The Don's Nemesis And Obsession

•HAZEL SANTORO•

Growing up in the United States, I’d been around my fair share of fanatics and delusional people. Honestly, I could probably count myself as one of them sometimes. But just three months ago, I started college and found myself surrounded by next-level delusional girls. The kind who squealed over their ridiculous fantasies about being swept away by some handsome mafia Don to live a fairytale happily-ever-after. I used to laugh at their stupidity. The mafia? Seriously? It’s all bullshit.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Now, here I am. Somewhere in Italy, standing in front of a massive gate guarding a mansion that belongs to the very thing I thought was a joke—a mafia Don. A man I’m about to beg for my father’s life. Who would’ve thought, right?

I let out a bitter laugh, straightened my shirt, and knocked on the gate. Once. Waited. Then knocked again. No answer. Just as I raised my fist for a third try, I heard the faint click of a lock at the far-right end. Hurrying over, the gate creaked open, revealing two tall, bulky men in tailored suits and sunglasses. Instinctively, I shrank back. Why are they so huge?

Clearing my throat, I spoke loudly, hoping to mask my fear.

“I need to speak to Raffaele Mancini.”

The one on the left scanned me from head to toe, then exchanged a glance with his partner before answering. “And what business do you have with him?”

“I’m Hazel. Hazel Santoro.”

At my name, they paused. Left Monster-looking man repeated it under his breath. “Santoro…” He stepped back, murmuring into a walkie-talkie looking thingy before gesturing for me to follow him.

I stepped inside, my breath catching as I took in the sprawling estate. Calling it beautiful didn’t even come close. It was unreal. But I wasn’t here to gawk. Focus, Hazel. I muttered the words to myself, giving my cheeks a light slap.

After being stopped in a small room for a very invasive body search and phone confiscation, they finally let me through to the mansion. Left Monster man told me to wait on the patio while Raffaele Mancini finished some business, promising someone would call me when he was ready.

So I waited.

And waited.

Minutes turned into what felt like hours. The sky began to dim, the golden light of the late afternoon fading to gray. I paced, sat, then stood, unable to keep still. Were they trying to intimidate me? If so, it wasn’t going to work.

Finally, I’d had enough.

I stomped deeper into the mansion, determined to find this Raffaele Mancini myself. Eventually, I found myself in front of two enormous, floor-to-ceiling doors. Muffled voices filtered through from the other side. Let’s hope he’s in here. I drew in a sharp breath, pushed the doors open—heavier than they looked, damn—and stepped inside.

Instant silence.

All eyes turned to me, then to the man sitting at the head of a long table. His dark hair and shadowed features were hard to make out in the dim light, but his presence hit like a freight train. The air around him seemed heavier, suffocating, like he was commanding the room just by existing. There was no mistaking it—this was Raffaele Mancini.

I steeled myself, clenched my fists, and marched to the center of the room.

“Raffaele Mancini! I’m here on behalf of my father."

The chair creaked as the mysterious man at the end of the table rose to his feet—tall, easily 6'2", maybe even 6'3". Omg, is this what I'm really thinking about?! I mentally shook myself as he began walking toward me. It wasn’t until he stopped just a few steps away that I could finally take in his features.

Gray eyes, almost see-through, with fairly long hair for a guy—tied back in a low bun, a few loose strands falling over his face. Full lips... distracting, set against a hard, sharp jawline. He was built, but not excessively so, with broad shoulders that looked like they could hold the weight of the world—or cradle me for years. The perfectly tailored suit clung to him in a way that made it impossible not to notice every detail. He looked young, maybe 28 or 30, a couple years older than me. And ridiculously handsome. Seriously, Hazel, get.a.fucking.grip. Who is this guy?!

“Impatient, are we now?”

That voice. Deep, smooth, with a dangerous edge that made my stomach flip. Why is everything about this man so incredibly hot and threatening at the same time?!

“Miss Santoro…” he said, stepping closer, his gaze pinning me in place. “Did your father send you here?” "N...no, sir" I stammered, feeling myself fading but then I forced myself to breathe, to stand straighter. “ I heard he stole from you. He made a mistake, my father isn't such a person.”

He laughed—a deep, rich sound that sent a slight wave of anger through me and a pool of heat between my thighs. “A mistake? No, Hazel. Your father didn’t make a mistake. He made a choice. A very stupid one.”

I took a step forward, ignoring the way the guards by the door shifted, their hands moving to their weapons. I wasn’t armed. I wasn’t a threat. But in a room like this, desperation was more dangerous than a gun.

"I’m here to fix that choice,” I said, my voice louder now, more confident than I felt. "I’ll pay off his debt,” I interrupted, the words spilling out before I could stop them.

His brow arched, a slow smirk curling on his lips. “You? How?”

“I’ll figure it out,” I said, though I had no idea how. “But you’ll leave him alone.”

Raffaele tilted his head, studying me as though I were some kind of amusing puzzle. “And if you can’t?”

“I will.” I clenched my fists tighter. “I won’t fail.”

The smirk deepened, and he took a step closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over me. “You’re brave, Hazel. I’ll give you that. But bravery alone doesn’t fix problems like these. It doesn’t erase the fact that your father stole from me. That he took what belongs to me.”

He leaned down, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I always take back what’s mine.”

A shiver raced down my spine, but I forced myself to meet his gaze. “What do you want, Mancini?”

The question hung in the air between us, and for a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at me, his eyes searching mine, as if trying to unravel the thoughts spinning wildly in my head. Then, slowly, he straightened, his smirk returning.

“You’ll be mine, Hazel. For one year. In exchange, your father walks free. No debt. No punishment.”

I stared at him, my mind racing, trying to make sense of what he was saying. “You—you want me to be your—”

“My pet,” he finished smoothly, his smile cold. “For one year, you’ll belong to me. Do as I say. Go where I say. You’ll live under my rules. And when the year is up, you and your father will be free.”

For most of my 22 years, I’d done everything in my power to avoid responsibilities. The big ones, at least. The ones that demanded complete commitment. Yet ironically I'm now faced with a choice, my father's life or a yearlong devotion of my life to this terrifyingly handsome man? How unfair.

Raffaele watched me, his eyes glittering with something I couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Desire? Control? He knew he had me backed into a corner, and he was reveling in it.

“What will it be, Hazel?” he asked, his voice soft but commanding. “Are you willing to make the sacrifice? Or should I send someone to collect your father now?”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper as I finally spoke. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

The smirk on Raffaele’s face widened, and he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from my cheek. “Good girl.”

I flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Tomorrow,” he said, stepping away from me. “You’ll come to my estate. We’ll start then.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. My legs felt like they might give out at any moment, and I just wanted to get out of there before I lost what little composure I had left.

As I turned to leave, the sound of his voice stopped me cold.

“Oh, and Hazel?”

I froze, my heart skipping a beat as I looked back over my shoulder.

“If you try to run,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto mine, “I’ll find you. And your father won’t live to see the sunrise.”

I stared at him, my blood turning to ice in my veins. The full weight of what I had agreed to pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket, and as I walked out of the room, the reality of my situation settled in.

I had just sold my soul to the devil.