Page 16 of The Mafia King's Reign
When my father landed a job at the university, everything finally felt normal. I befriended Lindsay in high school and was able to keep that friendship.
I always knew something was off, but I chose to ignore it. I chose not to ask questions.
And now... now I'm paying for my ignorance.
But I refuse to let Sofia suffer too.
Then I think of my mother. Of the life I'd planned. Graduate degree. Maybe teaching someday. Perhaps someone who'd love me for more than my usefulness. A quiet life surrounded by books and history and beauty.
All of it, gone.
Destroyed by my father's choices and this man's cruelty.
But at least Sofia and Mom could survive. Could have good lives. Could be safe.
If I just sign my name.
I look at him again.
Even knowing what I know now, even knowing the library was a performance, that the charm was a calculation, that the man who made me feel seen was doing nothing more than inspecting what he intended to acquire, even knowing all of it...
He's still the most dangerously attractive person I've ever stood this close to. The kind of man who makes the room feel smaller simply by standing in it. His strong jaw is shadowed with perfectly groomed stubble; those dark eyes so intent they feel invasive, like they can see straight through to my soul.
His presence hasn't changed. It was real then. It's real now. The worst part is that the very thing that drew me in the history aisle, that coiled, patient, predatory stillness, is exactly the thing I'm afraid of in this office.
I was attracted to the danger without knowing what it was.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me until I give in. "Where do I sign?"
Salvatore's expression doesn't change, but I can see satisfaction in his eyes.
"Page twenty-eight. Initial every page." I take my time going through each clause. Finally, I pick up the pen, but quickly set it down again.
"Something wrong?"
"Section 7. Paragraph 3." I point to the line about approved absences. "Change forty-eight hours to one week."
His eyebrows rose. Barely. But I saw it.
"You're negotiating."
“You want a wife who looks like she wants to be here? Give me room to breathe."
The silence stretches. Then he pulls the contract toward him, crosses out "48 hours," writes "7 days," and initials the change.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“The fidelity clause.”
“Is non-negotiable,” he replies.
I study him for a moment. “So you can pay your way out of faithfulness?”
“I won’t.”
The certainty in his voice makes something tighten inside me, but I hold his gaze anyway.
“Then why have it?” I ask.
