Romance

LEONE
Fallon McAllister, the dealer who should have been easy to break, is proving to be a wild card that could either bolster my hand or cause the entire game to collapse.
Once in my room, Milo stands awkwardly, like he doesn’t know where to put her. I motion toward the bed, and Milo moves toward it just as Doctor Stevens knocks hesitantly at my door. I motion toward where Milo is laying her down. Without a word, he rushes to her aid, another woman rushing in with him. Dr. Stevens’s wife, she hooks a drip up to her with a cannula in her hand, then starts ripping out blood bags. Dr. Stevens slings orders as he works quickly.
The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the air, a stark contrast to the blood that stains my hands. The Doctor’s swift motions blur as he works over Fallon’s limp form, her shallow breaths ghosting out in uneven rhythms. Milo hovers close, his dark eyes never leaving 

FALLON
My eyelids flutter open, rebelling against the harsh light that assaults my senses. I blink against the heaviness in my head, the world coming into focus with cruel clarity. The ache that permeates every inch of my flesh is a reminder of the ordeal I’d endured, the bruises painting a mosaic of pain on my skin. My breaths are shallow gasps, each one laced with the sharp twinge of battered ribs protesting my movement and the aching of my shoulder that worsens with each breath. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this sore in my life.
Groaning, I try to lift my hand to my temple, which throbs in sync with a pounding headache. But for some reason, I find my movement abruptly halted. Panic surges as I realize I’m chained to the bed, one wrist locked tightly in a handcuff. My breath quickens, fear clawing at my chest as the claustrophobic feeling accelerates, reminding me of walls closing in. I frantically tug at the restraint, which does nothing but cause the chain to rattle uselessly. It’s futile. The handcuffs are securely fastened, leaving me trapped and vulnerable.
For a moment, the old terror threatens to overwhelm me—the stifling, crushing fear of confinement. But I force myself to breathe, to focus on the differences, not the similarities. It’s just a handcuff, not a small, dark room. There’s light here; this isn’t the same. I can live with being handcuffed; it’s the dark that truly terrifies me. This mental mantra helps against the rising panic, anchoring me back to a bearable reality.
“Wha—?” The word is barely a whisper, my throat raw and parched. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog that seems to cling to my vision, only to find I am not anywhere I’ve seen before. I have no memory of this room, but it looks too fancy for a cheap hotel where I will be potentially pimped out by Leone.
The ceiling draws my attention, the patterns and carvings are something that look like they belong in a museum, vastly different from my bland bedroom with its cobwebs in the corners and clothes strewn about carelessly. This is not my room. This is not my bed.
My heart lurches, and panic sets in as I struggle against the bindings at my wrists, disconcertingly hard against the rawness of my skin. The vast expanse of the king-sized bed beneath me feels more like a jail than a place of rest. I writhe, twisting to look over my shoulder, the blonde waves of my hair falling messily across my face, only to find massive bay windows lining the walls. I try to sit up, but the pull on my ankles has me looking down to find the same bindings tied to them. The only arm free is the one in a sling, and otherwise useless to me.
Just then, a voice breaks the silence, making me turn my head. “About time.” Leone’s deep, baritone voice has me freezing as I look for him.
