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“B oss wants to see you.”

I nod at the guy who just issued the summons. Well, it sounded like summons. He spoke in Italian—we’re in Turin, after all—and though I can understand the language well enough by now, that’s how it sounded to my English-speaking American mind.

My lips twist a little. He and I both know what this order means. I’m to head to the big man’s office to be at his beck and call, literally. It’s what’s expected of a working girl, in the end. Who’d choose this life? Turns out, no one really chooses to become a prostitute—it’s foisted upon, and we make do with it, because that’s how far our control extends.

It had been a quiet evening at Club Demos. Most of the college students who haunt this sector of San Salvario in Torino are either doing summer exams or they’re off on vacation already. As such, we had a sparse clientele tonight. As the lead hostess whose job came with a postage-stamp-sized studio on the premises at the back of the building on the third floor, I came down and made sure the place was spick and span, welcoming the small van of girls when they were deposited for their shift.

Too bad the peace didn’t last. The boss hasn’t been here in the past few weeks, and we’d all liked it this way. He’s not a bad man—he looks after his employees, men and girls alike—but he is what he is, aka a Mafia kingpin on Italian soil. Scary is the nicest word to describe him.

Though few know him like I do. I get to see a side of him he doesn’t show usually, but that’s our secret. I don’t know what sort of relationship he had with my predecessor here at the club, but I am his protegee somewhat. To the world, it means I’m his current fuck toy, and in a way, I am.

I suppose that’s the reason why I’ve been summoned tonight.

My steps are heavy as I take the wide, cut-glass stairs leading to the mezzanine second floor where the main office opens onto a narrow balcony overlooking the lounge below. At the door, I knock and wait for the deep, sonorous voice to ask me in.

He doesn’t make me wait long. I enter and close the panel behind me, the sounds of the club dying as if by magic in this sound-proof interior. His massive back is to me as he stares out the floor-to-ceiling glass panes leading to the balcony, his shoulder-length black hair a stark contrast against the white of his suit jacket. Don Giacomo Rossi is a man no one can miss noticing, not just for his sheer size but for the almost palpable charisma he exudes. He must be in his late forties, maybe fifty at most, the mantle of maturity adding extra gravitas to his persona. When he turns my way, those magnetic dark eyes pin me in place.

I know the drill by now—we’ve done this every time he’s called me up. He’ll nod, and I’ll kneel on the fluffy rug in front of the leather couch. When he’ll sit down with a glass of whiskey in hand, he’ll tell me to lay down, open my legs slowly—he likes to watch the short leather skirt of my uniform ride up onto my hips—then to touch my pussy and make myself come. He likes me to take my time doing it, to close my eyes and imagine a lover getting me off.

The first time, he then laid himself over me and fucked me so roughly, I had the worst rug burn on my ass for a week. He got more gentle with each encounter, one time even softly running his hand over my hair like a lover or a husband would, I imagine. When I next came to see him, he didn’t fuck me, just requested a blowjob with me on my knees. And the last time, he let me leave after my solo pleasure opener.

I’m waiting for the nod tonight, except it doesn’t come.

“Kaya,” he says in that low, deep voice.

The sound takes me by surprise. “Don Rossi?”

He smiles. “Giacomo.”

One thing I do know, no one calls a Mafia Don by his Christian name. And you never cross one, either.

“Don Giacomo,” I say with a small nod.

He extends the hand holding his drink toward the couch.

“Sit down. Will you join me?” he asks in heavily accented English.

When he shakes the glass, I decline. Alcohol isn’t my thing. I perch on the edge of my seat as he settles his honed, muscular bulk next to me.

“There’s no need to worry,” he starts with a small laugh.

There isn’t, not really. He’s more a kill/torture/maim first and talk later kind of guy.

“Yes.”

He peers at me for long seconds. I want to squirm in my seat, but I can’t show vulnerability. I may be under his protection, but he’s still an apex predator.

“Your debt is almost settled.”

The words are so shocking, I rear back and stare at him, eyes wide and speechless. How? That can’t be possible. Don Giacomo Rossi always chooses his words clearly, though.

He chuckles at my bewilderment. “Ah, Kaya, cara. You wouldn’t know, but thanks to you, my men have been closing in on a lot of my competitor’s businesses these past few months. All their wins are also yours. You’ve almost repaid your debt in full.”

It’s not my debt but my father’s. Back home, he got entangled with a loan shark. They came to collect, yet it also happened said shark was traveling to Piedmont for the summer and needed an au pair for his rambunctious children as his wife was about to have a baby. I was the sacrificial lamb, so to speak. In return for my services, my dad's debt would be forgiven. It was a pretty good deal, all things considered, since my dad owed much more money than it would cost for the loan shark to hire an au pair. It’s been my dad and me since my mom left when I was little; of course I was going to do what I had to do to save his life from this horrible man.

However, things took a different turn once we reached Turin. I soon discovered there was a catch to this tradeoff. That's because I got handed to a crime lord, an Albanian mob boss who dealt mainly in human and sex trafficking. My first night in their brothel, they got raided by Don Rossi’s men, who took over the operation.

I never knew there’s a difference between crime lords and Mafia bosses. The Mafia, for all their violence and darkness and ruthlessness, still operate, usually, according to a certain code of conduct and honor. Don Rossi couldn’t release us girls—we couldn’t become losses—but he gave us a choice: we could all work off what we owed across his many businesses. Some girls went to work as cleaners, others as dancers.

