Sold to the Don: The Pawn Who Became Queen

Isabella's POV

"BOOM, BOOM BOOM," the knocks sound again and my heart pounding with every knock.

Go, Bella," my father urges me.

Clara nudges me forward.

What do they mean by I should go? I'm just as scared as any of them.

So even though my heart is like a drum in my chest, I walk down the stairs like I am walking to my own execution. Each step creaks. My legs shake. Clara watches me from the top with her phone out like she is about to record this moment for posterity. Dad stands by the door sweating through his wrinkled shirt. He will not look at me. He never looks at me when he is about to do something horrible.

The door opens before I reach the bottom step.

Three men walk in like they own the place. Maybe they do. Maybe my father gambled away the house too. I would not be surprised. The first man is tall with a shaved head and tattoos crawling up his neck. The second one is younger with curly black hair and a leather jacket. The third man wears a gray suit that probably costs more than my entire yearly salary from both jobs combined. His hair is dark blond and styled perfectly. He looks like he could sell you a luxury car or bury you in a shallow grave. Possibly both.

The one in the gray suit smiles. It does not reach his eyes. "Isabella Moretti?"

I nod because my voice stopped working somewhere around the third stair.

"I am Matteo Greco. We're here to collect the debt your father owes to the Valerio family."

Debt. Of course. My father gambles. My father loses. I pay. That is how our family works.

"I can work," I say quietly. "I will work off whatever he owes. I have two jobs already but I can find a third. I just need time."

Matteo's smile widens. "That is very admirable. But we are not here to discuss payment plans."

Dad finally speaks. His voice is thin and whiny. "She is a good worker. Very obedient. She will do whatever you need. She cooks. She cleans. She never complains."

He is describing me like I am a used appliance he found in his garage.

Elena appears at the top of the stairs. She clutches the railing like standing takes all her strength. Maybe it does. "Please," she says, her voice cracking. "Isabella understands. She wants to help her family. Do not you, Isabella?"

I stare at her. The woman who raised me. The woman I have worked myself into exhaustion for. The woman who called me ugly just hours ago.

"Of course," I hear myself say. "I want to help."

Clara giggles. Actually giggles. She leans against the wall and waves at me with her perfectly manicured fingers. "Bye, Bella. Try not to embarrass us."

Something inside me cracks. Not breaks. Just cracks. Like a window that gets hit by a rock but does not shatter yet.

Matteo gestures toward the door. "Shall we?"

I look at my father one more time. He is staring at his shoes. I look at Elena. She wipes fake tears from her cheeks. I look at Clara. She is already back on her phone.

None of them are going to stop this.

I walk toward the door on legs that do not feel like mine, following men I've never met while still in my nightwear - a black gown with robe to a car I've never seen. The man with the shaved head opens it. Cold air rushes in. Chicago smells like rain and car exhaust and something burning a few blocks away. The black car idles at the curb. It looks like something from a movie. Sleek and expensive and completely out of place on this street where cars have rust spots and cracked windows.

"Wait," Elena calls out. "Isabella. This is for all of us. You understand that, right? You are saving this family."

I do not turn around. If I turn around, I might scream. I might say things I can never take back. So I keep walking.

The man with the curly hair opens the back door of the car. The leather seats look soft. The interior smells like money. I slide inside and the door closes behind me with a heavy, final sound. The kind of sound that says you are not getting out until someone lets you out.

Matteo sits in the front passenger seat. The other two men get in. The engine purrs to life. We pull away from the curb and I watch my house disappear through the window. The flickering porch light. The cracked walkway. The place where I have spent twenty-two years trying to be small enough that no one would notice me.

No one speaks. The city slides past the windows. We leave my neighborhood and enter a different Chicago. The buildings get taller. The streets get cleaner. The cars parked along the curbs look like they have never seen a pothole. We drive through downtown where lights reflect off glass towers and people walk fast with their heads down. Then we turn onto a street lined with trees that probably cost more to maintain than my childhood home.

The car slows. We pass through iron gates that open automatically. A long driveway curves through landscaped grounds that look like something from a magazine. Then I see it. The house. Except 'house' is the wrong word. This is a mansion.

My stomach twists into knots. I wonder how long it'll take to clean a place like this. But I take a deep breath, I'll just have to wake up extra early and work super hard.

The car stops in front of massive double doors. The man with the shaved head opens my door. I step out onto cobblestones that are probably older than me. The air smells different here. Cleaner. Like even the oxygen is expensive.

"This way," Matteo says.

The inside of the house makes me want to apologize for existing. Marble floors. A chandelier that looks like it has a thousand crystals. A staircase that curves up to a second floor. Artwork on the walls that I recognize from textbooks. I suddenly feel very aware of my threadbare nightwear and robe, and the fact that I have not washed my hair in two days because I was too tired after my double shift.

We walk down a hallway lined with more artwork. Our footsteps echo. Every surface gleams. I count four security cameras before I stop counting. We stop in front of a dark wood door. Matteo knocks twice.

"Come in," a voice says from inside.

Matteo opens the door and gestures for me to enter.

I'm scared when I realize he would not be following me inside. Even though I don't know the man, the thought of meeting the person in charge of all this alone scares me more.

The office is huge. Floor to ceiling windows overlook the grounds. A desk sits in the center made from wood so dark it looks black. Bookshelves line one wall. A fireplace crackles on another. And behind the desk sits a man who makes every nerve in my body scream at me to run.

He is tall even sitting down. Broad shoulders. Dark hair pushed back from his face. A thin scar runs from his temple to his cheek like someone tried to kill him and almost succeeded. He wears a black suit that fits him like it was made specifically for his body. Which it probably was. His eyes are gray. Storm gray. The kind of gray that looks cold until you realize there is something burning underneath.

He is looking at me like I am a problem he needs to solve. What do I do? Curtsy? kneel? Bow?

I am definitely a problem.

"Isabella Moretti," he says. My heart is almost beating out of my chest right now.

I nod because my voice still is not working properly.

"Sit."

I sit in the chair across from his desk. The leather is soft. I perch on the edge because sinking back feels presumptuous. Matteo closes the door as he leaves. Now it is just me and this man who I assume is Dante Valerio. The man my father owes three million dollars. The man who everyone in our neighborhood talks about in whispers. The man you don't hear about except you're doing things you should not be doing.

He studies me for a long moment. I try not to fidget. I fail. My hands twist in my lap. I force them to stop.

"Do you know why you are here?" he asks.

"My father owes you money," I say quietly. "I am here to work it off."

"Work it off," he repeats. Something that might be amusement flickers across his face. "Doing what, exactly?"

"Whatever you need. I can clean. I can cook. I will work hard. I promise I will not be a problem." The words tumble out fast. Too fast. "Please do not hurt my family. They did not mean to-"

"Stop."

I stop. My mouth closes so fast my teeth click together.

He leans back in his chair. "Your father did not tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"You are not here to scrub my floors, Isabella."

Relief tries to flood through me but something in his tone stops it. If I am not here to clean, then why am I here? My mind races through possibilities. Each one worse than the last.

He reaches into a drawer and pulls out papers. He slides them across the desk toward me. "You are here to sign this."

I lean forward. The papers are thick. Official looking. Words swim in front of my eyes. I see phrases like "binding agreement" and "legal contract" and then I see two words that make my heart stop.

Marriage certificate.