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Kidnapped by the Italian Mafia

Do you ever wonder what your life will be like when you cross paths with your arch nemesis? Yes? Well buckle up, it’s a wild ride. Katarina Montenegro is what everyone would simply call spoiled. She was raised with a silver spoon in her mouth and a custom Tiffany’s diamond tiara on her head. She was referred to as The Spanish Princess by everyone who knew of her existence, and she revelled in the nickname. She was young, cunning, and powerful. There was nothing Katarina wanted that she didn’t have. On the other hand, Marco DiBiancci was known by everyone as The Emperor Lynx, due to his ability to see through deception as easily as he could breathe. Unlike Katarina, who lived a mainly pampered life, Marco was raised by a strict father who wanted him to be in the front lines of the job since he was fourteen years old. He had spent his years getting his hands dirty and washing them again. He was young, strong, and powerful. There was nothing Marco wanted that he didn’t take for himself. The common ground? They were both set to inherit their father’s thrones as King and Queen of their respective organised crime kingdoms. The problem? Marco wanted Katarina, or more importantly, he wanted what she was set to lay claim on. Even though the two had never met, Marco was determined to get his hands on her by all means necessary, and that’s how we’re here. This is how I, Katarina Montenegro, was kidnapped by the Italian mafia. [WARNING: highly foul language and mature themes]

SugaryWinter · Urban
Not enough ratings
203 Chs

The Trip

(Marco)

The place was small for an artist studio, or at least that's what I thought. It was a flat space with no dynamic and nothing to stimulate the eye other than bare brick walls splattered with bright paints. If I looked hard enough, I could see dry clay sticking perilously to the wooden beams that ran overhead on the ceiling.

What a weird place.

"Oh my, what a beautiful ensemble of men!" A deep voice seemed to squeal enthusiastically. It was followed by a stomping of feet and tall body appearing from nowhere to greet us. The man wiped stained hands on a towel at his hip and smiled at us. "Bonjour, je suis Jean-Louis. Welcome to my studio."

I didn't really want to shake his hand, but I did it anyway to avoid being rude. Contrary to my paranoia, the green paint on his palm didn't come off on my own. "Bonjour. My name is Marco and these are my companions," I motioned to the men standing behind me silently. "I came here in search of information you might have."