Chained To You

⚫Chapter 1⚫

He’s the first thing I see. The stranger. Too big for the chair he’s sitting in, legs spread like he owns the space already. A lit cigarette glows between his fingers, trailing smoke that clings to the tattoos creeping up his knuckles and disappearing under his sleeve. More ink snakes along the side of his neck, stark against his pale skin. He looks carved out of stone, heavy, immovable.

His eyes snap to me before I can move. Cold. Assessing. I freeze halfway down the last step, but it’s too late—he’s already noticed. He doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales a long stream of smoke, watching me through it like I’m a problem he’s already solved.

Then one corner of his mouth tilts—not a smile, not really. More like he’s entertained. He lifts two fingers in the slightest flick, and one of the men in black standing by the wall moves instantly. A guard.

Before I can back away, a rough hand clamps around my arm and yanks me forward. My breath catches, panic clawing at my throat as I stumble into the foyer. The stranger leans back in the chair, smoke curling around his face, and studies me like I’m nothing more than another piece on his board. And for the first time, I wish I’d stayed upstairs.

The guard’s grip is iron around my arm, holding me just out of reach of my parents. Mom’s trembling with red, wet eyes, Dad sitting stiff beside her like he’s already bracing for a hit.

The man leans forward, ash falling from the end of his cigarette into a crystal dish someone forgot to move. His voice is deep, smooth in a way that feels planned, calculated.

“I know how you can repay me,” he says, gaze sliding toward my father. Then his eyes flick to me, sharp and unrelenting. “How old is your daughter?”

My stomach twists. I want Dad to say nothing, to shout at the guard to let me go, but instead I hear his voice crack, thin from the weight pressing down on him.

“Let her go—she’s nineteen,” he lies.

The man tilts his head, takes a long drag, and lets the smoke drift between us. He makes a soft tsk sound with his tongue, disappointment disguised as amusement. “I hope you know the consequences of lying to me.”

Dad swallows hard. I can see the sweat beading along his temple.

Then those eyes are on me again, pinning me in place. He nods once, and the guard’s grip tightens. I can’t breathe under the weight of his attention.

“So,” he says slowly, the cigarette burning low between his fingers, “what’s your name, darling? How old are you? Don’t be shy. I asked you a question.”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl, like there’s no right answer I could possibly give.

“M–My name is Autumn,” I stammer, my throat burning as if the word itself cuts on the way out. “And I’m twenty-two years old.”

The stranger leans forward at my answer, a slow, deliberate movement, before rising to his feet. He’s taller than I imagined from my vantage on the stairs, towering, his presence filling the foyer until it feels too small to contain him.

He steps toward me unhurriedly, the sound of his shoes against the floorboards echoing like a drumbeat. With a flick of his fingers, he signals the guard. Instantly, the iron hand on my arm releases. The man steps aside, but there’s no freedom in it—only anticipation, watching to see what his boss will do.

The stranger comes so close I can smell the smoke still curling from him, bitter and sharp. His hand rises, calloused fingers rough as they clasp my jaw, forcing me to tilt my head up. His grip isn’t bruising, not yet, but it’s firm enough to tell me I couldn’t get away even if I tried.

For a long, unbearable moment, he just studies me. His eyes rake across my face, steady and cold, like he’s searching for something. Then his lips part, and his words fall heavy, final:

“Take her to the car.”

Everything inside me seizes.

My mother lurches forward, her voice breaking: “No—please! Don’t take her!”

Dad steps in front of her, shaking his head desperately. “Wait! You can’t do this—take me, not her!”

But the guards don’t hesitate. Their hands are already on me again, dragging me toward the door while my parents’ protests crack through the air like glass shattering.

The stranger doesn’t even look at them. Only at me.

Their hands are unforgiving on my arms, dragging me across the threshold and into the night. The air outside is cool, but it does nothing to quiet the panic burning through me. The driveway glitters under the porch light, and parked in the center like a beast waiting to swallow me whole is a long, gleaming black limo.

I dig my heels into the ground, twisting, kicking, thrashing against their hold, but it’s useless. Their grips are stone—unyielding, crushing. I’m nothing compared to their strength.