A few, me included, stayed back and worked in his brothels. We’d earn more on our backs or knees servicing johns than as cleaning crew, and I couldn’t wait to be done with my indenture and released. I would put up with it if it meant I could get back home to the US more quickly. I grew up in Portland, Oregon and while it doesn't have much to offer me, it's familiar and comforting grounds.

When I was picked up by Don Rossi's men, I was twenty-one, with a paltry high school education and just a few years’ experience as a diner waitress under my belt. The few times I’d had sex, I’d enjoyed it—there were worse jobs out there than being paid for something I liked. Don Rossi’s brothels were manned day and night by reliable security who kept the girls safe and weeded out the deranged perverts from the regular johns.

And us girls, we bonded. Many were grateful to Don Rossi for having freed them from under the Albanian’s twisted thumb. Little by little, despite me being the youngest in their lot, I became something like a big sister. They listened to me when I told them to approach Don Rossi’s trusted soldiers and tell them what they knew about the Albanian’s operations.

Which has brought me here tonight, apparently. Where it would’ve taken me a couple of years at least to work off what I owed, I’m almost off the hook just eleven months later. I got here in late August last year, and it’s now mid-July. When Don Rossi plucked me from the brothels and made me hostess here just after the new year, I’d thought that would be my biggest break.

“Don’t be so stunned,” he says, breaking through the haze around me. “I take care of my own.”

I’m not one to smile often, yet the grin on my face can’t be restrained. “I know, Don Giacomo. And thank you.”

“You are a good girl, Kaya.”

Funny, that’s also what my dad said. Look where that got me, and a niggling feeling starts dancing at the base of my spine. Men don’t usually praise without needing something in return…

“Your debt is almost paid,” he starts.

By now, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. A diffused buzzing has started in my ears. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to like the sound of what’s coming.

“But before I can let you go, I need you to do something for me.”

There it is. Will it be the shoe that drops, or will it be one of those Acme iron anvils like in the old Looney Tunes cartoons I loved to watch as a kid back home in Portland, Oregon?

“Yes, Don Giacomo?”

My words are as much a question as my capitulation. Whatever he asks of me, I’ll do. I’ve made the most of my circumstances so far, but this isn’t a life I would’ve chosen for myself at any point, much less in a country where I knew not a soul, let alone a whiff of the language when I first landed in it.

Freedom’s sweetness is practically palpable on my tongue. I will bear whatever I need to in order to taste it fully asap.

“Look at me when I talk to you, Kaya.”

There’s no ignoring the steel in his tone, so I lift my head up and face him.

“Stefano Beccario is my godson,” he says, eyes narrowed slightly on me.

My heart rate picks up at the small pause he effects after saying those words.

“Don Giacomo?” I ask quietly.

“He’s coming here to see me tonight. After we’re done, I need you to look after him for me.”

I’m a working girl, I must not forget. Being at this club, even being Don Rossi’s protegee, my luck wasn’t going to last.

What else can I do but acquiesce? My freedom dangles at the end of this line he’s thrown at me.

“Yes, Don Giacomo. It will be done.”

“Good. I knew I could count on you, Kaya.”

I know a dismissal when I hear one, so I nod and get to my feet. My legs wobble a little under me as I stand and make my way to the door. I’d forgotten my pussy, mouth, hands, and ass are on offer to any man who wants it in the few months I’ve been posted at this club. The wake up call is like a bucket of ice-cold water thrown all over me, the chill extending even to my bones.

As I take the stairs leading back down, something draws my eye to the entrance of the club. Even in the dim lighting, it’s impossible to miss the sight of what’s happening at those doors.

A tall man has stopped to talk to the bouncer manning the entryway tonight. In the striped white and dark grey Juventus FC jersey molding to his broad shoulders and well-developed pecs, his long dark blond hair combed back and brushing the collar of his shirt, he could pass for a top-notch star soccer player from the renowned local team coming over after a match and freshly showered, his hair still wet.

His face, as if carved from rock, bears rough-hewn features proclaiming he’s a man’s man. But the sensuous mouth with the full lower lip softens this animalistic edge just enough to make a woman think of the way this full lip would caress her skin rendered super-sensitive under the touch of his big hands with the elegant fingers. And everyone knows big hands equals big…

I can’t help it, I bite my lower lip as my gaze alights on and stays glued to Stefano Beccario when he fist-bumps the bouncer then throws a carefree arm around the shoulders of his tall handsome cousin as the two men enter the lounge area and he waves at the barman for their regular drinks. Everyone in Don Rossi’s world knows who Stefano is, not to mention any woman would notice him in a crowded room and do her best to find out who he is.

My assignment for tonight is this man, to be and do whatever he wants of me. He’s gorgeous, there’s no denying it, but he’s also the Don’s godson and the son of his enforcer, the man who gets his hands dirty with any and all jobs so Don Rossi can keep his hands clean, at least in appearance.

Stefano Beccario is meant to take his father’s place as Don Rossi’s enforcer when the older man retires. He’s bound to be ruthless, and violent, too—no meek lamb rises to the post of Mafia enforcer.

My heart beats faster. Of all the things I’ve had to do, this last one might be the most dangerous. In what form or shape will I come out of it?

Worse even—will I come out of it intact…and alive?