Elena's lungs screamed to cry out. Her neighbor's voice echoed through the door, the only tether to safety she had left. But the Don's finger pressed against her lips like the barrel of a gun. His eyes warned her clearly: one sound, one scream, and the man outside would die.
Her throat ached from holding the words back. Tears stung her eyes as Mr. Jenkins knocked again, softer this time. "Elena? Just checking. You left your mail downstairs."
The Don's gaze never left hers. He lowered his hand slowly, deliberately, like a predator giving false mercy. She trembled, every muscle coiled tight, her lips trembling to form a plea. But she couldn't. She wouldn't risk blood spilling because of her.
Mr. Jenkins sighed through the door. "Alright then. Good night." His footsteps retreated down the hall. Silence stretched.
Only then did Elena's chest collapse, her sob breaking free. She shoved at the Don's chest with all her strength. "You're a monster," she hissed, tears streaking her cheeks. "You would've killed him. You would've killed an innocent man!"
He caught her wrists easily, pinning them against the door. His eyes burned into hers, dark and merciless. "Innocent?" he murmured. "No one is innocent. And if his life was the price to keep you silent, I would have paid it without hesitation."
Her stomach twisted with nausea and fury. "You're sick."
His lips brushed close to her ear, his voice velvet and venom. "And you're mine."
She slammed her knee upward, aiming for his ribs. He caught it effortlessly, his grip tightening until pain shot up her leg. A dangerous smile curved his lips. "Still fighting. Good."
Before she could spit back, a sound shattered the tension.
Glass breaking.
Both froze. A crash from the window. Elena's eyes snapped wide, fear surging fresh. The Don's hand released her instantly. His head turned sharply toward the noise, his body shifting from predator to soldier in an instant.
Shadows poured through the window. Men in masks, knives glinting in the dim light. Elena's scream ripped through her throat as the first man lunged.
The Don moved faster.
A flash of steel, a wet crack, and the first intruder collapsed at her feet, blood spilling onto the floor. The Don twisted the knife from the man's hand and turned it into a weapon of his own. His movements were brutal poetry—efficient, merciless. A second man slashed at him; he ducked, drove the blade up under his ribs, and shoved him into the wall. The third charged, but the Don was already there, slamming his head against the edge of the table until bone cracked.
Elena pressed against the corner, her body shaking violently. She couldn't breathe, couldn't blink, couldn't look away from the carnage. Blood streaked the walls. Her apartment floor was slick with it. The smell of copper filled her nose, choking her.
One man remained, larger than the others, a scar splitting his jaw. He grabbed Elena, yanking her against him, blade pressed to her throat. Her scream tore the air.
"Drop it!" the thug snarled at the Don. "Or she dies."
The Don stilled. His eyes locked on Elena, then on the blade digging into her skin. The room was silent but for her ragged breaths and the drip of blood from the men already dead.
Then he smiled.
It was cold. Deadly.
"You made a mistake," he said softly. "You touched what's mine."
The man's grip faltered for the briefest second. The Don struck. A flash of silver, a spray of red, and the thug collapsed, gurgling, blade slipping from his hand. Elena stumbled free, gasping, pressing her shaking hands to her throat where the blade had kissed her skin.
Silence crashed down again.
The Don stood over the bodies, his chest heaving slightly, blood splattered across his shirt and jaw. He turned to her slowly, eyes dark, breath heavy. In two strides, he was in front of her, his hand gripping her chin, forcing her gaze to his.
"Now do you understand?" he demanded, voice rough, sharp. "Do you see why you can't run? Do you see what happens when you think you can live outside my shadow?"
Her tears spilled freely, her chest heaving with panic. "They—they came for me—"
"They came because of me," he corrected, cutting her off. "Because they know what you are to me. And they will keep coming until you accept it." His thumb brushed blood from her cheek, a grotesque parody of tenderness. "You are mine, Elena. And I'll kill the whole city if that's what it takes to keep you."
She pushed at his chest weakly, sobbing. "I don't want this. I don't want you—"
His hand tightened on her jaw, forcing her closer until his forehead pressed against hers. His voice was a low growl. "You think you have a choice? I spared you once. Tonight I saved you. That was the last mercy I'll give. From this moment forward, you live because I will it."
Her chest cracked under the weight of his words. Terror and fury battled inside her, but one truth rang clearer than all else—he would never let her go.
The sound of sirens wailed faintly in the distance. Someone must have heard the fight. Elena's eyes darted to the window, hope sparking faintly.
The Don caught her gaze and smiled darkly. "Let them come. They'll find nothing but ghosts."
He seized her wrist, dragging her toward the door. She stumbled after him, her protest strangled in her throat. Blood stained her shoes as he pulled her through the carnage, unbothered, unstoppable.
Elena's tears blurred her vision, her heart fracturing with each step. She knew, with bone-deep certainty, that her life was no longer hers.
She was his prisoner.