The Don’s Caged Queen

I was "V," the highest-paid hacker on the dark web. My parents died in a gang shootout three years ago. I disguised myself as a busty, empty-headed bombshell and became the exclusive caged canary of Victor Russo, the New York Mafia godfather.

That night, I accidentally overheard a conversation between him and his underboss, Luca.

"Boss, Elena is coming back from the UK next week. What do we do with the stand-in at the apartment?"

"She's just a substitute. Throw some money at her and send her away," Victor said, his tone casual. "We kept her because our guys misfired and killed her parents during that Brooklyn shootout. Consider it redemption. Besides, when she smiles, she looks a bit like Elena."

It was then that I realized I was not just a body double. I was a living prop he used to alleviate his guilt. His untouchable first love was returning, and my career as a pet canary had reached its end.

But he didn't know my true identity was "V." I went back to the study and executed the final line of code. Victor's top-secret database tore wide open. The wire transfer record for the assassination from three years ago popped up clearly—the payee was not the Russo family, but a British offshore account. The clues pointed straight to London.

Since the trail led to the UK, there was no need for me to stay here any longer. Three years of acting had finally come to a close.

I ducked into the walk-in closet and smiled at the wall of haute couture and jewelry. I took photos and posted the links on the dark web marketplace, routing the receiving address to an anonymous, encrypted wallet that had never been linked to my real identity. Selling off those pieces would provide more than enough funds to hire a crew in the UK.

Late that night, Victor returned reeking of blood. I quickly snapped my laptop shut, smoothed out the wrinkles in my nightgown, and took a deep breath, forcing the coldness back down into my chest.

I instinctively stepped forward to help take off his coat, but he snatched my wrist and backed me harshly against the wall.

"Kiss me." His voice was hoarse, laced with a drunk's ferocity.

I tilted my face up. His kiss was brutal and scalding, his tongue forcing past my lips and teeth, biting an agonizing trail all the way down to my collarbone. My body reacted faster than my brain. I softened immediately, my hands naturally climbing up his shoulders.

"Three years, and you're still this sensitive," Victor chuckled darkly, his large palm violently ripping apart my nightgown. He grabbed the soft flesh of my breast, kneading it with bruising force. "Let me hear you."

I let out a muffled groan, a trembling gasp escaping my throat. My body, thoroughly fucked by him for three years, instinctively yielded without needing a single command. He picked me up entirely, threw me onto the bed, and forcefully spread my legs. A heavy, punishing thrust pierced straight into me.

"Ah...!" The impact made my back arch, my fingertips death-gripping the bedsheets.

Victor seized my waist, driving deep and hard. He whispered a command with every slam:

"Say my name."

"Victor... Victor..." I gasped out, my voice thick with sobs, entirely dictated by my body's primal reactions.

He growled and picked up the pace, thrusting so hard that the headboard continuously slammed against the wall. Just as I was on the brink of losing all control, he suddenly leaned down, bit my earlobe, and murmured under his breath:

"Elena..."

My entire body went stiff.

We had been sleeping together for three years, yet he was actually still calling her name.

He only pinned my legs back against his shoulders with more ferocity, continuing to ruthlessly pound into my deepest core. I closed my eyes, letting my body drown in the pleasure, but my brain had entirely gone cold.

I would let him get off one more time. It would soon be the very last.

He took me twice that night. The second time, pinned beneath him, my body jolted violently with his every thrust. When it was over, he quickly fell into a heavy sleep, his arm still thrown across my waist.

But I couldn't sleep.

I gently moved his hand away and walked barefoot to the study, opening the trading page on the dark web marketplace. The computer screen lit up, and the dark web account prompted that the funds were settling: the quota was locked, expected to arrive in twenty-six days. It was enough to hire a security team and rent an underground safehouse in the UK. I booked a flight to London for twenty-six days later. I then sent an encrypted message to my informant: "Code confirmed."

Twenty-six days. I only had to endure this for at most twenty-six more days.

The next morning, I woke up propping up my sore, aching waist. Victor stood by the bed buttoning his shirt. His phone screen was still lit up with a message; his finger paused on the screen for two seconds before he locked it and put the phone away. When he turned his head, his eyes had already turned cold.

I reached out to adjust his tie, but he took a step back. "Don't touch me."

My hand froze in mid-air. I forced my eyes to well up with tears. "Victor, why are you being like this?"

He pulled a black card from his wallet and tossed it onto the bed. "Payment for last night."

I clutched the black card, feigning grievance, while calculating its cash-out value in my head.

He turned to walk out the door, dropping one last line: "There's a banquet tonight. Make sure you dress up."

The door closed. I pulled out my burner phone. My informant had replied with a single message: "Waiting for you."

I faced the mirror and started picking my dress for the night. I picked the most vibrant red one. It was my last time being his canary; I couldn't let my patron down.

I would see London in twenty-six days.