Four years ago, Enzo brought him home without asking. Said every prisoner needs a guard dog. The irony wasn’t lost on me, but I fell in love anyway. He’s my baby, my shadow. And even though he’s technically trained to kill on command, he still curls into me when I let him sleep in my bed.
I scratch behind his ear until his tail thumps against the sheets. Then I roll out from under him, bare feet brushing cold stone, and shuffle toward the vanity where a steaming cup of coffee already waits.
Someone always makes it. Strong, bitter, a little too hot. A silent reminder that I’m cared for, in the same way a prized horse is cared for.
By the time I pull on black running shorts and lace up my shoes, Hank is already waiting by the door, tail wagging, tongue lolling.
But it’s not Hank I run with every Sunday morning.
It’s Elijah.
He’s waiting in the courtyard, black joggers, black hoodie, expression blank as stone. He doesn’t look at me when I step out. Doesn’t speak. Just starts running, and I fall into stride beside him.
We don’t talk anymore on these runs. Once, there was a time when our mornings were filled with jokes, stories, and even silence that wasn’t heavy. But whatever that was—whatever thread tied us together—it snapped, probably around the time he caught me losing my virginity in the pool and then killed the guy while we were literally in the act. It was quite a memorable first time, not long after my beautiful, magical first kiss. He had no right to be mad. Elijah fucks whoever he wants, and I was mad at him, so I was proving a point. I guess that’s why we run like this, two strangers tethered by an invisible chain.
About an hour into our run, keeping a steady pace, I hit Elijah’s arm with the back of my hand, hinting that I need to stop for a walking break. I mean, I’m all for boosting my endurance, but I’m tired today.
He slows his pace and pauses the music on his phone, which is strapped to his other arm. I return the motion by taking out one of my earbuds.
“We should talk about your schedule now that I am in charge of you.”
I let out a puff of air and a forced laugh. “Oh, you mean now that you are following me around like a puppy?” I nod with a big smile plastered on my face. “Does it help your ego to say that makes you in charge?”
Elijah’s a dick.
I know right now, at this very moment, I’m being the dick, but that’s the only way I know how to talk to him anymore.
He doesn’t care about me, so I tend not to get a reaction regardless of what I say.
“Just have your schedule written and don’t break it, do you understand?” he says, as cold as usual.
I don’t reply, mostly because what he’s saying sucks and just makes me feel more a prisoner in my own home.
It really is pathetic, and I think Elijah knows it.
A Mafia princess, locked in her tower. Sometimes, I think they’re trying to recreate a tragic movie.
Oh my god… I’m Rapunzel.
I wipe the sweat from my eyes as I continue my self-pity. At least Rapunzel was meant to be alive. I wish I could say the same.
Elijah’s harsh tone breaks the silence. “I’ll take that as a yes. And if you could stop fucking your way to information, that would be great. I’m getting tired of killing people for you.”
“Aw, sorry about that,” I reply sarcastically, because that’s completely absurd. Elijah doesn’t kill for me; he just does what he’s told.
He rolls his eyes, clearly tired of even having to speak to me for a minute.
Seventy-eight years ago, the Bratva didn’t just bring four hundred million dollars to the table—they brought silence. A blood contract. In exchange for half this island, they promised protection not from rival syndicates, but from something worse to men like Dante.
Law enforcement.
They made our world invisible.
And for that, we gave them territory. Space. And something far more valuable than either.
Leverage.
Traditions came next. Brutal, twisted ceremonies dressed up as diplomacy. Women weren’t raised. They weren’t heirs. Theywere currency. Breeders for the next generation of kings. And when they’d served their purpose, they were discarded scraps.
