Sold To The Mafia Don

Chapter 227 - 37

Narrator’s Voice

Night had settled over Los Angeles in a velvet hush, but the city never slept — not truly. Neon signs flickered, tires whispered across asphalt, and somewhere in a quiet corner of downtown, Isabella Moretti stepped out of the black car that had been sent for her.

She wasn’t nervous.

Not yet.

Her heels clicked sharply as she crossed the underground parking structure, perfectly tailored dress hugging her curves, hair brushed into that effortless wave she knew men stared too long at. Her walk carried the usual confidence — sassy, bold, unbothered. She thrived under pressure. She lived for tension. She loved being desired, feared, admired... in whatever order came first.

But tonight, something was different.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from the same blocked number.

Keep walking.

She rolled her eyes.

He was dramatic.

Always had been.

The sound of her heels echoed louder as she followed the dim path to the far corner of the garage. Only one lamp worked here, casting long shadows that stretched across the concrete like fingers reaching for her.

A figure leaned against a concrete pillar.

Tall.

Composed.

Almost statuesque in the dim light.

He didn’t move, didn’t shift, didn’t greet her.

Just watched.

Isabella stopped a few feet away, crossing her arms. "You could’ve just called me."

A low laugh. "You stopped answering."

"Because you call too much," she snapped, smirking. "And you act like the world ends every time someone doesn’t obey you immediately."

A pause — subtle, dangerous.

Then: "Interesting choice of words, Isabella. Obey."

Her pulse fluttered once. Just once.

She covered it with a shrug. "You know what I meant."

The shadow detached itself from the pillar, stepping into the weak light. She still couldn’t make out his face — just a jawline, a glint of metal near his wrist, and the aura of someone who had never known fear.

He approached her slowly, not with the stride of a man rushing, but the confident pace of someone who believed the world bent around him.

"You’re behind schedule."

"That documentary teaser nearly broke the internet," she shot back. "They’re already dissecting it. The stock dropped. People are talking. What else could you want?"

His head tilted slightly. "More."

"You want me to publish the next part already? Now?" She scoffed. "If I rush it, it won’t hit as hard."

Silence.

A long, thick silence.

Then he stopped in front of her — close enough that she caught the faintest scent of his cologne. Not sweet. Deep. Cold.

"Someone responded to me tonight," he murmured.

Her brows furrowed. "Who?"

"She did."

"Who— oh." Isabella blinked, then laughed. "Mira."

The way he stiffened told her that was the wrong reaction.

She smirked again. "What did she say? Did she cry? Beg? Curse? What—"

He cut her off sharply.

"She challenged me."

Isabella opened her mouth, then closed it again. His tone didn’t sound frustrated. It sounded... offended. As if Mira’s single text had scraped at a part of him he thought was untouchable.

"No one challenges me," he said quietly. "No one."

"So what? She texted you back. It’s not that serious."

His head snapped toward her.

Her breath stilled.

"She showed teeth," he said slowly. "And the moment a woman shows teeth, she either runs... or bites."

Isabella exhaled, steadying herself. "Alright. She bit. And?"

"I warned you," he said, stepping closer, "that she’s unpredictable."

"I’m unpredictable," Isabella countered, trying not to mirror the tension in his voice. "That’s why you hired me."

"You’re useful," he corrected. "Not unpredictable."

Her jaw clenched.

Useful.

Not brilliant.

Not essential.

Not irreplaceable.

Useful.

His words carved through her pride like glass dragged across skin.

"And you’re stalling," he added.

"I’m strategizing," she snapped. "This kind of documentary isn’t a gossip piece! I can’t just vomit information all at once. The pacing—"

"You don’t decide the pace," he said smoothly. "I do."

A shiver crawled up her spine.

She forced a smirk anyway. "You’re irritated because Mira didn’t break. That’s not my fault."

He inhaled sharply, the slightest sign of a crack in his patience.

"Mira was supposed to crumble," he said. "Fear was supposed to make her obedient. But instead—"

"She talked back?" Isabella scoffed. "Please. She’s pregnant. She’s hormonal. It wasn’t bravery."

He stepped closer.

Too close.

Close enough that she could feel the air shift.

"I don’t want rationalizations," he murmured. "I want results."

Isabella’s throat tightened before she could stop it.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

"You’re slipping," he said, his voice dipping into a low, dangerous calm. "You said you wanted to expose the Romanos. You said you wanted to bring them down. Yet here we are — stalled. Waiting. Delayed."

"I just need more time," she whispered.

"No."

He let the word hang.

"You have forty-eight hours to leak the first real piece."

She stared. "That’s crazy. Forty-eight hours isn’t enough—"

"It is."

"For you."

Her heart thudded painfully. "If I release anything stronger than the teaser right now, I’ll expose myself. I could lose my job. My career. My credibility—"

"Those things are meaningless compared to what you already owe me."

Her mouth went dry. "I didn’t think that debt still mattered."

His laugh was soft. Sharp.

"It matters until I say it doesn’t."

Her stomach dropped.

He leaned in, whisper-soft: "Unless you’ve forgotten what I saved you from, Isabella?"

Her eyes flickered.

No — she could never forget.

He straightened again.

"Good," he said. "Then you know better than to fail me."

Her hands curled at her sides. "You’re pushing too fast."

"I’m correcting your pace."

His tone dropped to a near-growl.

"And remember something very clearly... Mira texted me tonight, and instead of trembling, she challenged me."

He paused.

"She made me visible."

Isabella blinked. "Visible to who?"

"To myself."

The chill that followed those words was sharp enough to cut bone.

He stepped back, adjusting his sleeve like someone who had just concluded a meeting instead of a threat.

"Forty-eight hours," he repeated. "Prove you’re worth the investment."

"What if I can’t?" she whispered before she could stop herself.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice carried the shape of one.

"Then pray the Romanos are the only ones who find you."

Her breath caught.

"Goodnight, Isabella."

And with that, he turned — disappearing into the dark corner of the garage as if melting into the shadows themselves.

Isabella stood frozen, throat tight, heart slamming against her ribs.

She had faced powerful men before.

Politicians. CEOs. Crime families.

People with wealth, influence, danger trailing behind them.

But this man...

He didn’t feel powerful.

He felt inevitable.

She exhaled shakily, forcing herself to move, to breathe, to reclaim whatever shards of control she still had.

Fine.

Forty-eight hours?

Then she would deliver something unforgettable.

The Romanos wanted war?

The world wanted a spectacle?

Then she would give it to them.

She just hoped she wouldn’t regret it.