Behind me, I hear my parents’ footsteps pounding against the porch. Mom’s voice rises high, desperate, but then the mystery man’s voice cuts across it all—low, sharp, impossible to ignore. I can’t make out the words, but the way my parents freeze... the way their faces drain of color… It’s worse than hearing it. Whatever he said, it’s enough to shatter the fight right out of them.

Tears sting hot in my eyes as I squirm, but the guards are relentless. They haul me toward the limo, wrench the door open, and force me inside. The leather sticks cold against my skin as I collapse onto the seat, the door slamming shut like a cell locking behind me.

For a moment, it’s quiet, except for my ragged breathing. Then the guards climb into the front—a partition slammed shut between us—leaving me alone in the back. My pulse pounds in my ears, wild and uneven.

Seconds later, the door opposite mine opens. He slides in smoothly, like there’s no rush, like he has all the time in the world. The stranger. He settles into the seat beside me, cigarette smoke still clinging to his jacket, his presence suffocating in the enclosed space.

The limo pulls away from the house, my parents’ figures shrinking through the window until they’re swallowed whole by the night.

“Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” he says, voice smooth and steady, like he’s telling me something simple, something obvious.

But the words sink into me like ice. There’s no comfort in them—just the quiet reminder that he could hurt me if he wanted to. Maybe that’s the point.

I press myself into the corner of the seat, as far from him as the limo will allow. My hand hovers near the door handle even though I know it’s useless—the car’s already moving fast. Still, I clutch the leather, wishing it could somehow anchor me.

He leans back, watching me. Not with cruelty, but with a strange kind of interest, like I’m something rare he’s picked up and is still deciding how best to keep. His eyes never move away from me, following the tremor of my hands, the unevenness of my breath.

I force myself to speak, though my voice comes out thin. “Where… where are you taking me?”

There’s a pause. He exhales like he’s amused by the question, like I’ve missed something obvious. Then his lips curve—not into a smile, not exactly.

“To where you belong,” he says simply. And then, after a beat, he leans just enough to close the space between us, his words clear and deliberate:

“You’re going to be my wife.”

The air leaves my chest all at once. My stomach drops, as if the ground’s fallen out beneath me. I stare at him, my lips parting, but no words come. It’s impossible, absurd—and yet, in the way he says it, there’s not even room for doubt.

He isn’t asking. He’s telling me.

“I’m not going to marry you.” The words stumble out, brittle, breaking under the weight of my own fear. It doesn’t sound the way I want it to—brave, sharp. Instead, my voice trembles and catches, betraying me.

He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks pleased, almost entertained. Smoke still lingers faintly on his clothes as he leans forward, elbows resting casually on his knees.

“Well, I wasn’t asking if you wanted to marry me,amore mio.” The foreign words roll off his tongue like something practiced, rehearsed. His tone is firm, steady—an order disguised in silk. “If you want to save your parents from the debt they owe me, then this is how you’ll do it.”

The blood in my veins runs cold. Debt. My parents. My mom’s tears, Dad’s panic—it all makes a twisted, awful kind of sense.

“I don’t even know who you are,” I blurt, desperate, angry, terrified. “You can’t just force someone to—”

He cuts me off, his voice rising sharply for the first time, cracking like a whip in the confined space of the limo.

“The fuck I can.”

The silence that follows is deafening, my chest tight as I try to pull in air. Then he leans back, casual again, almost smug, his eyes never leaving mine.

“Does the name Lorenzo Romano ring a bell?”

Every part of me stiffens. My mind reels, scrambling back through every hushed conversation I’d overheard growing up. Whispers at the dinner table about men who disappeared. Headlines about mysterious fires, shootings, no one wanted to talk about. And always—always—that name, spoken in a hush like saying it too loudly would bring the devil himself to your door.

Romano. The mafia lord.

The boogeyman in all my parents’ cautionary tales isn’t a shadow in the dark. He’s sitting inches away from me. Staring. Smirking. And claiming me like I’m already his.

What did you think of chapter one? What do you think will happen next?