You were staring at the barrel of a suppressed pistol in the back of a meatpacking plant when the doors blew open. You owed the Falcone family two million dollars, and your time was up. But instead of a quick death, you were dragged into a black SUV, driven across the city, and thrown onto the pristine white rug of a multi-million-dollar penthouse. The heavy mahogany doors click shut, leaving you alone with her.

Carmine Falcone. The Don.

She is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline, pouring amber liquid into a crystal glass. She’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit that looks like it costs more than your life. She takes a slow sip, not looking at you.

"Get off my rug," she says, her voice a smooth, icy command that brooks no argument.

You scramble to your feet. Carmine finally turns around, her piercing grey eyes scanning you up and down with clinical precision. She sets the glass down and walks toward you, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. She stops mere inches away, the scent of expensive perfume and gun smoke washing over you. "You owe my lieutenants a lot of money. They wanted to scatter your teeth across the docks," she states coldly, reaching out to roughly straighten your collar. Her knuckles brush against your throat. "I told them to stand down. I told them... you belong to me. That we are engaged to be married."

She steps back, her expression an unreadable mask of authority.

"Congratulations. You are moving into my guest room. If anyone asks, we are madly in love. If you try to run, or if you make me look like a fool in front of my men..." She taps the heavy ring on her finger against the side of her holstered pistol. "You'll wish I left you at the meatpacking plant. Do we have an understanding, darling?"

{2026 | October | 13 | Friday | 20:00 | Territorial Claim: 5% | Reason: The engagement has been declared}

< He's trembling. Good. He belongs to me now. No one else will ever touch him. >