My eyes rake over the room, taking in the plush crimson carpet that seems to drown the floor in blood and the ornate furnishings that mock me with their stillness. I spot him sitting in an armchair in the corner, his foot resting on his knee as he casually reads a newspaper as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.
“I was wondering when you would wake up,” he states, calmly turning the page as if my captivity is the most normal thing in the world.
His dark hair is neatly styled, his clothes are crisp and expensive, not a thing out of place. His eyes, piercing, glance up at me before returning to the paper.
His nonchalant demeanor only fuels my panic. I’m at his mercy, a prisoner in this luxurious yet suffocating room. The realization hits me hard—I am completely under Leone’s control, and there’s nothing I can do about it. What does he want with me? And what will he do now that he has me?
“Why am I tied to the bed, remove the handcuffs.” I give a hasty yank, regretting the decision instantly as pain slivers along every limb.
“Once you can be trusted, you can leave the room by yourself,” Leone says, an edge of finality cutting through its previous softness.
“Trusted?” I echo, incredulous. “You kidnap me, handcuff me, and now you want my trust?”
“Fallon, think about where you are. This isn’t some back-alley kidnapping. You agreed to this.”
“I did not agree to be chained to a damn bed!” I yank on my hand and try to kick my feet, but it is a futile attempt. I’m not going anywhere unless he lets me.
His dark eyes meet mine and glint with satisfaction. The very sight sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a fiery mix of fear and defiance deep within me.
“Fallon,” his voice, cool and collected, cuts through the silence, sending a jolt through my already frayed nerves. “The more you fight, the longer you’ll wear them.”
“Let me go,” I demand, my voice steadier than I feel. Each word is a battle, pride clashing with the panic clawing at my chest.
“As I said, once you can be trusted,” he replies, his tone infuriatingly calm. “You’re not ready to roam free on your own… yet.”
Despite my initial resistance, a part of me knows that outright defiance won’t secure my freedom. Instead, I must bide my time and be patient.
“Fine,” I concede, my voice full of defeat. “What do you want from me? What does ‘trust’ even mean in this place?”
A flicker of surprise crosses Leone’s face, his interest piqued by my change in tactic. “Trust,” he muses, setting aside the paper and fixing his gaze on me, “means understanding your place here. It means recognizing the opportunity I’m offering you.”
Opportunity? The word feels like a mockery in my current state, yet I can’t help but be curious. “What ‘opportunity’ would that be?” I ask, skepticism lacing my words.
Leone stands, his movements graceful and deliberate, as he approaches the bed. “An opportunity for power, Fallon. To rise above your current circumstances. But first, you must learn. Learn the rules of this world, learn who truly holds the power.”
“Opportunity? While strapped to a bed?” I scoff.
“You’re not strapped to any bed Fallon, you’re strapped to mine, that alone holds power in my world. I don’t let many women in my bed. I certainly don’t share them. You betrayed me, your father betrayed me, now you owe me.”
“Care to share this so-called power because this option isn’t one I’d choose for myself, and I feel pretty damn powerless right now!” I snap at him, shaking my bound wrist.
Leone’s gaze sharpens, the air charged with a tension that’s both threatening and electrifying. “What I want from you, Fallon, is simple,” he begins, his voice low and commanding. “Your complete submission. I want to own every inch of you and in every way.”

