OWNED BY THE MAFIA

Isolde's body was slick with sweat, her breathing still ragged, her vision blurred from the euphoric high still crashing through her.

Even through the haze, she could see Severin grinning in satisfaction as he held her in his lap, proud of what they had just done in front of Rhea's corpse.

Stray strands of her hair fell across her face, and Severin gently tucked them behind her ear. His fingers traced down, brushing her sweat-drenched, tear-streaked cheek. She hadn't even realized she was crying.

Isolde couldn't tell if the tears came from sadness—grief at becoming a killer—or from the twisted relief and sick pleasure of finally unleashing her rage. Or maybe it was a shame. Disgust. Because she was aroused and aroused after killing someone.

"Good girl," Severin whispered, his voice low and hoarse. "You completed your first mission. You've earned your reward. Now tell me… what do you want from me, my little devil?"

His fingers slid lower, brushing over her swollen bottom lip—swollen from his own doing.

Isolde's vision was still fogged over. She couldn't think clearly, couldn't ground herself. She felt like she was still floating, still high on adrenaline and something darker. Even though she was firmly in Severin's lap—still joined with him, still full of him, feeling his warmth inside her.

Her mind was a mess. And Severin dared to ask her what she wanted.

What the hell else could she possibly want in this world—right now—more than Severin's death? She parted her lips, answering him.

"Your death."

She swallowed thickly and added, "I want your death as my reward."

Through her blurred sight, she watched the corner of Severin's mouth twitch upward—not in his usual smug grin, but in something softer. A smile. Small, fleeting. So quick that she blinked several times, wondering if she'd imagined it. A hallucination, maybe. She was still riding the high, after all.

"You know that's not how this works," Severin said. "My life isn't that cheap. You think killing a whore gets you me in return? The only way to kill me is with your own hands. And you'll never be able to do that. Not even Lucien could."

Severin's fingers, which had been stroking Isolde's lower lip, moved down to her chin, tilting her head down as he angled his face to kiss her again.

Isolde didn't resist—she didn't have the energy. But she didn't kiss him back either, not like before. Her vision was clouding again, and her body was too drained.

She was exhausted after a long flight, after trailing Rhea and her gigolo lover for hours, after brutally murdering Rhea, and then riding Severin with that wild intensity. She was worn out, physically and mentally. She'd done something insane today. Isolde needed rest.

Her consciousness was slipping when Severin ran his warm, wet tongue over her lips. When she gave no reaction, he finally broke the kiss. Isolde couldn't hold herself up anymore and let her head fall onto his shoulder, resting there as she mumbled softly:

"I'm sleepy," she murmured before slipping into unconsciousness in Severin's lap.

Faintly, she heard Severin calling in his men to clean up Rhea's corpse and to bring clean clothes because hers were soaked in blood.

.

.

.

When Isolde opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a bed, but it wasn't a hotel bed. The window right beside it gave it away. It wasn't a hotel window. It was the kind of window you'd find on a plane.

Looking around, she realized she was in a private jet, mid-air. Not only that, but her clothes had changed. She wasn't in the same bloodstained dress anymore. She was now wearing a black shirt, one she was sure belonged to Severin.

It looked exactly like the ones he always wore—the same shade, probably even the same brand. Severin had a habit of wearing near-identical shirts every day, and now she was in one of them.

And under that oversized shirt, she wore no bra. Just panties and that black button-up, which draped all the way down to her thighs because, of course, the size difference between them was massive.

"Bring her food," Severin ordered the flight attendant without looking away from Isolde. Then he gestured for her to take the seat across from him.

 "Sit," Severin ordered curtly.

Isolde didn't want to make a scene—he didn't want the innocent flight attendant to suffer if she decided to disobey him.

So she sat across from Severin. For a moment, her eyes drifted to the plane window, staring at the ocean below, before turning back to Severin, who was watching her with that sharp, cutting gaze of his.

If looks could wound, her body would've been shredded into pieces by now.

"You slept like the dead for six hours." Isolde frowned. Six hours? She slept that long—completely out—and didn't even wake when someone changed her clothes or moved her onto the jet?

The flight attendant pushed a cart toward them and quietly set a plate in front of Isolde on the small table between her and Severin. Once the setup was done, the attendant stepped back to give them privacy.

"Eat," Severin said, not taking his eyes off her.

At first, Isolde didn't feel hungry—she was too disoriented by everything. But the moment the food was placed in front of her, she couldn't deny how famished she was.

She hadn't eaten anything substantial since the flight from Las Vegas to Amsterdam with Severin's three men. Even then, she barely got down three bites—no appetite.

