The Beauty And The Don

The spotlight was blinding.

Catalina squinted through the bars of the cage, her pulse a frantic drumbeat in her ears. The heat from the lights clashed with the cold iron beneath her bare feet. A smoky haze hung in the air, thick with the scent of expensive cigars, sweat, and greed. Voices buzzed around her, low, predatory, and eager. They weren't looking at her like a person. She was product. Flesh.

"Number twenty-three," the auctioneer crooned. "Our rarest tonight."

She wasn't supposed to be here.

The handler had promised this wouldn't happen. She was meant to be sold to a minor player, a southern don, weak and arrogant. Someone she could manipulate. Someone whose downfall would make a statement.

Instead, he came.

The crowd parted like scripture splitting at the seams.

Cristiano Vellone.

Even his name tasted like danger.

He wore black like a crown. Sharp Italian tailoring. Shoulders broad, presence suffocating. The years had carved power into his face, hard jaw, high cheekbones, eyes like onyx sharpened to knives. A man made of war and wealth. There was no announcement. No prelude.

Only silence. The kind that obeyed.

Catalina's breath snagged in her chest.

He should have been older. Smaller. Less terrifying.

Instead, he was the god in the room.

A god who didn't forget.

Her mind screamed at her to look away, to shrink, to hide. But she didn't. Couldn't. She forced her eyes to lock onto his. If he remembered her, he didn't show it. If he recognized the daughter of the family he'd ordered dead, he gave nothing away.

Still, her body trembled.

The auctioneer's voice cracked. "Untouched. Educated. Six languages. A perfect companion for any discerning gentleman."

A ripple of laughter, cruel, amused.

Cristiano said nothing.

He just raised a single hand.

That was all it took.

The room fell silent like a throat being cut.

"No other bids?" the auctioneer asked, already sweating. "Sold."

The gavel slammed like a gunshot.

Catalina Guerra was his.

She was yanked out of the cage by two guards who smelled of vodka and steel. Her heels skidded against the polished floor as they shoved her forward. Still barefoot. Still shaking. Still burning with the need to run. Her black slip dress clung to her, her wrists bore bruises from iron cuffs, and her handler watched from the shadows and said nothing.

Traitor.

Liar.

Coward.

She was shoved toward him. The Don of New York. The butcher of her bloodline.

Cristiano Vellone stood motionless as she was delivered to him like an offering. He didn't reach for her. Didn't speak. He just stared, like he already owned her.

No words. No welcome.

Just war.

Then he turned.

The guards pushed her to follow, and she stumbled after him, heart ricocheting in her chest. He didn't look back. He didn't need to.

Outside, a black car idled at the curb. Glossy. Armored. No license plate.

The door opened.

She didn't want to get in.

She did anyway.

She slid into the seat, fists clenched, body taut. The scent of leather and tobacco filled her lungs. Cristiano entered beside her. The door clicked shut. No guards. No weapons in sight. Just her and the man who'd rewritten the map of the underworld in blood.

Silence stretched between them like barbed wire.

She couldn't take it.

"You gonna kill me?" she asked, voice sharp.

He didn't flinch.

"If I wanted you dead," he said calmly, "you'd already be bleeding."

Her spine stiffened. She turned her face to the window. The city passed in a blur, neon lights and endless night. He leaned closer. She could feel the heat of him, the weight of his gaze.

"You're not here to die, Catalina Guerra," he murmured. "You're here to remember."

Her eyes snapped back to his.

He remembered.

He knew.

All these years, she'd believed the lie, that he hadn't known she survived, that her anonymity kept her safe. That she was a shadow.

But shadows don't bleed.

And this man? He hunted ghosts for sport.

She faced forward again, refusing to let him see the fear building inside her chest.

"You were supposed to be dead," he added, voice like ice melting over stone. "They said the Guerras were gone."

"They were."

"And yet... here you are."

The handler's voice echoed in her mind.

He doesn't know you exist.

Lie.

You'll be sold to a minor boss. Someone manageable.

Lie.

He told her she'd be safe. He trained her for infiltration, seduction, survival. But he never told her the truth.

Cristiano Vellone knew.

He always had.

***

The car pulled into an underground garage beneath a Manhattan high rise that scraped the sky. A black-suited guard opened her door. She stepped out, still barefoot, still burning. Cristiano walked ahead, his steps silent, precise. A predator in his own den.

She followed.

They entered a private elevator. No buttons. No words. Just a silent ascent into a world she'd only ever studied from afar.

When the doors slid open, she was greeted by steel and glass. Cold luxury. A penthouse carved from concrete and control.

"This way," Cristiano said.

He led her into a wide room lined with floor to ceiling windows that framed the city like a painting of fire and ambition. There was a fireplace already lit. A bar stocked with crystal and poison. And silence. Always silence.

She turned on him. "Why me?"

He poured himself a drink. Amber. Neat. He didn't offer her one.

"Because you exist."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you'll get for now."

She wanted to scream. Instead, she crossed her arms. "So what am I? A pet? A trophy?"

He turned to her, drink in hand. "You're leverage."

"For who?"

A beat of silence.

Then he smiled.

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

The next hour passed like a knife sliding slow.

Cristiano made one phone call, short, coded. She caught only fragments.

"...tell Rico to watch her handler. I want to know who else knew."

He was unraveling everything.

She watched him from the other side of the room, still standing, still ready to run. But she couldn't outrun him. Couldn't outfight him. So she did what she'd been trained to do.

She waited.

He ended the call and turned toward her.

"You're going to stay here," he said.

"I'm not a guest."

"No," he agreed. "You're a debt."

Her pulse spiked.

"You don't get to rewrite history," she said, voice sharp. "You killed them. All of them."

He took a step closer. "And now you're the only one left."

She didn't move.

Didn't blink.

"You think owning me makes up for it?" she whispered. "You think putting me in a silk cage erases what you did?"

"No," he said. "It just gives me time to decide what to do with you."

And with that, he walked away.

She was alone again.

But not forgotten.

Later that night, Catalina sat on the edge of a king sized bed, staring at the city lights while the handler's voice haunted her.

He doesn't know you exist.

You're just a shadow.

All lies.

Cristiano had looked her in the eyes and called her by name.

So what game was this?

Why parade her around like a prize? Why not kill her and finish what he started?

She didn't know yet.

But she would.

Because Catalina Guerra didn't just survive the purge.

She was born from it.

And if Cristiano Vellone thought she was leverage, he'd better pray he never learned what else she was.

A weapon.

A ticking time bomb.

And now she was inside his kingdom.

Across the city, the handler sat in a darkened room, a silver coin in his palm.

A phone buzzed.

"He has her," a voice rasped on the other end.

The handler smiled.

"Good," he said. "Phase one is complete."

Because Catalina Guerra wasn't just meant to infiltrate Cristiano's empire.

She was meant to bring it down.

From the inside.