OWNED BY THE MAFIA

Isolde had to be ready for her first mission. The gun, the clothes, and the plane ticket were all set. The only thing not ready, at least not in her mind, was her mental state. Because she was about to face the very woman who had sparked every fucking disaster in her life.

Of course, she wouldn't be going alone. Three of Severin's men, Dax, Ivar, and Theron, had been assigned to accompany her. Or, more accurately, to keep her on a leash.

Isolde had briefly considered using this as a chance to escape. But being shadowed by three of Severin's men, each far more skilled than she could ever hope to be—meant that thought died as soon as it was born. She wouldn't stand a chance. All she'd accomplish was getting herself screwed over even more.

If she tried and failed, those three fuckers would report it straight to Severin. And then she'd get punished again.

She still had three punishments lined up for failing to shoot Nikhael. She had no clue what they would be, and the last thing she needed was to add another to the list.

Isolde stepped out the back door of the pleasure house. One of Severin's men walked ahead of her while the other two flanked her from behind.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her foot hit the pavement—for the first time in three months. Three fucking months trapped in that place. And if she counted her time in prison, too, it had been a full year since she'd tasted freedom.

Not just the freedom to go wherever she wanted. But the freedom to speak. The freedom to say no. The freedom to control her own goddamn body.

All of it—gone. All because of a revenge plan against her sister that spiraled her straight into hell.

Thud!

Theron shoved her from behind. She had frozen up again, standing still instead of getting into the car and waiting to take them to the airport.

Ah, right. She remembered now.

These weren't just any men. These were the same three bastards Severin once ordered to take turns on her. The same ones who had gladly helped Tiffara torture her when Severin tossed her to the wolves.

.

.

.

The flight took ten hours. From Las Vegas to Amsterdam, Isolde fought a war inside her head for ten hours. Again and again, she thought about asking someone for help and reaching out—screaming—anything.

But every time that urge crept up, it crumbled at the thought of her mother and little brother—both of whom could easily become Severin's next victims if she fucked up and tried to run.

Severin had connections everywhere, even in law enforcement. Maxen was living proof of that. Despite killing someone during a police chase when he was still dealing drugs, Severin managed to pull him out of prison like it was nothing.

There was no rest for Isolde, not even after they landed.

When they arrived in Amsterdam, Severin's men handed her a gun, a change of clothes, a blonde wig, a black bucket hat, sunglasses, and a hotel address with a room number. That's where her father's former mistress was staying—with her boy toy gigolo.

Isolde wasn't here to relax. She was here to kill. Kill, then get on the next flight back to Vegas. The faster she got it done, the happier the Boss would be. That's what Dax had said before shoving all the gear into her hands.

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted by the gun now in her grip. But again—reality slammed into her like a truck. She wasn't a match for Severin's men. Not even close.

Even if by some miracle she managed to shoot all three of them—highly trained, cold-blooded, and far more experienced—what then? She'd probably end up back in prison. That's the best outcome she could hope for. And if she failed?

Only Severin knew what he'd do to her if she screwed up his first mission. Her disguise was basic but solid—blonde wig, black bucket hat, dark sunglasses, a knee-length black dress. Hidden beneath the dress were several weapons.

On her right thigh, a holstered handgun was strapped tight. On her left thigh, a sheath holding two kinds of blades.

She was dressed for blood, not escape. Isolde had to carry out this mission alone. No help. She had to kill someone with her own hands while being watched from a distance by Severin's three men.

The problem was simple—how was she supposed to kill the target?

She'd never killed anyone before. Not successfully, anyway. Her first attempt had been a complete disaster. It landed her in prison.

Nerves clawed at her, but the fear quickly melted into something far more familiar—rage. Blistering, consuming rage.

Because there she was. The woman. Her father's former mistress. Walking out of the hotel, laughing and holding hands with her gigolo lover like they didn't have a single burden in the world.

Isolde's fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. The audacity of that woman—to smile like that after everything she had done. To Isolde. To her mother. To her siblings.

She'd appeared out of nowhere, tore through their happy life like a storm, and vanished with a chunk of her father's wealth—gold, bonds, cash, whatever he kept in that safe. And now? She was living in peace. In comfort. While Isolde was still stuck in the ruins she'd left behind.

Isolde followed them silently, watching their every move. They were having lunch at a high-end restaurant, laughing like life was some big joke. They were shopping for designer goods without a care in the world. They were happy. They were free.

