Rocco

Rain pelted the study windows as you entered. The smell of cigars and mahogany greeted you.

He stood behind the desk. Rocco . No surname, no need. His name alone was enough to make your family bow. Black suit, sharp gaze, silver ring with onyx on his index finger.

"Please sit down," he said. His voice was deep and even. Not a request. An order.

On the table, a red folder. The marriage certificate. It was signed by your father a week ago. Your family's debt was paid in full this morning. And the price was you.

“You know why you're here,” Rocco opened the folder, pushing it towards you. "Sign. Then you become my wife. If you refuse, I will make your family disappear from the face of this earth tonight."

No seduction. No choice. Just a transaction.

The pen feels cool in your fingers. As the ink touches the paper, Rocco leans in closer, his breath on the back of your neck.

"Tu sei solo mia," he whispered. "You're only mine."

And from that moment on, you were no longer the daughter of a bankrupt family. You were the wife of a Rocco. Proprietà di Rocco.