Ten minutes.
That's what he said.
In ten minutes, I was supposed to show up for dinner. Not asked. Not invited. Ordered—like some stray dog being summoned to heel.
And the worst part?
He sent me clothes.
Clothes.
I didn't know whether to be flattered or offended. I mean, thanks for the gesture, your highness—but maybe next time pick pants that don't threaten to assassinate my thighs every time I move?
Seriously. Why the hell did he bring me pants this tight?
I tugged at the waistband, glaring at myself in the mirror. "Damn it," I muttered.
But... it was still manageable. Barely. I could walk, so that was a win. "Thank god."
Now I was standing there, staring at my reflection like I was about to go on a blind date with Satan himself. Which—okay, maybe not far off. The T-shirt he picked was soft. Too soft. Like made-from-clouds-and-sin soft. Navy blue, casual, neat. Expensive in that effortlessly rich way.
It even smelled like lavender, and I liked it. Which annoyed me.
"I feel like I'm going on some casual date," I grumbled, trying—and failing—to tame my hair and giving up.
Even if this wasn't a date or some mafia banquet, it was still dinner in Salvo Mancini's house. Which meant—no rules were written, but all of them were still enforced.
Break one, lose a limb. Probably.
So yeah. Clean shirt. Obscenely tight black pants. Hair doing its own thing.
I stared at myself a little longer.
Not Luca Moretti anymore—the web novel reader from Naples who shouted at his screen when the main character died in a fire.
I was Alfio now, and I had to accept it, but...yeah, not his fate.
"I hope everything goes well," I muttered.
Because I wasn't here to play along anymore. I was here to rewrite the damn story. So... I took a deep breath, fixed my face into something vaguely calm, and opened the door.
Time to have dinner with the devil.
***
The Dining Room (A.K.A. Versailles but make it mafia)
It was like walking into a royal palace. Long mahogany table. Crystal glasses. A chandelier so big, I'm 99% sure it could end me if it sneezed wrong.
And at the head of the table, lounging like sin incarnate, was Salvo Mancini. Black silk shirt—sleeves rolled, chest slightly exposed, sinful smirk in place. Casual. Relaxed. Stupidly handsome.
Why did he look like a Calvin Klein ad and a crime documentary at the same time?
Focus, Alfio. That man is not human. He's the final boss in a romance-thriller, and you're a tragic main character with a limited life expectancy.
Then he looked up as I entered. Something flickered in his eyes—approval? amusement?—but he didn't say anything.
"Come," he said simply, nodding at the seat across from him.
And like a good little hostage, I obeyed. Sat down. Didn't ask questions. Mafia etiquette 101.
But then I noticed it—another plate. Third glass. Who else was coming?
"You like the clothes?" he asked, not looking at me.
"They're fine," I replied stiffly.
[Translation: They're too soft, too fancy, and the pants are actively trying to murder me.]
"You wore them well," he said. Then, with a glance: "But then… you'd look good in anything. Or nothing."
I choked on my water like an innocent virgin nun. Bastard.
"Don't worry," he added, smug, "I won't strip you. Not here."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. Should I say thank you for that?
And just when I was about to consider climbing out the window—
Whirrrr.
Wheels. A soft mechanical hum. I turned just as a girl rolled into the room, pushed by a woman who might've been her nurse. She had delicate features, long dark curls, and eyes that could slice glass. Green. Sharp. Too familiar.
Salvo immediately stood. His entire vibe switched—from smug mafia boss to strict Mediterranean dad mode.
"Did you take your pills?" he asked, already frowning.
She groaned like this was the fiftieth time today. "C'mon, brother, can we skip the daily interrogation? We're not filming House M.D."
"Bianca," he said in warning.
"Yeah, yeah. I took them. Jesus." She waved her hand like she was swatting away his concern. "Stop hovering. You're worse than Nonna."
His eyes narrowed. "You skipped them last week."
"One time!" she snapped. "And I had a valid reason!"
"You said the 'vibe was off.' That's not valid."
I sat there, blinking.
Did they forget I was still here?
Hello? Captive present.
"God, seriously—you're so annoying—" Bianca, her gaze flicked over to me. She blinked. Then grinned.
That grin had trouble written all over it. Mischief bloomed in her expression like a cat spotting a mouse in a Gucci sweater.