They were always together, which posed a problem. How was she supposed to execute the woman when the gigolo never left her side?

A long-range shot was out of the question—Isolde wasn't a sniper. She'd never even trained for that. Time was slipping fast, and all she'd done was follow them around, wasting it.

Then came the warning. Dax posted a distance away and tapped the watch on his wrist—a signal for her. She was running out of time.

Isolde glanced to the opposite side. Theron was there, too, staring at her and waving the return ticket back to Vegas like a threat.

Isolde had a strict deadline for completing her first mission. She was given only 24 hours, and a chunk of that time had already been eaten up by the long flight here.

She didn't have much time left. Severin would punish her again if she failed to carry out the mission. And if she didn't kill her father's former mistress, there was a chance Severin would shift the target—to her family.

Isolde couldn't let that happen. Her family might be a mess, but that didn't mean she wanted her mother and younger brother dead because of her mistakes.

Time kept ticking, and with every second, she felt more suffocated—by the pressure, by the eyes. Even from a distance, she could feel Dax, Theron, and Ivar watching her like hawks, their stares sharp, demanding she get it over with.

.

.

.

Isolde stood in front of the hotel room. The woman, the target, was inside. Time had flown. Isolde had waited for the moment she'd be alone, and now it had finally come. About thirty minutes ago, she'd split from her gigolo lover.

They didn't even get out of the cab together. The man stayed inside while the woman stepped out, kissed him on the mouth, and walked alone into Room 429.

It was the same number as Isolde's room back in Las Vegas. Isolde pulled her hat down lower, shadowing her face even more. Then she knocked on the door three times.

When the door opened, Isolde looked through the edge of her sunglasses and hat brim, catching a glimpse of the confused face of the woman who started it all—the one who shattered her life.

The one who turned her childhood into hell. The reason she developed an eating disorder in her teenage years. She hated Olivianne, even though Olivianne never laid a hand on her. The reason her mother cried herself to sleep every night. The reason her mother almost lost her baby.

The woman standing in front of Isolde was the fucking root of everything that had gone to hell in her life.

"You—are you—" Isolde didn't give her the chance to finish. She shoved the woman hard, sending her crashing to the floor of her hotel room, then stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind her.

She pulled off the hat, the wig, and the sunglasses—letting the woman on the floor get a full, unobstructed view of her face. "Long time no see, Aunt Rhea," she said, her lips curling into a wicked smirk. "Do you still remember me?"

The annoyed look on Rhea's face quickly twisted into horror as her brain finally caught up. Her eyes locked on Isolde's face, now fully exposed. "Y-You?!"

"Oh good, you still remember my face," Isolde said, her smile razor-sharp. "I figured you'd erased me along with the rest of the shit you left behind."

She stepped closer. Her hand slipped under her dress and pulled out the gun strapped to her thigh.

Rhea's expression shattered. Her lips parted, likely about to scream, but before a single sound left her mouth, Isolde pressed the barrel of the gun right to her temple. Her index finger pressed lightly against Rhea's lips.

"Shhh... don't fucking make a sound unless you want your brains splattered all over the goddamn floor."

Isolde tilted her head mockingly, eyes gleaming with cruelty. "You scream, maybe someone comes. But by the time they kick down this door, your skull's already blown open and that scream of yours? Pointless. You'll be dead either way."

Rhea's jaw clenched tight. "What do you want from me?" she spat once Isolde pulled her finger away.

Isolde feigned a thoughtful expression. "What do I want? Hm... What do you think, bitch? You know exactly why I'm here."

Rhea's glare sharpened, but Isolde could see right through it. The fear remained, eating at her behind that fake show of strength. Of course, she was scared—anyone would be, with a loaded gun inches from their head and someone they'd ruined holding it steady.

"You're here for revenge." Rhea scoffed. "What, you broke out of prison after failing to kill Olivianne, so now you're settling for me instead?"

Isolde's expression went cold, but she said nothing. She let Rhea keep talking. "I know what happened to you, Isolde. You tried to kill Olivianne because she reminded you of me, didn't she? Because she looks like me. Because she's prettier than you. More wanted. Chosen. And deep down, you're terrified that you'll end up like your mother—abandoned, pushed aside by women like me and Olivianne."

"Shut the fuck up!"

Isolde's grip on the pistol tightened. This wasn't what she wanted to hear from Rhea. The bitch should've been begging for her life, not spitting insults like she still had control over anything.

…