know it yet.

When I dig out my phone from my purse, I see it’s from my best friend, Christy. She’s been with me since freshmen year in college. We were roommates, and we immediately hit it off. We were inseparable. She must know something is wrong.

“Hello?” I need to get this conversation over, but I sound defeated. I head to the bed and sit down, sinking into the comfort of feathers and foam.

Why do I hate this while this is the most comfortable mattress I’ve ever been on? I lie down, put my head on the pillow, which is just as comfortable, and stare up at swirl of colors on the ceiling.

“Where are you?” she screeches. “Your house is on the news, Delilah. The. News. There are thousands of gunshots in it, yet no bodies were found. Apparently, you’re alive. Thanks for telling me. Here I am, in our advanced Anatomy and Physiology class, thinking your body is decomposing somewhere because that’s the only reason I can think of for you to miss class. Where are you? What happened?”

“Christy, you can’t take phone calls in class,” I hear the Professor say in the background.

Books slam and I hear her backpack zip. “I’m going. Sorry, Professor Wakins. It’s an emergency.”

“You shouldn’t have called me during class.”

“You shouldn’t have left me wondering if you were dead,” she snaps. I hear the lecture hall door close behind her.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “You’re right. I know. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you everything, but I’m okay. I’m safe.” Sort of.

“You can’t tell me? You better tell me. You know I’ll find out. I’ll hire a hacker to trace your every move and find out what’s going on.”

“Christy, I need you to leave your curiosity at the door this time because this situation might get you killed if you aren’t careful.”

“Well, now I’m more interested. You can’t say things like that and expect me to lay this to rest. I’m your best friend, Delilah. You can trust me. I won’t tell anyone; you know I won’t.”

I exhale, debating if I want to burden her with this. I can’t remember a time when she gave me a reason not to trust her.

“My dad got involved with Carmine Milazzo,” I admit, the words bitter on my tongue.

“What!” she screams, then lowers her voice. “What? You did not just say that. He kills people, Delilah. Kills. Gets rid of the bodies. He never gets caught because he has police and FBI in his pocket. He has so much power. Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. Where’s your dad?”

“Hiding. He’s okay for now, and he will be. I’ve taken care of things.”

Silence hangs between us for a few seconds before static rustles the phoneline from her breath. “What did you do?” Dread fills her question, and she doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “You can’t always be the solution for your father’s mistakes, Delilah. You did something bad, didn’t you? I’m going to want to strangle you, aren’t I?”

I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my skirt. “Maybe,” I mumble. “I can’t tell you. Not yet. Just know everything is going to be okay.”

“Remember, I’m going to find you. I’ll get the truth.”

“You’re going to be the death of yourself.”

“Just tell me where you are,” her voice softens. “Please.”

My gaze shifts to the locked doors, and I remember the agreement I’ve made. Being locked in this room reminds me that none of this is a dream. This is real life, and now I have to pay.

“I’m at Carmine Milazzo’s house. I’m locked in his room.” I prepare myself for her scream, for curse words flying, for something other than the silence, but instead, I hear a sob. “Christy?” I sit up, wondering if I’m hearing her correctly.

“What did you do, Delilah? Oh my God. What did you do?” she cries. “You never think things through. You react. You fly into action.”

“It was the only option, Christy. Death is the only way out of debt with Carmine if you don’t pay up. That’s his rule. I can’t let my dad die. He’s all I have.”

“What deal did you make?”

“I don’t want to tell you yet. I need to talk to him and work out the details. Once I know everything, I’ll fill you in, okay?”

“If I see on the news you’ve gone missing, I will kill him myself.”

“I believe you.” I smile, thinking of her four-foot-nine frame trying to attack a man well over six feet tall.

“Keep me updated. Please. I’m going to be worried sick. We have finals soon. What does this mean for you?”

“I’m not quitting school because of him. He can go fuck himself if that’s what he thinks.”

“If Carmine fucking Milazzo wants you to quit school, I have no doubt that will happen.”

“My goals and dreams do not end because of him. I’m still my own person. I want things for myself that are not just him.”

“You want him?”

I scoff. “I did not say that.”

“You did. You so did. Oh my God, you want the big bad mafia boss, don’t you? Is he hot? I’ve heard rumors.”

“He’s…” gorgeous. “He’s okay. In a serial killer kind of way, if you’re into that.”

She chuckles. “You like him. In some twisted way, you like him.”

“I do not. There is nothing to like. He’s demanding, controlling, selfish, domineering, stubborn, and I do not like those qualities.”

“You forgot hot.”

“It’ll take more than good looks to win me over, you know.”

“Listen, I need to go to my next class, but be careful, Delilah. This isn’t some guy from college. This is a man who makes a living making people bleed. He runs drugs and weapons. He gambles. He wins. All the stories we have heard are true. If you find yourself attracted, just remember that.”

“Believe me; I won’t forget.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Love you. Keep me updated. I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

“Love you too.”

I drop my phone and cover my eyes with my hands, wondering how deep a grave I’ve dug myself.

I’m not sure how long I lie there, but I fall asleep, and when I dream, much to my dismay, it’s Carmine who takes over my subconscious.

I want to call myself crazy, but if I’m honest, I’ve always been lured by darkness.