No Next Life For The Don

Serafina POV

The deliberate tread of Cassio's leather-soled shoes against the corridor's tile was the only sound.

The soldier holding me dropped his hands and scrambled backward, his face draining of all color.

"Boss, I—I was just teaching her a lesson," the soldier stammered, holding his hands up in surrender.

Cassio did not so much as glance at the man.

His dark, unforgiving eyes were fixed on me.

The strength fled my legs, and I found myself sliding down the wall's abrasive surface.

The narcotic Rosa had poured down my throat was pulling me down into a dark, heavy pit.

I slumped against the wall, sliding down until I hit the cold tile floor.

I tried to pull my ripped collar up, but my numb fingers refused to cooperate.

"Bring her to the main hall," Cassio ordered, his voice flat, stripped of all inflection. "Let her face the reality of the world she chose over her loyalty."

Two enforcers stepped forward, their hands clamping onto my upper arms.

They dragged me out of the hallway and into the blinding lights of the main club floor.

The heavy bass of the music pounded against my skull.

The writhing crowd of corrupt politicians, rival bosses, and wealthy associates parted in a wave of immediate, fearful reverence.

Madam Rosa stepped forward from the shadows, her eyes gleaming with malice, and gestured sharply to the enforcers. "Put the traitor on display! Let everyone see her!" Rosa hissed.

They threw me onto the elevated glass stage in the center of the room.

I hit the hard surface with a whimper.

I crawled forward, my vision spinning, trying to find the edge to escape the glaring spotlights.

Below me, Cassio sat in the center booth.

He leaned back against the plush leather, a glass of bourbon in his hand.

His face was a mask of cold stone, but his knuckles were white around the crystal glass.

A corrupt associate from a neighboring territory stepped up to the edge of the stage.

He placed a gold coin at the bottom of a tall, narrow champagne flute.

"Ten grand!" the associate shouted over the thumping bass. "Ten grand if the fallen Mafia Princess can fish the coin out using nothing but her tongue!"

The crowd erupted in jeers and laughter.

I lay against the cold glass, my breathing shallow.

Ten grand.

That was one step closer to the ten million I needed to buy my freedom from Rosa's blackmail.

I dragged my heavy, aching body toward the edge of the stage.

I leaned over the glass flute.

I stuck my tongue into the narrow rim, reaching down for the cold metal.

The crowd roared with sickening approval.

I tasted the bitter, stale residue of alcohol and the metallic tang of the coin.

I pulled it out and dropped it onto the stage with a soft clink.

The associate laughed, tossing a stack of bills onto the glass.

"She is worth every penny," the associate bragged, turning to the men beside him, his eyes raking over my torn collar. "You should see the little crescent moon birthmark she has on her left breast. It is the only pretty thing left on her."

The crystal tumbler in Cassio's hand fractured.

The sharp crack cut through the music, silencing the immediate area.

Bourbon and blood dripped from his clenched fist onto the pristine table.

His eyes, previously cold and detached, ignited with a blinding, terrifying violence.

The possessive instinct of the Cosa Nostra Don, held in check for two years, now broke its chain.

He lunged across the table.

Cassio grabbed the associate by the throat and slammed him backward into a structural pillar.

The sickening crunch of bone echoed over the heavy bass of the club track.

Cassio punched the man in the face.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Blood sprayed across Cassio's crisp white shirt.

"Throw them all out!" Cassio roared at his enforcers, his voice a tremor that shook the very foundations of the room. "Anyone who looks at her loses their eyes!"

The club erupted into chaos as the enforcers began clearing the room.

Cassio climbed onto the stage.

He grabbed me by the waist, lifting me and throwing me over his shoulder with an ease that disregarded my weight entirely.

I pounded my weak fists against his broad back, but he ignored me.

He carried me up the private stairs with a terrifying effortlessness and kicked open the heavy oak door to his executive suite.

He threw me onto the large leather sofa.

I bounced against the cushions, gasping for air.

Cassio locked the door behind him.

He stalked toward me, wiping his bloody knuckles on a silk handkerchief.

"You let them touch you," he hissed, his chest heaving as he loomed over me. "You let them look at you. You broke the ultimate vow."

His gaze snagged on my collar for a fraction of a second, the muscles of his jaw bunching. Then, his hand—smelling of blood and iron—moved with an unhurried certainty, wedging itself into the space between my neck and the sofa's upholstery, the web of his thumb pressing against my jawline.

His grip was tight, but not enough to stop my breathing.

I stared up into his furious eyes.

I remembered Rosa's damp, bloodstained basement.

I remembered the heavy leather belt striking my back until the skin split open.

I remembered Rosa standing over me, telling me that ten million dollars was the only way to bribe the governor and save my husband from the electric chair.

I had dismantled my pride.

I had destroyed my soul.

And I had done it for the man whose hand was now a cage around my throat.

He raised his free hand and slapped me across the face.

The sting was sharp and hot.

My head snapped to the side.

I tasted the familiar metallic flavor of blood inside my cheek.

I turned my head back to look at him.

I smiled.

It was a dark, broken smile.

"Thank you for the punishment, Don Moretti," I whispered.

Cassio froze.

His eyes widened slightly, thrown by my lack of resistance.

I reached up and grabbed the edges of my already ripped uniform collar. I pulled the torn fabric wider, dragging it down just far enough to expose my chest and stomach to the harsh, unforgiving overhead lights. I did not take the garment off, but it was more than enough.

Cassio stepped back, his breath hitching in his throat.

My exposed torso was a canvas of horror.

Thick, raised whip marks crisscrossed over my ribs.

Deep, circular burn scars dotted my stomach.

The smooth, flawless skin he used to worship was gone.

I sat up straight, letting him see every single mark.

"Your punishments are nothing, Cassio," I said, my voice dead, hollowed out by the weight of all he did not know. "I have already survived hell."

His gaze, for one unguarded second, was not the cold stare of a Don passing judgment—but the shattered, desperate look of a man who was beginning to understand that every scar on my body was a receipt for a sacrifice he had refused to acknowledge.