"Oh?" Her voice went syrupy sweet. "Who's this?"
Salvo turned to me slowly, like he was just now remembering I existed. His eyes held that familiar, bored menace. "He's Alfio," he said with a sigh, walking forward. "Someone you shouldn't care about."
Wow. What a warm, lovely introduction. I feel so special.
But whatever. I stood up anyway, awkwardly—like a secret wife caught sneaking into the family reunion.
"Uh… Ciao." My voice cracked a little. Kill me.
Bianca smiled like I just handed her a new toy. Salvo gently pushed her wheelchair to her seat. Her eyes never leaving me.
"Ciao, Alfio. I didn't know we were having company tonight," she said lightly, her smile only widening when Salvo sighed and sat back down.
"Like I said," he repeated, tone sharp, "you shouldn't care about him."
Bianca ignored him like a pro. Her eyes were locked on me like I was some unsolved mystery on her desk. "So… how'd you end up here?" she asked casually. "I mean, usually I see people being invited to the basement first. Tied up. Bag over the head. The usual."
I stared at her.
Then stared at Salvo.
Then back at her.
…Should I be offended or… thankful I didn't get the basement package?
I tried to laugh. It came out as a nervous wheeze.
"Oh, relax." Bianca waved her hand with a grin. "If he was going to kill you, he wouldn't have fed you first. That's just wasteful."
Right. Of course. Wasteful. Silly me for thinking murder had logistics.
Salvo let out a tired sigh, like he dealt with this kind of dinner conversation regularly. "Alba, serve the dinner," he ordered, his voice smooth but sharp enough to cut steak without a knife.
And then the maid, Alba, walked in; she gave a polite nod and started serving. The smell hit me first. Rich, warm, mouthwatering. Truffle risotto, roasted lamb with herbs I couldn't name, something that looked like potatoes but probably cost more than my college tuition, and freshly baked bread that had the audacity to glisten.
Then slowly and hesitatingly I took the first bite, and—oh.
Stars. Planets. A whole-ass constellation exploded behind my eyelids. My soul left my body, floated above the chandelier, and gave me a thumbs-up before drifting off to Nirvana.
How could food be this good? Did I just ascend to Heaven?
And then—
"So… brother," Bianca said, breaking the quiet with a smile that could only mean trouble, "you didn't tell me—who is he to you?"
I paused mid-chew, fork hovering like it suddenly weighed ten kilos.
Salvo didn't answer right away. He took a slow sip of wine, like he was waiting for the question to evaporate into the air.
Then, finally—cool, detached, like he was discussing the weather—he said,"I told you already. He's no one."
Bianca blinked. "No one?"
"A mouth to feed. That's all."
He didn't even look at me when he said it. Just casually cut into his lamb like he hadn't just stepped on my ego with steel-toed designer boots.
But… hey. Congrats to me; I guess I got hurt. Just a little. Not that it mattered. Not in this house.
Dinner continued like nothing had happened. I poked at my food. Salvo ate in silence. Bianca sent me a few sympathetic glances, but even she didn't seem to grasp how hard that one line had hit.
After dinner, Bianca was wheeled away, already half-asleep, yawning as the nurse arrived.
"Good night, Alfio," she called, her smile warm and too gentle for this place.
I waved back with a smile that probably looked about as natural as a hostage video. "Good night."
The second she disappeared down the hallway, I let out a sigh, ready to crawl back to wherever I was allowed to exist—But then I felt it.
A firm grip across my lower back—large, heavy, and unmistakably his.
I froze.
Before I could even turn around, his voice landed hot against my ear. Smooth. Commanding. Dangerous.
"To my room. Now."
Goosebumps erupted down my arms.
Man… this horny bastard. Could he not whisper like a normal person? Oh, right. He's not a normal person. He's Salvo.
"Let's go," he commanded, voice low and firm.
And I… went. Like a well-trained pet with a death wish.
I walked beside him down the hallway, dim lights casting long shadows against the marble floor. My pulse was a drumline in my ears. I told myself not to be scared. I told myself he wasn't going to do anything. I told myself this was fine.
I'm a terrible liar.
Because deep down, something told me—I wasn't walking toward his room.
I was walking into the lion's jaws.
Ready to be devoured.