Given in debt to the mafia King

Lily

The rain drums gently against the windows as New York sinks under a blanket of grey. I slip into my blush-toned shoes, smooth down my blazer, and clutch the folder of interview papers close to my chest. My reflection in the mirror looks too calm for the storm that rages inside me. Two months. That’s how long it’s been since we left Michigan—since my quiet, lovely life was packed up into boxes and thrown into the chaos of this city. My father didn’t ask me. He simply married Violet Carrow and decided New York was now “home.” Violet, with her forced smiles and a son who barely speaks to me. My new stepbrother—rude, arrogant, and always watching.

I sigh as I head to the garage, the sound of soft music filling the car when I start the engine. The roads gleam slick beneath the rain, and I grip the wheel tighter, as if I can smooth away the anxiety coiling in my stomach. My father said he knows someone powerful. That this job is mine already. “Just show up,” he told me, as though I were nothing more than a pawn in some debt he’s eager to repay.

At twenty-two, I’m still balancing business studies at the university, drowning in coursework and expectations. This job was never part of my plan. I wanted to shape my own future, not inherit one designed by my father. But he insisted—said it would be valuable experience. As if my choices mattered less than his promises.

By the time I arrive, the rain has slowed, but the city still feels heavy. The address leads me to a sleek glass tower, its mirrored surface swallowing the storm-dark sky. Inside, the elevator hums to the thirteenth floor, my pulse rising with every number that blinks above the doors.

The moment I step into the office, I feel it—the silence. Heavy, suffocating, pressing down on my shoulders. Every desk is occupied, every person buried in their screen or papers, their faces sharp with concentration. No one talks. No one dares laugh. Only the rhythmic clicking of keyboards and the occasional rustle of paper break the stillness. It’s not the kind of place where people bond over coffee breaks or exchange weekend stories. This is survival ground. Everyone knows their lane, and no one dares step out of it.

I glance around and instantly feel underdressed despite my best efforts. Men in crisp suits, women in tailored dresses, each detail of their appearance honed to perfection. Power lingers in the air, quiet but undeniable, a polished elegance that hides teeth.

The HR woman who calls me in is as icy as the office itself. Her questions are clipped, her eyes unforgiving, and her tone makes me feel like I’m already failing some invisible test. I answer politely, forcing a smile that feels glued in place. And somehow—despite the tension knotted in my chest—I get the job.

Personal assistant to the CEO.

A man no one here ever seems to see—only whisper about. They call him young. Ruthless. Untouchable. Some even say he runs more than this company—that his empire stretches into the underworld itself. The mafia king of New York.

I’ve never seen him, but my mind betrays me with an image: tall, cruel, impossibly handsome. The kind of man whose beauty is a weapon, whose darkness is written into every line of his face. Dangerous. Magnetic. A man who could destroy with a word and still have you begging for more.

The day drags on, every second spent trying to memorize files, emails, schedules—each task feeling like a test I can’t afford to fail. By the time the clock edges toward evening, exhaustion weighs on me, but I know better than to complain. Just as I think I’m free, a secretary stops at my desk.

“There’s one last task,” she says, almost too casually. “The meeting room. Gather the files.”

I nod, grateful for a moment alone. The glass-walled room is quiet when I step inside, the city’s storm-dark sky pressing against the windows. I exhale, my shoulders loosening as I begin stacking papers into neat piles. My mind drifts—to dinner, to sleep, to finally escaping this place.

But then, the sharp click of the door closing behind me shatters the illusion.

And I freeze.

There’s a presence in the room now. Heavy. Cold. Electric.

I turn slowly and my breath catches.

A man stands in front of the door, tall and composed. His dark beard frames a sharp jawline, and his black hair is slicked back with purpose. He wears a tailored charcoal suit, the fabric molded perfectly to his broad frame. A Rolex peeks from under his cuff. There's a tattoo curling behind his hand—just barely visible. Everything about him screams danger, wealth, control.

And rage.

His eyes burn into mine.

“Who are you?” His voice is deep and smooth, but it slices like ice.

“I—I’m the new PA. Just started today,” I say, my voice trembling.

He steps closer, and the air around me shrinks. “Liar.”

I blink. “I’m not—”

“You were sent here.” His voice is calm but deadly. “You’re a plant. A con. Looking for information about the underworld, aren’t you?”

“No!” My voice cracks. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not—”

“Where’s the wire?” he demands, stepping forward until I feel the heat of him. “Take off your blazer.”

I recoil, clutching it tight. “No. Why would I—?”

But he reaches into his jacket—and pulls out a gun.

My heart stops.

“Do as I say,” he says quietly, the barrel glinting under the lights.

With trembling hands, I unbutton my blazer and let it slip off my shoulders.

“Pants. Now.”

Tears sting my eyes, but my fingers obey. My slacks pool at my ankles.

“Underwear. Both.”

I shake my head violently, but he steps closer—gun steady, his expression unreadable. I stand frozen, breathless, until he suddenly moves. In one swift motion, his fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, pulling them down with clinical detachment.

I gasp. My body is shaking.

He crouches slightly, brushing his hands over my thighs, my hips, my back—searching for… something. I can barely breathe. His touch isn’t sexual—it’s detached, precise—but that doesn’t make it any less violating.

Tears roll down my cheeks silently.

Then his hand reaches up. He unclasps my bra. It falls.

I’m bare. Completely bare.

He pauses. His eyes linger on my skin for one second too long. His jaw clenches, and something shifts in his gaze—confusion.

“You’re not the con?”

“I told you,” I whisper through a sob, hugging myself, “I’m not. I’m not whoever you think I am.”

His face changes. Just slightly. The weapon lowers.

He swallows, backing away. Guilt flashes in his dark eyes as he crouches and gathers my clothes from the floor, placing them carefully in my arms.

“Get dressed,” he murmurs. “I… I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there as I scramble into my clothes, humiliated and furious and terrified.

As soon as I’m dressed, I bolt from the room, my heels echoing through the hallway.

I don’t look back.

But I can feel him still standing there… like a shadow I’ll never escape.