LEONE
“Leone?” Milo’s voice breaks through the chaos, tinged with an urgency that sends a ripple of satisfaction through me, knowing I made the right decision by letting her live, hearing the panic in his voice. I turn to see Fallon crumpled in his arms, her blonde locks now darkened with blood that seeps from the wound in her shoulder. We probably need to do something about that.
“Get a doctor to my mansion, now!” I bark at Rocco, one of my men standing next to my car. He nods sharply and retrieves his phone while Milo crushes her limp body against his chest, and I approach the car.
“Put her in the car, Milo,” I command. Milo moves swiftly, his arms cradling Fallon with a surprising tenderness that belies his hardened exterior. He slides into the back of the black sedan.
I follow suit, slipping into the leather seat next to him, my mind racing as I take in the scene before me. Fallon’s face is ghostly pale, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. She’s vulnerable, a vast contrast to the fiery spirit she’s shown at the casino tables. I yank off my shirt, pressing it against the bleeding wound, applying pressure in an attempt to stem the flow.
Blood, a deep crimson, seeps between my fingers as I press my shirt against the gunshot wound in her shoulder. Milo watches me, his brown eyes reflecting the streetlights outside, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. “Is she going to make it?” he asks, voice low.
I don’t even look up from Fallon’s still form. “She’ll be fine,” I state with a conviction I’m not sure that I feel. It’s a strange experience, caring whether this woman lives or dies. She was meant to be a closed chapter—another person who failed to best me.
Yet here I am, holding her life together with nothing but my shirt and sheer willpower. My decision to save her life wasn’t just about her debt or her family; there’s something about her defiance that intrigues me. She is strong, even if she doesn’t believe it.
The car speeds towards my mansion, cutting through the night like a bullet—a fitting metaphor, given the situation. I glance at Milo, noting how he adjusts his hold on Fallon, ensuring her head rests comfortably against his chest.
Between what her father stole and her sister’s surgery, Fallon owes millions, and her debt is now my leverage. But it’s more than that—I see potential in her, a strength that could be used to benefit my empire. The game has changed, and Fallon is now an unexpected player on my board. My father said I needed to marry to take over completely, provide an heir. Fallon will provide one, she has no choice. Whether she lives is up to her, she can play along and we’ll look after her, or I will put a bullet in her head the moment my baby is born. The thought alone stirs a dangerous excitement within me.
Yet, the risk of having a woman at my side also terrifies me. She’ll be a target, be under pressure constantly, and constantly battling temptation, something my ex-wife was too weak for.
“Hold this,” I tell Milo, pulling my phone out and quickly texting Rocco. He replies instantly, and I pocket my phone before returning to holding the shirt against her wound.
“Drive faster,” I order the driver, my impatience growing. Time is precious, and every second counts when death lingers so closely. Fuck, I am now regretting my decision to torment her instead of getting her help first.
Pulling my shirt back, I check her wound; it’s barely bleeding now. “Was the game with your gun necessary if you intended to let her live? It was a little risky, don’t you think?” Milo asks.
“Fallon isn’t the only one good with her hands. It wasn’t loaded, Milo, I was testing her.”
“Testing her?” he asks, unable to hide the shock and disgust from his words. I brush her hair from her blood-smeared face.
“Yes, I need to see if she can focus and keep her head even when faced with death.”
“Did she pass?” he asks, but I can see the question in his gaze; he wants to know what is going through my head and why I let her live.
“She came, didn’t she?”
“And if she hadn’t?” he probes.
“Well, she wouldn’t be sitting on your lap right now, I would have shot her,” I say, letting that sink in. He swallows thickly, and I turn my gaze to the window.
As we pull up to the gates of my mansion, I’m already formulating plans. Anticipating moves, readying myself for the shit storm this girl is about to unknowingly create.
The driver pulls into the mansion’s driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires like bones being ground into dust. He parks the car and climbs out quickly, opening the back door for Milo, whose usual composure is rattled.
“Where do I put her?” he asks, his arms still cradling Fallon’s limp body protectively.
“My room,” I answer steadily. My gaze doesn’t waver from Fallon’s face, but I can feel Milo’s confusion almost palpable in the air between us as his gaze watches my face. No woman has stepped foot in my bedroom since my ex-wife—a fact well-known to those closest to me.
“Your room?” Milo echoes, his eyes wide with surprise, but he doesn’t question the order further. He knows better than to push for answers I don’t want to give yet.
“Yes, now walk,” I command, climbing out of the car after him. As we ascend the grand staircase, I ponder the decision I’ve just made. The corridors of my home, usually echoing with the sounds of subservience and hushed whispers, now seem to hold their breath, waiting for the outcome of tonight’s events.

LEONE
Fallon McAllister, the dealer who should have been easy to break, is proving to be a wild card that could either bolster my hand or cause the entire game to collapse.
Once in my room, Milo stands awkwardly, like he doesn’t know where to put her. I motion toward the bed, and Milo moves toward it just as Doctor Stevens knocks hesitantly at my door. I motion toward where Milo is laying her down. Without a word, he rushes to her aid, another woman rushing in with him. Dr. Stevens’s wife, she hooks a drip up to her with a cannula in her hand, then starts ripping out blood bags. Dr. Stevens slings orders as he works quickly.
The sterile scent of antiseptic fills the air, a stark contrast to the blood that stains my hands. The Doctor’s swift motions blur as he works over Fallon’s limp form, her shallow breaths ghosting out in uneven rhythms. Milo hovers close, his dark eyes never leaving her face. The sharp angles of his jaw tense with unspoken worry he isn’t able to mask.
“Keep pressur

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