Mafia’s Property.

“Fuck you, Carlo! I will not be marrying your son!” My body trembled slightly not just from anger, but fear also.

“You will, piccolina,” he said in a low growl. “And if you curse at me again or use any foul language in my home, you'll be sent back to the dungeon.”

My father was an abusive drunkard who made my life miserable, but there was hope, because I had just graduated high school, I planned to attend a college hours away from home where I could love dad from afar without having to be constantly hurt. I could almost taste my freedom until the devil, Don Carlo Moretti, showed up at my doorstep.

Carlo was a dangerous mafia don, feared by many in both Europe and outside Europe. He was a heartless and cold-blooded murderer. A man who always got what he wanted—including me, his son’s betrothed. I was his now… his property as he always says…

One: The Devil At My Doorstep.

Natalia’s POV:

My heart thumped rapidly against my chest, each beat echoing in my ears as I shoved a hoodie into my duffel bag. Sweat beaded on my forehead with each fast movement I made. I needed to escape. It was now or never.

BANG!!

My heart skipped a beat as a shiver ran down my spine at the sound of the living room door being slammed. I knew what the sound was, it was HIM again. No doubt already drunk even though the day was just starting.

Quickly, I pushed my little sister, Ava, into the closet. “Don’t come out until I come to get you, okay?”

She nodded, her big brown eyes glistened with tears as the fear on her face mirrored mine.

I placed a kiss on her forehead. “I won't let him hurt you. I promise.”

Liar, you can't even protect yourself. The voice in my head mocked and I squashed it, shutting the closet door, and headed for the living room as my heart raced with a familiar dread.

He wasn't supposed to be home, he was usually off at some bar drinking until evening. So I planned my escape properly, it had to be during the day, and I’ve been planning this for years. I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans as I approached the living room. If he found out what I was up to… I’d be dead meat.

My stomach churned at the memories of dad beating me up simply because he felt like it. When I was much younger, he’d lock me in the closet and starve me for days… If I cried while he beat me up he'd say, “It doesn't even hurt! It only hurts because you think it does, you've always been an annoying child.”

One time, he broke my arm because I ‘cried’ after he had starved me for three days. I've lived in nothing but pain since I was old enough to walk. My skin was littered with bruises and scars