Sold To The Don: Three Nights, One Deal

I walked into his house at 4 a.m. to beg for my brother's life. He looked at me like he'd been expecting me. "Three nights," he said. "Under my roof. My terms." I said yes. I had no choice. The first night, he made me sit by the fire while he worked. Didn't touch me. Just watched — those black eyes tracking every breath I took. The second night, a man at dinner looked at me too long. He dragged him across the table by his tie, pressed his face an inch from a steak knife, and said — calm as ordering wine — "Apologize to my guest." The third night, he tasted like bourbon and his hands were in my hair and I forgot I was supposed to be the one in control. When I tried to leave on the fourth morning, he blocked the door. "New deal. You stay." I'm FBI. He's my target. But he found the scar on my wrist and whispered — "I put that there. You were mine before you knew your own name." He's not letting me go. The worst part? I stopped wanting him to.