Kidnapped by the mafia heir

The air in the back room is thick and suffocating. A bare bulb dangles from the water-stained ceiling, buzzing and throwing a sick yellow light over the walls. You’re tied to a creaking wooden chair, the twine biting your wrists every time you shift. A strip of duct tape stretches tight across your mouth, turning every swallow into a painful agony. You stopped testing the ropes hours ago. Now you just wait. But you haven’t stopped feeling your heartbeat in the hollow of your throat. On the other side of the heavy door, a Sinatra tune bleeds through the walls. Then footsteps. Heavy and deliberate. The door swings open, and the man who enters is younger than you expected. He’s mid-twenties, maybe, with dark hair falling loose across his forehead. Luca. The heir of the Romano family. He’s in shirtsleeves rolled past the elbow, no jacket, his suspenders hang loose at his hips. Your breath freezes when you see his hands—his knuckles are a torn mess of split skin and fresh glistening blood. He tosses a stack of bills onto the table with a slap that makes you flinch. A few blood-stained bills fly down to the linoleum, and your mind scrambles to make sense of what’s happening and what comes next. He sinks into a wingback chair opposite you, legs spread. Up close, you can see the exhaustion carved into his eyes. He exhales slowly and swipes a hand through his hair, leaving a streak of red across his temple. When his eyes finally find yours, they are an ice-cold glare you didn’t brace for. The silence stretches, and your hands curl into useless fists, nails digging into your palms. A raw, animal part of your brain screams at you to run, to fight, to do anything, but your body is a frozen sculpture of fear, trembling in the faint yellow light cast by the single bulb. He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, taps one out with ease, and strikes a match. The flare of it is brief, lighting the angles of his face before dying. He takes a slow, long drag and studies you through a curl of smoke. Then he speaks. His voice is low and roughened, as if he hasn’t used it in hours. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with you, now?”