You're mine

Enzo’s lips curled into something dangerous.
“You talk big, angel, but I want to see the devil they all whisper about.”
He snapped his fingers, and two guards stepped forward. “Untie her.”

Ella’s muscles tensed as the ropes fell away, but she didn’t lunge. No—she smiled. Slow and poisonous. She knew how to play this game.
Her wrists burned where the rope had bitten deep, but she stood tall, rolling her shoulders back. Her figure moved with lethal grace—soft curves wrapped in raw power.

Enzo’s green eyes darkened as he watched her.
“Come,” he ordered. “Let’s show my men why I took you before anyone else could.”

The ride was silent, the air thick with tension.
Ella sat in the back of the black SUV, her sharp eyes memorizing every face, every street, every route.
Always thinking ahead. Always planning.

When they arrived, the heavy steel doors of an underground club groaned open.
The place stank of sweat, blood, and desperation. A fighting pit sat in the center, surrounded by men in suits and tattoos, the kind of men who killed before breakfast and smiled while doing it.

And yet…
The moment Ella stepped in, all eyes turned. And silence followed.

They recognized her.
The woman from the video.
The angel-faced devil who took down forty-five men like they were paper dolls.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.
“That’s her.”
“Dio santo, la donna di ferro.”
“The one Enzo Russo stole before we could get to her.”

Ella caught every word with her sharp ears.
And smiled.

Enzo leaned close to her ear, his breath hot.
“Fight. Show them. Remind them why you belong to me now.”

Ella turned her head just enough that her lips almost brushed his ear.
“Belong? Oh no, Enzo. I reign.”
Her voice was soft as silk, sharp as a knife.

Then she stepped into the pit.

They sent in the first fighter—a tall, scarred man with fists like bricks. He smirked at Ella, cracking his knuckles.
But Ella? She moved like a shadow.
Two steps, a twist, a brutal elbow to his throat.
The man dropped, gasping like a fish out of water.

The crowd roared.
Enzo’s gaze flared hotter.

Another came. Bigger. Meaner.
Ella danced around him, ducked under his swing, and slammed her knee into his ribs—crack—then swept his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard and didn’t get up.

By the third man, the room had erupted into chaos.
Men were shouting, placing bets, some already reaching for phones—calling their bosses.

Far above, in private balconies, shadowed figures watched.
One leaned back, swirling a glass of dark liquor.

“So… Enzo’s little prize is real,” the man murmured. His eyes gleamed with interest.
“Send word to Don Romano. Tell him… we might have to steal her from under Enzo’s nose.”

Another laughed. “Steal? Half the bosses in Sicily will want her now. She’s worth more than gold.”

Ella felt it. The shift. The power turning in her favor.
She caught Enzo’s gaze through the crowd—dark, burning, hungry.
But more than that… she saw the flicker of worry in his eyes.
He knew.
The more he paraded her like this, the more danger he brought to himself.
Because now everyone wanted her.

Ella let her lips curl into a wicked smile as she slammed her final opponent into the pit floor.
The man groaned and went still. The crowd erupted into cheers and chaos.

She stood there, breathing steady, sweat gleaming on her skin—an angel covered in the sins of men she had broken.

Then, with slow, deliberate grace, she turned to Enzo.
Tilted her head.
And smirked.