How could she when she'd been handed a kill order with a 24-hour deadline? Isolde had been suffocating under pressure. But now, with the mission done, her body finally allowed her to eat more than just scraps.

Logically, her appetite should've vanished completely. She had just killed Rhea—her father's former mistress—with her own hands. But instead of losing her appetite, she devoured the food like she hadn't eaten in days.

When she finished her meal, she looked up and found Severin watching her, one brow raised. He looked... amused.

"You seem awfully fine for someone who just killed a human being for the first time," he said, casually sipping from his champagne glass.

Then he added, "Instead of looking depressed, you actually look more alive—more alive than you ever did back in Las Vegas."

Isolde didn't respond. She turned her gaze away. She knew something was off about herself, too.

She should be wrecked with guilt, disgusted for doing precisely what Severin wanted—staining her hands with blood, taking a life without hesitation. But instead of drowning in guilt, she felt... calm. Strangely at peace. Almost relieved.

It wasn't like how she felt when Severin ordered her to kill Nikhael.

Was it because Isolde hated Rhea? Because her anger toward Rhea had stripped away whatever humanity she might've once seen in the woman—leaving no room for mercy?

Fragments of what happened in that hotel room after the kill began playing in her head again.

She remembered how instead of screaming or crying after stabbing someone dozens of times with the dagger Severin gave her, she had felt… relieved. And that relief twisted into something else the moment Severin appeared and kissed her.

Isolde shook her head, trying to banish the memory. When she looked back up, Severin was still staring at her—his gaze unwavering, fixed entirely on her face.

"I didn't know you were in Amsterdam," she said. "Did you come just to see whether I'd actually go through with killing my father's ex-whore?"

She saw his jaw tense. He didn't like that. But she couldn't tell which part of her words set him off.

"Don't flatter yourself," Severin replied flatly. "I came to Amsterdam for other business. But I don't regret checking in on you. Didn't expect to witness your wild side in action." The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile.

"You looked captivating drenched in your own blood—but you looked downright sinful when you were covered in someone else's." Isolde pressed her lips together tightly.

She wanted to tell him she'd probably look even better soaked in his blood. Maybe if Severin ever stopped deflecting her attempts to kill him, they'd both find out whether he'd still get aroused with her painted in his red.

But she kept that thought to herself.

"As for your reward," Severin continued, tilting his head with that same crooked grin, "you've still got time to decide what you want from me. Aside from my death, of course."

Isolde's eyes dropped to his index finger, tapping lightly along the rim of his champagne glass.

"Can I ask for anything besides your death? What if I ask for my own death?" His finger stilled.

She looked up and saw the hardness return to his face. Yep. She'd pissed him off again.

"Your death is mine to decide," Severin said, voice low and clipped. "You only die if I want it—not when you want it. You can ask for anything, except my death, your death, or your freedom."

Isolde clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles turned white. Of course. The only things she truly wanted—were the only ones he'd never give. What else could she possibly ask for?

She didn't want money. She didn't care about jewelry. Once they returned to Las Vegas, she'd be locked back in that velvet cage anyway. In that place, wealth meant nothing.

 "You have three punishments and one reward. You can take your time deciding what you want for your reward. There's no deadline. You can tell me whenever you're ready."

.

.

.

Maxen hadn't been at ease since Isolde left for her first mission. He grew more restless the more he learned about what had happened to her while he and Mathias were away handling their assignment.

He hadn't slept well since Isolde started rejecting his touch—even avoiding him whenever he tried to talk to her. She was always busy training, and at night… she ended up with the Boss.

Before Isolde came to the Velvet Cage, Maxen and Mathias never stayed at the place for long—just enough to enjoy whatever entertainment the girls offered. They had their own house, which they usually returned to when they weren't on the job for the Boss.

But after finding out Isolde was stuck there, Maxen started spending all his time at the Velvet Cage. He hadn't set foot in his house—until today because Isolde wasn't there.

He unbuttoned his shirt, now soaked from the drink he'd spilled on himself, and tossed it somewhere carelessly.

Stumbling slightly, he almost fell if not for the support of the pantry counter in his kitchen. The bottle in front of him looked doubled in his vision. He blinked hard, lowering his head, trying to keep himself from blacking out.

He couldn't keep wasting time drinking like this. He needed to go back—to the Velvet Cage. He needed to be there when Isolde returned.

She would be a mess after this. No one kills for the first time and walks away whole. She'd need him—need someone by her side. And Maxen couldn't give her peace or comfort if the version of him she returned to was this drunk wreck.

…