Chapter 86: Something You Can do
"Mr. Ferraro, you can’t possibly listen to her when she’s clearly sprouting nonsense," the manager spoke up sharply, his voice tight with irritation. The deep crease between his brows and the way his lips curled made it painfully obvious that he was beyond annoyed—he was offended.
Llara couldn’t care less.
She shifted instinctively, stepping closer to the man she knew—hoped—could help her. Close enough that she could feel the solid heat of him, close enough that if the manager tried anything else, he would have to go through Ferraro first.
"She belongs to Mr. Lorenzo and—"
This time, Ferraro didn’t let him finish.
"I don’t see his name written on her."
His voice was low, steady, and edged with something dangerous. It wasn’t loud, but it carried enough force to slice through the air and leave no room for argument. The kind of voice that didn’t threaten—it promised. The manager stiffened instantly, his mouth snapping shut as though he’d suddenly remembered his place.
Ferraro snapped his fingers once.
The sound was sharp and deliberate.
His bodyguards moved immediately, stepping forward with synchronized precision, forming a solid barrier between the manager and Ferraro. The message was clear. The conversation was over. Whatever objections the manager still had were now meaningless.
Without sparing the man another glance, Ferraro walked past him.
Llara didn’t hesitate.
She stayed glued to his side, her steps quick and light as she followed him, refusing to look back. Whatever waited behind her was no longer her concern. Her heart was still hammering, but relief flooded her chest with every step she took away from the chaos.
She found herself mentally admiring him despite everything.
His height alone was striking—broad shoulders, a solid frame that moved with controlled confidence. His stride was unhurried, as though the world naturally parted for him. Standing beside him only emphasized how different they were, her smaller figure nearly swallowed by his presence.
He looks more like a bodybuilder than a rich CEO, she thought absently, her gaze flickering up before she caught herself. Definitely not the sleek, polished type.
Her curiosity grew with every second.
For all I know, he could own a bodyguard company, she mused. That would make more sense.
She ignored the sound of heavy footsteps behind her—the bodyguards following at a respectful distance—as Ferraro led her through the club with ease. People moved out of their way without question, eyes dropping, conversations dying mid-sentence. It was only then that Llara truly understood just how much authority he carried.
They reached the escalator.
Ferraro stepped on first, not once looking back to check if she was still following. She was. The ride up felt longer than it was, the silence thick, broken only by the soft hum of machinery. Her nerves buzzed as the topmost floor came into view.
Luxury greeted them immediately.
The carpet was plush beneath her feet, the lighting softer, more private. Ferraro stopped before one of the most lavish doors she had ever seen and slid a card through the reader. The door clicked open smoothly.
It wasn’t until she stepped inside—until she heard the door close behind her—that she finally found her voice.
The bodyguards remained outside.
The click of the lock echoed far louder than it should have.
"Thank you very much, sir!" Llara said quickly, turning toward him. Her tone was polite, grateful, careful. She knew her place well enough not to appear arrogant or entitled. "I won’t ever forget this."
She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking, her pulse slowly settling now that they were alone. The room was enormous, beautifully decorated, exuding wealth in every corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city like a private throne room.
Ferraro didn’t respond.
Instead, he moved toward the bar with measured steps, shrugging off the heavy coat he wore as if her presence barely registered. Llara lingered by the door, unsure whether to follow or stay where she was.
"I can work for you," she blurted, the words tumbling out in her haste. "For free, if that’s what it takes—to pay you back."
She winced inwardly. Nothing is ever free, she knew that. Offering such a thing could easily land her in more trouble than she was already in.
She opened her mouth to add something else—anything that might help her case.
Then she froze.
Ferraro slipped off his coat completely.
Her breath caught.
The body beneath was nothing like she had expected. Tattoos covered his skin—dark, intricate, and unmistakably deliberate. They weren’t decorative or meaningless. From his neck down, disappearing beneath the half-unbuttoned white shirt, the ink told a story she didn’t need explained.
Her mind reeled.
As if that wasn’t enough, he placed his left hand on the bar and slowly removed his gloves.
Four fingers.
Where there should have been five.
It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over her head.
Her heart, which had just begun to calm, began racing twice as fast. Her chest tightened as realization slammed into her with brutal clarity.
Mafia.
There was no mistaking it now.
The more she looked—the posture, the scars she could now see beneath the tattoos, the way he carried himself without the coat—the clearer it became. Ferraro wasn’t just connected. He was deeply entrenched.
The silence in the vast, luxurious room hardened.
Llara stood frozen, staring, while Ferraro poured himself a drink and took a slow sip, entirely unbothered by her reaction.
"I prefer whiskey," he said casually, as though continuing a conversation they’d already been having. "But recently, I’ve grown a taste for red wine."
She swallowed hard.
Every instinct screamed at her to leave. This was exactly the kind of situation she had been running from. The last thing she needed was to trade one cage for another—especially one lined with silk and danger.
Ferraro pulled a cigar case from his pocket and began preparing it with unhurried precision.
"I’ll work for you," she tried again, desperation creeping into her voice. "I’m a hard—"
"Work?"
His interruption was cool, almost amused. He didn’t even turn to look at her.
"...You belong to me, remember?"
The words were light, almost teasing.
To Llara, they sounded like a life sentence.
Her eyes burned as she clenched her fists, forcing herself not to react. She had met men like this before. Men who took without asking, who cared only for what they wanted and never for who they destroyed along the way.
"Work sounds so temporary," he continued, drawing from the cigar before finally turning toward her.
She took a shaky breath.
Summoning courage she didn’t feel, Llara stepped forward. One step. Then another.
"I..." Her voice cracked despite her efforts. "...If it’s pleasure you want, I can do that too."
The words tasted bitter, but she forced them out. One man was better than ten. She wasn’t naïve, and she wasn’t inexperienced. Offering it before he demanded it felt like control—however small.
She prayed it would disgust him.
Instead, he studied her.
"Do you think you can satisfy me?"
She nodded slowly, thoughts racing.
Just once.
Even better if he hates it.
Please don’t let him be the Don.
Ferraro finished his wine, setting the glass down gently before standing. He closed the distance between them with ease, stopping barely a foot away. He towered over her, deep brown eyes locking onto hers.
"I should pay you for your kindness," she whispered, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs.
"Good," he replied smoothly. "...I have something you can do for me."
