Page 3 of Savage Mafia King

“And who was your father?” I press, though the answer comes to me as she opens her mouth.

“Bruno Roselli. You knew him?”

The name hits me like a shot of whiskey, burning and bitter. Roselli. He was one of ours—one of mine. Now dead. I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my jaw.

“I did. Dimitri.” I watch as her face flinches at the name—of course, she thinks I’m one of them.

I raise my hand, trying to ease her worry. “Dimitri Esposito,” I clarify, watching as the tension drains from her shoulders.

For a moment, we stand there in the fading light, something unsaid passing between us. Then I hold out my hand. “Come with me. I can help you.”

Her eyes flicker to my outstretched hand, to her sister, then back to me. Hesitant, but with no other choice, she takes it. As her skin brushes against mine, something dark and possessive curls inside me.

I pull her and the little girl from their hiding place, my eyes tracing the lines of her slender frame. She’s a survivor, hardened by whatever life has thrown at her. But under the dirt and fear, there’s something more—something I can shape, control.

“Let’s get you cleaned up. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.” My voice is soft, almost kind, but beneath it lies the truth.

She doesn’t realize it yet, but she belongs to me now.

And I’m going to enjoy every moment of this.

3

Elena

“Why are we here, Elena? This guy is a murderer.”

Marie’s voice slices through the stillness of the room, trembling yet defiant. Her eyes, wide with fear and confusion, bore into mine, demanding an explanation I don’t have the energy to give. I can feel the weight of her accusation as if it were chains binding my limbs, but I don’t know how to answer. Exhaustion gnaws at the edges of my consciousness.

Last night, when Dimitri took control, I felt an unexpected sense of relief wash over me. After so many days of running, of carrying the burden of survival on my shoulders, I finally felt… safe. For once, someone else was in charge, someone who wasn’t scared. And even if that someone was a killer, it was better than the alternative.

“Dimitri is part of Father’s world,” I murmur, my voice hollow. “He’s from one of the families we can trust.”

“Trust?” Marie's voice cracks, as if the word itself has betrayed her. The look in her eyes is something I don’t recognize—griefand rage twisted together in a way that sends a shiver through me.

“I don’t know what you expect of me, Marie,” I snap, my patience fraying. “We need someone who can take care of us. I can’t do this alone anymore.”

Her lips tighten into a thin line, and she crosses her arms over her chest, defiant. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” I hiss, my voice sharper than I intend. “But you do have to accept it. Because we don’t have any other options.”

A knock on the door interrupts the tension between us. I already know who it is before I hear the heavy footfalls. Dimitri. The very name sends a strange thrill through me—a mix of dread and something far more dangerous.

“That’s probably him,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “Be nice, Marie.”

I smooth my dress and sit in the breakfast nook, adopting the perfect posture Father always insisted upon. Appearances were everything in our world, even in the midst of chaos.

The door swings open, and Dimitri steps in, his presence commanding, overwhelming. His dark eyes sweep over the room, and for a brief moment, they lock with mine. A shiver runs down my spine. He’s followed by a woman dressed in a pristine apron, carrying a silver tray laden with food. She moves silently, setting down plates, cutlery, and enough food to feed an army. Without a word, she disappears, leaving the three of us alone in the heavy silence.

Dimitri takes a seat across from us, the muscles in his arms rippling as he casually pours coffee into the cups in front of us. There’s an unsettling grace to his movements, as though even the smallest action could hold lethal intent. He pours orange juice for Marie, his expression inscrutable, and nods for us to eat.

I reach for my cup, fingers trembling slightly as I pour cream into my coffee. The rich aroma is a welcome distraction from the tension crackling in the air. Marie hesitates before stacking her plate with pancakes, drowning them in syrup like a child trying to reclaim some semblance of normalcy. I can only manage some fruit, my appetite long since lost to the turmoil in my mind.

Dimitri eats with the same deliberate precision he seems to bring to everything, his dark gaze flicking between me and Marie as if assessing every move we make.

The silence grows heavier, suffocating, until he finally turns to my sister. “Marie, that’s your name, right?”

She nods, her mouth full of syrupy pancakes.

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