Given in debt to the mafia king

Lily

The rain falls gently against the windows as New York sinks under the dark grey sky of the stormy morning. I don’t like rainy mornings, it makes me want to keep staying under the covers. I get up and rush in the shower. Then I slip into my blush toned formal sneakers, I wear my blazer, and at last I clutch the folder of interview papers close to my chest. My reflection in the mirror looks too calm for the storm that rages inside me. Two months. That’s how long it’s been since we left Michigan, since my quiet, lovely life was packed up into boxes and thrown into the chaos of this city. My father didn’t ask me, he never bothered to have this conversation with me. He simply married Violet Carrow and decided New York was now our “home.” Violet, with her forced smiles and a son who barely speaks to me. My new stepbrother who is rude and is an arrogant asshole, and is always watching.

Today I am going for a job interview, it is more like for internship. I sigh as I head to the garage, the sound of soft music filling the car when I start the engine. The roads gleam beneath the rain, and I grip the wheel tighter, as if I can smooth away the anxiety coiling in my stomach. My father said he knows someone powerful. That this job is mine already. “Just show up,” he told me, as though I were nothing more than a pawn in some debt he’s eager to repay.

At twenty-two, I’m still balancing business studies at the university, drowning in coursework and expectations. This job was never part of my plan. I wanted to focus in my studies. I wanted to shape my own future and not the inherit one designed by my father. But he insisted, he said it would be a valuable experience. As if my choices mattered less than his words. Moreover I have never done anything on my own, he is always controlling my life.

By the time I arrive, the rain has slowed, but the city still feels heavy and humid. The address leads me to an elegant glass tower, its mirrored surface swallowing the storm-dark sky. Inside, the elevator hums to the thirteenth floor, my pulse rising with every number that blinks above the doors.

The moment I step into the office, I feel it, the silence. Heavy, suffocating, pressing down on my shoulders. Every desk is occupied, every person buried in their screen or papers, their faces sharp with concentration. No one talks. No one dares to laugh. Only the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper break the stillness. It’s not the kind of place where people bond over coffee breaks or exchange weekend stories. This is survival ground. Everyone knows their lane, and no one dares step out of it. I already hate this job but…do I have a choice?

NO.

I glance around and instantly feel underdressed despite my best efforts. Men in well tailored suits, women in tailored dresses, each detail of their appearance honed to perfection. Power and high status lingers in the air, quiet but undeniable it’s a polished elegance that hides teeth.

The HR woman who calls me in is as icy as the office itself. She is wearing a pencil grey dress, hair in a bun and she is wearing spectacles. Her questions are clipped, her eyes unforgiving, and her tone makes me feel like I’m already failing some invisible test. I answer politely, forcing a smile that feels glued in place. And somehow, despite all the tension knotted in my chest. I get the job.

Personal assistant to the CEO.

A man no one here ever seems to see, the one they only whisper about. They call him young. Ruthless. Untouchable. Some even say he runs more than this company, people say that his empire stretches into the underworld itself. The mafia king of New York.

I’ve never seen him, but my mind betrays me with an image: tall, cruel, impossibly handsome. The kind of man whose beauty is a weapon, whose darkness is written into every line of his face. The dangerous and magnetic one. A man who could destroy you with a word and still have you begging for more.

The day drags on, every second spent trying to memorize files, emails, schedules and each task feeling like a test I can’t afford to fail. By the time the clock edges toward evening, exhaustion weighs on me, my feet feels heavy but I know better than to complain. Just as I think I’m free and I am ready to go home, a secretary stops at my desk.

“There’s one last task,” she says, almost too casually. “The meeting room. Gather the files.” She says coldly enough that it makes me roll my eyes.

I nod, grateful for a moment alone. The glass-walled room is quiet when I step inside, the city’s storm-dark sky pressing against the windows. I exhale, my shoulders loosening as I begin stacking papers into neat piles. My mind drifts, to when I’ll return home, I’ll have dinner, then sleep, to finally escaping this place.

But then, the sharp click of the door closing behind me shatters the illusion. I jolt and the papers scatters from my hand.

And I freeze.

There’s a presence in the room now which is heavy, cold and electric.

I turn slowly and my breath catches.

A man stands in front of the door, tall and composed. His dark beard frames a sharp jawline, and his black hair is slicked back with purpose. He wears a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric molded perfectly to his broad frame. He looks handsome. I keep glaring at him for a second too long. A Rolex peeks from under his cuff. There's a tattoo curling behind his hand, just barely visible. Everything about him screams danger, wealth, control.

And rage.

His eyes burn into mine.

“Who are you?” His voice is deep and smooth, but it slices like ice.

“I...I’m the new PA. Just started today,” I say with trembling voice.

He steps closer, and the air around me shrinks. “Liar.”

I blink. “I’m not…”

“You were sent here.” His voice is calm but deadly. “You’re a plant. A con. Looking for information about the underworld, aren’t you?” He shouts and taps the table which makes me flinch.

“No!” My voice cracks. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not…”

“Where’s the wire?” he demands, stepping forward until I feel the heat of him close to me. “Take off your blazer.”

I recoil while clutching it tight. “No. Why would I?”

But he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun.

My heart stops. I gulp down nervously. My palms become sweaty.

“Do as I say,” he says quietly with the barrel glinting under the lights.

With trembling hands, I unbutton my blazer and let it slip off my shoulders.

“Pants. Now.”

Tears sting my eyes, but my fingers obey. My slacks pool at my ankles.

“Underwear. Both.”

I shake my head violently, but he steps closer with the gun steady and his expression unreadable. I stand frozen, breathless, my heart beating fast until he suddenly moves. In one swift motion, his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down without wasting a second.

I gasp. My body is shaking. My knees feels weak.

He crouches slightly, brushing his hands over my thighs, my hips, my back while searching for… something. I can barely breathe. His touch isn’t sexual, it’s detached, precise. But that doesn’t make it any less violating.

Tears roll down my cheeks silently.

Then his hand reaches up. He unclasps my bra. It falls.

I’m bare. Completely bare.

He pauses. His eyes linger on my skin for one second too long. His jaw clenches, and something shifts in his gaze with confusion.

“You’re not the spy?”

“I told you,” I whisper through a sob, hugging myself, “I’m not. I’m not whoever you think I am.”

His face changes. Just slightly. The weapon lowers.

He swallows, backing away. Guilt flashes in his dark eyes as he crouches and gathers my clothes from the floor, placing them carefully in my arms.

“Get dressed,” he murmurs. “I… I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there as I scramble into my clothes, humiliated and furious and terrified.

As soon as I’m dressed, I bolt from the room, my heels echoing through the hallway.

I don’t look back.

But I can feel him still standing there and watching me… like a shadow I’ll never escape.