Page 7 of Kidnapped By the Mafia

He turns to face me, his expression softening as he takes in the tension I’ve been carrying all night. “You’ll never have to dance again in your life if you don’t want to,” he murmurs, his tone reassuring, almost tender. “I’ll make sure you always feel comfortable, I swear.”

I study him, searching his eyes for the truth. There’s something in his gaze that tells me he means it, that this isn’t just some line he’s using to keep me close. But still, I can’t help the skepticism that rises in me. “I doubt you can promise that,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He doesn’t flinch at my response. If anything, my words seem to draw him closer, as if he’s intrigued by my reluctance to simply accept what he offers.

“Then I’ll solve some of your problems instead,” he replies, his voice a mixture of challenge and promise. It’s vague, almost too good to be true, and yet… there’s something about it that’s undeniably tempting. “Why so much pain behind those eyes?”

I want to believe he’ll listen to my answer, but the realist in me knows better. Still, something about the way he looks at me, the way he talks, makes me want to share more than I normally would. Maybe it’s the anonymity of the evening, or maybe it’s the way he seems genuinely interested in what I have to say.

I decide to take a chance. “I got robbed,” I say, my voice softening as I let down my guard just a little. “My mother’s necklace was stolen from my apartment earlier tonight. It was the last thing I had of hers, and now it’s gone.

“While I was busy being fired from my shitty job, some asshole took it from me. Oh, and they kept my last paycheck so I can’t even afford my bills this week. My roommate is already covering my ass in so many ways and I can’t keep leeching off her forever.

“My articles all get rejected when I submit them, and I got a fresh hole in my sweater today. Oh, and I told a hot guy about shit turning black so there’s that.”

His eyes darken slightly, and I can see empathy in them, which surprises me. He doesn’t strike me as the type to show much emotion, but something about my story seems to affect him. “I am a hot guy, aren’t I? At least you’re young enough to be honest.”

“That’s what you took from that?”

I can get your necklace back,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. “Tell me about it. What’s it look like?”

I hesitate, but his gaze holds mine, and I find myself opening up in a way that feels both terrifying and liberating. “It’s not valuable. My mom made it herself, years ago,” I begin, my voice growing steadier as I speak.

“We were at the Museum of Modern Art. They had this workshop for kids, where you could make jewelry using all sorts of different materials. She made the necklace for me that day. It was like having a piece of her with me, especially after she died. I guess the thief thought the jewels in it were real.”

I pause, feeling the familiar ache in my chest that always comes when I think about her. The loss of the necklace is like losing her all over again, a fresh wound layered on top of old scars. I look away, blinking back the tears that threaten to spill over.

“What did she die of?”

“Cancer. It was quick. They diagnosed it late. She died on my eighteenth. I got evicted a week later.Couldn’t find anywhere to keep her stuff. I just took the necklace with me. I got lucky, met Mia and she had a spare room and a heart big enough to take me on. Sorry, too much information again.”

Lucas surprises me again by sharing something personal in return. His voice takes on a distant quality, as if he’s remembering something from long ago. “I used to visit there a lot when I was a kid. The art museum, I mean.”

I look up at him, curious. “With your parents?”

He shakes his head, and I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable in his eyes, something that makes him seem less like the untouchable man I first thought him to be. “No. My tutor used to take me. My parents… they weren’t a big part of my childhood.”

The way he says it, so matter-of-factly, sends a pang of sympathy through me. I can’t imagine growing up without my mom, even though she wasn’t with me for as long as I would’ve liked. “What do you mean?” I ask gently.

He hesitates, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. But then he sighs, as if deciding to let me in on a secret. “Private school, private tutors… they were always busy with society events, charity galas, work. I didn’t see much of them until I turned eighteen, and even then, it was only at their joint funeral.”

The weight of his words hangs between us, heavy with the grief he doesn’t show on his face. I feel a lump form in my throat, a mixture of sadness and something else—something deeper, a connection that I didn’t expect to feel. “How did they die?” I ask.

“A car crash,” he says quickly, too quickly. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—pain, maybe, or something darker. It’s gone almost as soon as it appears, and I wonder if I imagined it. But something tells me there’s more to the story, something he’s not ready to share yet.

I want to push, to ask him what really happened, but the words die on my lips. There’s a wall behind his eyes, one I’m not sure I’m ready to breach. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, a shared understanding that some things are too painful to speak of.

After a moment, he continues, his voice more controlled, the coldness back in his eyes. “I learned early on that buildings and wealth are more reliable than people. They don’t disappoint you. They don’t push you away.” His expression hardens slightly. “That’s why I went into the property business. It’s all about control—something I didn’t have growing up.”

His words strike a chord in me, stirring something deep inside. I’ve always felt like I was at the mercy of forces beyond my control—my mom’s death, losing my job, the theft of the necklace.

It’s like the world is constantly pushing me down, daring me to get back up, only to knock me down again. And here is this man, this powerful, enigmatic man, who seems to have mastered the art of taking control, of bending the world to his will.

I find myself opening up more, emboldened by his honesty. “I’ve always felt like the world is rigged against people like me,” I say, my voice gaining strength as I speak. “I lost my job tonight. Fired for standing up to a boss who was doing something wrong. Unit Seventeen, debt collection and dream shattering.” I sigh. “It’s like no matter how hard I fight, I’m always going to lose.”

He watches me, his expression unreadable, but there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “The world is rigged,” he says, his voice firm. “But that doesn’t mean you have to accept it. You can fight back, find a way to take control, just like I did.”

His words resonate with me, even though I’m not sure I believe them. I’ve spent my whole life fighting, and it’s only left me tired and worn down. But there’s something about the way he says it, the conviction in his voice, that makes me want to believe him. Makes me want to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s a way out of this mess.

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