Don Matteo Russo

Lila POV

I woke up to pain in my wrists and a the smell of gun oil and sea salt. My own black lace scarf, the one I wore on stage at Club Nero, was stuffed between my teeth. It tasted like sweat and my cheap perfume.

I lay on my back on a big bed, silk sheets under me, cool and slippery. My arms were pulled up and tied to the headboard with red silk ropes. It was tight, not enough to cut skin, but enough to burn when I moved. My legs were free, but my dancer heels were gone, my fishnet stockings ripped at the knees. The short black bodysuit I danced in clung to me, sticky with dried sweat.

Moonlight peered through tall open windows as the white curtains moved in the wind. I could hear waves crashing from a distance. When I tugged at the ropes, I heard a slight crack in my shoulders but the knots didn’t move. Whoever tied them knew what they were doing. I tried to scream but only a muffled grunt came out.

The room was huge, decorated with marble floor, gold lamps on the walls, a fireplace, paintings of ships and storms. My blurry eyes searched the room, then I found two. One carved wooden door and a glass door leading to the balcony. Both were closed.

Then the footsteps came slowly from the hallway and the wooden door opened. A man walked in, tall and broad shouldered. His liked shirt hugged his muscles and was unbuttoned all the way to the waist, exposing his wild traditional tattoos, his hair messy like he had been in a fight. Then a thick scar cut straight through his chest.

He stopped at the foot of the bed, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re awake,” he said. His voice low and rough, with a thick Sicilian thick. “Good. We have a wedding to plan.”

I shook my head fast and the scarf slipped a little so I spat it out and it fell wet on my chest.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice cracked. I hated that it did.

He smiled slowly. “Matteo Russo.”

The name hit me like a slap. Russo. The Russo cartel. He was always associated with drugs and bodies in the harbour. Everyone in Palermo whispered it.

I pulled at the ropes again. “Let me go.”

“No.” He stepped closer and sat on the edge of the bed.

He reached out, pressing his thumb on my neck, right on the pulse. “Your father stole Three million from me and he ran. You will have to repay the debt.” He smirked.

My Dad. Enzo Moreno. I hadn’t seen him in six months. Last time, he packed cash in our tiny apartment and kissed my forehead. “This will keep you safe, Lila.” Then he was gone.

I swallowed. “I don’t have your money.”

“True. But you have you.” His thumb slid to my bottom lip. Pulling it down slowly. “Your body, blood, name... all mine now.”

I bit his thumb so hard that his blood filled my mouth, but he didn’t move or blink. He just watched me, then laughed out loud. “Fight all you want, piccola fiamma. My little flame. You’ll wear my ring at dawn.”

He stood and walked to a table and poured red wine into a glass, his eyes never leaving me as he drank.

I twisted my wrists, the silk cutting deeper. “My sister. Sofia. If you touch her...”

“I won’t.” He set the glass down. “If you behave.”

He pulled out an old worn leather book from his back pocket and tossed it on the bed beside m, then I turned my head to see my dad’s handwriting. I saw numbers, dates, three million euros, Russo cartel and a red thumbprint at the bottom. Dad’s thumbprint. My stomach turned.

“He signed in blood,” Matteo said. “His word were his debt.”

I kicked at him and my foot hit the book, sending it to the floor, but he didn’t flinch.

“You try to run,” he said, “I find Sofia. You try to kill me, I kill your father. You scream, I gag you again. You behave…” He leaned over me. His face inches from mine, his breath warm with wine and smoke. “You live. Maybe you’ll even like it.”

I hated the heat that crawled up my neck when he came close. Hate, not want. I would never want him... or so I thought.

He straightened and walked to the balcony, looking out at the sea. The moonlight casting his shadow long across the floor.

I studied him for a few seconds. He has more scars on his hands and neck, maybe even his back, from knife, bullet burn... he wasn’t soft like the men who watched me dance. This one killed.

I pulled at the ropes again, quietly this time and my left wrist slipped a bit. The silk was smooth, maybe if I twisted...

He turned and caught me. “Don’t.” Just one final order.

He walked back and knelt beside the bed and his hand moved to my hip, finding the old scar there from a stage fall when I was nineteen.

His thumb traced it slowly like he owned it. “Every mark,” he growled. “Every curve. Mine.”

I jerked away, the headboard creaking. He smiled again. “Sleep. Dawn is soon.”

Then he walked away and I was alone again.

I lay still in the silence, listening to the waves, the wind and my heart beating hard against my ribs.

I thought of Sofia, she was just nineteen and innocent. If I ran, he’d find her and if I fought, Dad would die. I needed to play smart.

I twisted my wrist again slowly this time and the silk loosened just a little.

Suddenly, I heard gunshots. Pop. Pop. Pop. It came from away, down the cliff.

Matteo’s door flew open somewhere in the hall and boots on marched on the marble floor. Then I heard shouts in Italian. There were more gunshots, closer this time.

A window shattered downstairs, then everywhere went silent again. I pulled harder and the left rope slipped, freeing my hand.

I froze again and listened, then I heard footsteps running towards my room. The door swung open and Matteo stood there with a gun in hand and blood on his cheek. I knew it wasn’t his.

“Someone wants you dead,” he said. “Or me.”

He looked at my free hand, narrowing his eyes. “Looks like the wedding just got interesting.”

He stepped in, closed the door, locked it and then smiled.