Sold to the Mobster

The heavy, armored tires of the Bentley SUV crushed the pavement outside the Di Ravelli Group casino, instantly flanked by a fleet of blacked-out sedans. Security personnel swarmed the curb in a flawless tactical formation, though no one touched the rear door until the woman riding shotgun stepped out. Clad entirely in sharp tactical black, she moved to the back and pulled the heavy door wide with a slight dip of her head.

"We are here, Boss," she announced quietly.

Enrico Di Ravelli stepped into the neon-lit humidity of the night. His striking silver eyes swept the perimeter with the cold calculation of a man who owned the concrete beneath his feet. He possessed a brutal, arresting kind of symmetry—a chiseled jawline, an aristocratic slope to his nose, and the kind of dangerous mouth that ruined lives. Planting his custom leather shoes on the ground, he slid dark shades over his face, his sheer presence demanding absolute submission from the surrounding air.

Without wasting breath, he extended an open palm toward his security chief, and she immediately slapped a loaded handgun into his grip.

"Ten minutes," he stated. The gravel in his voice hinted at sheer exhaustion or perhaps mounting irritation, but she simply gave a curt nod.

Straightening the lapels of his immaculate black suit, Enrico breached the casino's main doors. His sheer height and suffocating aura carved a path straight through the high-rollers. Women twisted in their cocktail dresses to watch him pass, while powerful executives bowed their heads in deference. He ignored every desperate attempt at eye contact, aiming directly for the sealed VVIP section that had been completely cleared out for his arrival.

Pushing through the soundproof doors, the metallic stench of fear hit him instantly. A man hung suspended from the reinforced ceiling, heavy steel chains digging into his wrists. Dwayne’s bare chest heaved with erratic gasps, sweat slicking his torso under the dim overhead lights. There wasn't a single bruise on his skin, yet his pupils were blown wide with absolute agony. His ruined shorts were dragged down, leaving his hard, swollen cock exposed humiliatingly to the open air.

Catching sight of the casino owner, Dwayne’s entire frame convulsed in sheer terror. He bit down frantically on the filthy cloth gag shoved between his teeth, muffled sobs vibrating in his chest.

A dark, mocking curve touched Enrico’s lips. He raised a single finger, and one of his men stepped forward to yank the gag free.

Dwayne immediately broke down, hyperventilating so hard the chains clattered against the steel beams. "Please, sir! I swear I won't repeat my mistakes. Just kill me! Tell your guards to blow my brains out right now, please!"

Enrico didn't even blink. He calmly checked the diamond-encrusted face of his watch, his expression entirely devoid of human empathy as he looked back up.

"Why exactly are you being punished, Dwayne?" Enrico asked. He casually slid the handgun from his back pocket, pulling the slide back with a sharp click that echoed in the quiet room.

Rivers of sweat poured down the suspended man’s cheeks. His teeth chattered violently as he forced out the confession. "I... I stole from you. I tried to manipulate you. And I forced myself on your employee. I raped her."

Enrico tilted his head, a lethal amusement dancing in his silver gaze. "And tell me, Dwayne. What do I absolutely despise more than anything else?"

The sensual smoothness of his tone could easily be mistaken for seduction, but those who had encountered this monster knew it was a death sentence.

"B-being manipulated," the older man stammered, weeping openly now. "And having physical force exerted against you."

Enrico didn't offer another word. He simply leveled the barrel and pulled the trigger, blasting a deafening shot directly into Dwayne’s exposed balls. The man’s catastrophic, shredded scream bounced off the soundproof walls.

Lowering the weapon, Enrico handed it blindly back to his security chief, who swapped it for a freshly lit cigarette.

Exactly ten minutes after crossing the threshold, Enrico exited the glass doors of his empire. He slid onto the pristine leather seats of the Bentley, crushing the cigarette butt into the built-in ashtray.

His security head peered at him from the front seat. "Should I arrange a visit to Mari? Or head straight back to the corporate office?"

Enrico stared out the tinted window, a cold irritation hardening his features. "No. Take me to the other house. I need to get rid of something first."

Miles away, consciousness returned to Maren Harrow in a slow, agonizing crawl.

She blinked against a wash of soft, angelic light, staring up at a breathtakingly expansive ceiling. She lay nestled in pristine white sheets, wearing unfamiliar white garments. For a fleeting second, the sheer luxury of the room convinced her the anesthetic had killed her and sent her straight to paradise.

Then reality slammed back into her chest. She remembered the sheer dread of her last waking seconds. She had heard a voice that belonged to the devil himself—Enrico Di Ravelli. The media painted him as America's most eligible bachelor, but she knew the ruthless reality beneath the tailored suits. She had absolutely zero business being in his territory, especially not after the terrifying ultimatum he had delivered the last time their paths crossed.

The heavy bedroom doors clicked open, severing her panicked thoughts. A middle-aged woman radiating severe, calculated elegance strode into the suite, flanked by two young maids in crisp uniforms.

"Do not bother sitting up, Maren Harrow," the woman commanded smoothly, moving with the grace of a runway model. "I am Mrs. Renata Di Ravelli. I must admit, you look far more exquisite in person."

Di Ravelli. The name triggered a cold spike of panic in Maren’s stomach.

She felt completely paralyzed, staring in utter confusion as the high-society matriarch stepped close to physically inspect her face and hair with microscopic precision.

"A cheap disguise," Renata noted with polite condescension. "Why would a natural blonde drown her hair in such a boring brown dye? And those colored contacts to hide your striking green eyes... why go to such lengths?"

Maren’s head spun violently under the sudden bombardment of questions. Forcing her trembling limbs to cooperate, she pushed herself up against the headboard, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Why am I here, Mrs. Di Ravelli?" her voice shook, betraying her racing pulse.

Renata raised a perfectly arched brow. Her unnaturally plump, doll-like lips curved into a chillingly soft smile. She lifted a manicured hand, gracefully tucking a stray strand of Maren's dyed hair behind her ear.

"From this moment forward, you will address me as mom in public," Renata declared effortlessly. "We have entirely paid off the massive debts your father placed on your head. In exchange for your salvation, you are going to marry my son, Rico Di—"

The massive double doors exploded inward, slamming against the walls with a violent crash.

Enrico Di Ravelli stormed into the pristine room, bringing with him a suffocating gust of wind and pure, unadulterated danger. He completely shattered the quiet aesthetic of the paradise suite, his lethal silver eyes instantly turning to ice as he glared between his mother and the terrified woman clutching the bedsheets.

Exuding an aura of absolute refusal, he barked his command with a voice that froze the air.

"I am giving you twenty-four hours to throw this damsel in distress out of my house." He sneered, his gaze cutting into Maren with deep, mocking disgust. "I am absolutely not playing knight in shining armor to a ruined heiress. Or should I say, a spoilt daddy's brat?"

What the actual fuck.