Mafia's Pet

The next morning, Aria didn't move.

She lay in the bed they threw her on, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.

Her arms still burned from the scratches. Her voice was gone. Her throat ached from all the screaming the night before.

But she didn't cry anymore.

She didn't scream either.

She just stopped.

No one came in that morning. Not the maid. Not the guards. Not Dante. Nothing. The room was bigger than her old one, nicer even ,but the windows were locked. She checked them once. Then gave up.

The food was placed in the room sometime around noon.

She didn't touch it.

She sat on the floor by the wall. Hugged her knees. Stared straight ahead.

Hours passed. The plate stayed full.

Later, someone came in. A maid , the same one who had told her to eat the first time. She looked confused.

"Hai bisogno di qualcos'altro?"

(Do you need anything else?)

Aria didn't respond. Not even a glance.

The maid looked concerned, tried again. Aria just blinked slowly, like she hadn't even heard her.

By nightfall, the plate was still untouched.

The next day, the same thing happened.

Food in.

No response.

No talking.

No eye contact.

Just Aria sitting by the window, arms crossed, face blank.

By the third day, even the guards outside the room were starting to talk.

"Sta facendo lo sciopero della fame?"

(Is she on a hunger strike?)

"Forse sta solo impazzendo."

(Maybe she's just going crazy.)

Still, Aria didn't flinch. She didn't care if they talked. She didn't care if they thought she was weak.

She wasn't playing their game.

She was done performing emotions for people who didn't deserve to see her.

They wanted to control her body.

Fine.

But they weren't getting her mind.

Dante stepped into her room that evening, the air shifting the second he entered. Aria didn't look at him. She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall, arms folded, her face blank. It had been three days since she said a word. Three days since she touched food or responded to anyone. Dante walked in slowly and stopped a few feet from her. She didn't move, didn't blink. Her eyes were fixed on the window behind him.

"You're not eating," he said. No response.

"You're not speaking," he added, his voice calm but edged with something colder.

He moved closer and folded his arms. "I heard you've been like this for three days. You think this is going to change something?"

Still nothing. Aria remained completely still, her face unreadable.

"Starving yourself won't get you out of here," he said.

Her eyes never shifted.

Dante stared at her for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable. Then, he crouched slightly to meet her at eye level. His presence was heavy, but she didn't flinch. She didn't even acknowledge him.

"You were screaming days ago," he said, voice lower now. "Kicking, scratching, yelling like hell. And now? You're quiet. What, you think playing dead is going to work?"

He moved his hand toward her face, slow and deliberate, trying to tilt her chin to make her look at him. Before he could reach her, Aria turned her head away — not fast, not scared, just solid and intentional, like she couldn't be bothered.

Dante's jaw clenched slightly, the only sign that it got under his skin. He stayed crouched for a moment longer, watching her. Then he stood up, turned around, and walked toward the door. Before stepping out, he paused, one hand on the doorframe.

"If you think shutting down is going to make me let you go," he said, not looking at her, "keep dreaming."

He walked out and shut the door behind him.

Aria didn't move, but her lips twitched just slightly. It wasn't a smile. Not really. Just a tiny flicker of something. Because she had seen it , the tension in his voice, the irritation behind his calm.

Her silence was working..

.

.

.

Aria sat on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around her knees. The room was silent again, but something had changed.

She was starving.

Three full days without food had caught up to her. Her stomach ached, her body was weak, and the smell of the new plate sitting near the door was too much.

She hated herself for it.

But she stood up anyway.

She walked over, picked up the plate, sat on the floor, and began to eat. Slowly at first. Then faster. She didn't care how she looked or what anyone thought. She needed food.

Once she was done, she carried the empty tray to the door and dropped it without a word.

Then she took a long, hot shower. She didn't rush this time. She stayed under the water until the steam fogged the glass. When she stepped out, her muscles felt a little less sore. She wrapped herself in the soft towel, looked at her reflection, and barely recognized herself.

There was still fire in her eyes. But something else, too.

She put on one of the silk nightdresses from the wardrobe , simple, soft pink, loose around her thighs ,then sat on the bed again. The room was cold. The sheets were warm.

And she was bored. Just plain bored.

No books. No TV. No phone.

Only her thoughts.

She lay back and stared at the ceiling.

Downtown Milan. Near the docks.

The air was cold. Fog rolled over the ground like smoke.

A black Maserati pulled into an unmarked warehouse behind two loaded trucks. Armed men stood outside. They nodded when the car stopped.

The door opened and Dante stepped out.

He was dressed in all black ,fitted dress shirt, slacks, leather gloves. His hair was slicked back from the rain earlier. He didn't rush.

Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit. A long table sat in the middle with papers, maps, cash stacks, and blue crates filled with weapons and pills. Music played low from a speaker jazz, smooth and old.

Three men stood when Dante walked in.

"Everything's set," one of them said. "The shipment made it past customs."

Dante nodded once.

"Any problems?"

"Just one," another man said. "A guy in Naples tried to raise the price last minute. Thought we were desperate."

Dante didn't respond at first. He walked to the crates, opened one, looked inside. Then closed it.

"Did you handle it?"

The man hesitated. "No. We were waiting for your go."

Dante looked up slowly.

"You shouldn't have."

He turned to his right-hand man, Marcus, who stood silently near the entrance.

Marcus didn't need a word. He left the room and returned thirty seconds later with a man in a suit, tied to a chair, blood on his lip, still breathing.

Dante walked toward him and crouched just slightly.

"You tried to change the price," he said.

The man didn't answer.

"You thought I was a businessman," Dante added, tone low. "I'm not."

He reached into his jacket, pulled out a silver gun, and placed it calmly against the man's chest.

The room fell silent.

Then...

BANG.

One shot. Clean. Quiet.

The body slumped.

Dante stood, wiped the gun on a handkerchief, and handed it to Marcus.

"No one negotiates with me," he said simply.

The rest of the men didn't move.

He looked over the table again.

"Distribute everything to the south side by morning. No mess."

"Yes, boss."

Dante walked out like nothing happened.

As he stepped back into his car, he glanced down at his phone.

He checked the camera feed from Aria's room. She was laying on the bed, silent, wearing a nightdress, her back to the camera.

He stared for a moment.

Then he closed the screen and put the phone away.

"Drive."