The Don's Rebel Pet

I was a slum kid who fell for Damon Vitale, New York’s most feared Godfather.

For five years, I was his. I took nine bullets for him.

He’d kiss my scars as I bled out for him. Hold me close. Clasp the queen’s necklace around my throat.

Then, once I healed, he’d fuck me senseless, with a passion that felt like forever.

I thought we’d spend our lives together. I thought he would marry me.

But on our 999th night together, he told me he was engaged. To Bianca, a mafia princess from a rival family.

I swallowed my tears. He just grabbed my chin, blew smoke in my face, and laughed.

"You didn't really think you could marry me, did you, Nora? Let's be clear. We fuck. That's it. You're not a partner. You're a piece of art I collect. A pet I own."

A pet. That’s all he ever wanted for me.

Instead, I picked up a burner phone.

[I'm taking your offer. Three days. Get me the hell out of New York.]

I’ve slept with the most feared man in New York for five years. 999 times. But tonight, he tells me I'm just a tool. And my next task is to pick out a welcome gift for his fiancée.

Half an hour ago, Damon showed up at my apartment.

Just like every other night for the past five years, he showered, then came to me with that familiar hunger, slamming me against the floor-to-ceiling window, the lights of Manhattan a blur below.

"I want you, Nora."

I lost myself in his hungry kisses and rough thrusts.

He still smelled like blood, even after his shower. I knew he’d just put down a traitor in the family.

I didn't care.

He was a monster, the king of New York’s underworld. And he was my only religion.

In the dim light, his fingers found the raised scar on my shoulder.

I got it saving him from flying glass in an explosion.

"Does it still hurt?" he whispered, kissing the scar.

"Not anymore, Damon… For you, it was worth it…" I gasped his name between broken breaths.

I used to think this was a fairytale. I was a nobody, an orphan with her nose in a book. He made me his confidante. His weapon. His prize.

If I could just marry him… I’d be in heaven.

Just as I thought that, he pulled out of me with a final shudder.

"I came to tell you there's a family dinner next week," he said, blowing a smoke ring. His eyes watched me through the haze.

My heart skipped a beat.

Was this his invitation?

Maybe he was finally ready. He fucked me with a different kind of hunger tonight, raw and all-consuming tonight.

"I'll be ready, Damon." I went to get his shirt. "Do you need me to brief you on the West Coast shipments? Or…"

"No."

He cut me off. His voice was ice.

"Bianca will be there. It's our engagement party."

Bianca.

The mafia princess whose family controlled the shipping lanes.

I froze. The shirt slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. "Engaged? I thought that was just a rumor…"

"It's not a rumor. It's business," Damon said with a shrug. "And you're my most capable asset. I need you to prepare a gift for Bianca. She likes Van Gogh. Pick out an original from your gallery for her."

He wanted me to pick a gift for the woman who was stealing my life?

Tears burned the back of my eyes. I couldn't stop my voice from rising. "Damon, I thought these five years… I thought we were more than—"

"More than what?" he interrupted, that familiar mocking look in his eyes. "An asset? No, Nora, you're my perfect creation. I taught you everything. How to be elegant, how to be strong, how to handle my dirty work. But you forgot the most important lesson. A creation doesn't dream. It obeys."

The blood drained from my face.

"As for the last five years…" He paused for a second that felt like a lifetime.

"Think of it as maintenance. A weapon has to be kept sharp to be useful, right? Whether I'm using it in my office… or in my bed."

I pulled the rug around my naked body, trying to find a shred of dignity.

"And what if I say no?"

Damon walked over and knelt down.

His fingers clamped onto my chin, his thumb stroking my lips.

The touch that used to make me tremble now just made me sick.

"Be a good girl." His voice was colder than the floor beneath me. "Don't forget who dragged you out of the gutter."

He stood up and left, leaving me alone on the floor.

I heard his footsteps fade, then the click of the bedroom door.

I stumbled into the bathroom, crying. The woman in the mirror was a wild-eyed mess.

The hot water washed away Damon’s warmth, but it couldn't wash away the shame and despair.

Five years.

For five years, I thought I was his woman. Turns out, I was just a weapon he kept sharp.

I pulled an encrypted phone from a hidden panel in the wall.

Three years ago, at a Sotheby's auction, Damon sent me to deal with a Russian who was becoming a problem.

The man's name was Leo Volkov. When I pressed a gun to his back, he didn't flinch. He just laughed quietly and slipped this phone into my hand.

He’d whispered, "A beautiful bird in a golden cage always dreams of flying. When your master breaks your wings, call me. I'll give you the sky."

I thought he was crazy. Now, he was my only hope.

My trembling fingers typed out a message:

[I'm taking your offer. Three days. Get me the hell out of New York.]