They Own You | Jin, Alessandro, Matteo, & Elijah

The kiss was not gentle. It was a branding. Matteo’s lips were firm, his beard scratching against your skin, the taste of expensive whiskey and ownership on his tongue. It wasn't a kiss of love, but of sealing a contract. The officiant’s words were a dull buzz in your ears as your adoptive father, standing nearby, refused to meet your eyes. The camera flash that went off felt like a gunshot, and you saw the cruel smirk on Elijah’s face as he lowered the phone.

The ride to the mansion was silent and suffocating. You sat between Alex and Jin in the back of a black Escalade, while Elijah rode shotgun. Matteo was in a separate car. Alex reeked of cologne and alcohol, his thigh pressing insistently against yours. He had a manic grin on his face, drumming his fingers on his knee. Jin, on your other side, was a block of ice, staring straight ahead, yet you could feel the intensity of his gaze burning your skin.

As the gates of the Moretti estate swing open, revealing a mansion that looked more like a fortress, a pit forms in your stomach. Inside, the mansion is all dark wood, cold marble, and shadows. Matteo is waiting in the grand foyer, a drink already in his hand. He doesn't look at you. He looks at his sons.

“Take them upstairs. Show them the room,” he commands, his voice echoing in the open space. “Make them understand the arrangement.”

Alex’s hand clamps onto your arm, his grip bruising. “Come on, coniuge,” he sneers, dragging you towards the grand staircase. Elijah follows with a serene, chilling smile, while Jin moves with a silent, predatory grace behind you. They herd you into a massive bedroom, the door clicking shut with a sound of finality.

While Alex and Jin form a physical barricade, caging you in, Elijah steps away. He moves towards a sleek tripod already positioned in the corner of the room, meticulously adjusting a high-end camera mounted on top. A small red light blinks to life in the dim room.

“Welcome home,” Elijah says, his voice a soft, melodic purr as he turns back to face you. His pale blue eyes hold a deceptive gentleness. “I promised your adoptive father I’d send him a little souvenir of your wedding night. It’s only fair he sees exactly how his debt is being repaid.” He steps closer, completing the semi-circle around you. “Now... be a good toy and take off your clothes. We want to see what Matteo bought.”

The bass of the music vibrated through the floor of the car, a frantic heartbeat matching the reckless speed at which Alex was weaving through New York traffic. He took a sharp turn, sending you sliding across the leather seat, your hand flying out to brace against the door. He just laughed, a wild, manic sound.

“Relax, babe!” he yelled over the music, taking a long pull from a flask before offering it to you. “Gotta look like you’re having fun. No one likes a sad bitch at a party, especially not my friends.”

He pulled up to a warehouse by the docks, the source of the deafening music. The place was packed with a sea of bodies, strobe lights flashing, the air thick with the smell of sweat, weed, and cheap perfume. Before you could even process the scene, Alex’s hand was clamped firmly on the back of your neck, his fingers digging in.

“Alright, here’s the rules for tonight,” he said, his hot, alcohol-laced breath ghosting over your ear. “You stick close to me. You drink what I give you. You smile when I tell you to smile. And if one of my buddies wants to get friendly... you be friendly. You’re my father’s property, but tonight, you’re my little toy. You do exactly what I say, when I say it. Understand?” His grip tightened, a clear threat in the darkness.

Jin called you into the media room, an open space dominated by a screen the size of a wall. He’s sprawled on a huge, black leather sofa, a controller in his hands, completely absorbed in the violent, flashing world of his video game. The sound is off, the only noises in the room are the frantic clicking of buttons and the soft thuds of his thumbs on the joysticks.

“Stay,” he says, the word is flat, a command, not a request. He doesn’t even look away from the screen. His character on screen performs a brutal finishing move, and he sets the controller down with a quiet click. Then, he turns his head and looks at you. His hazel eyes are cold, analytical. He pats the floor in front of the sofa, between his spread legs.

“Here,” he says, his voice a low rumble. The silent criticism is more potent than any shout. He leans back, picking up his controller again as if you’re already forgotten. His next words are directed at you, quiet and absolute.

“While I play,” he says, unzipping his pants. “Open your mouth.”

The library is the one place in the mansion that feels almost peaceful, if you can ignore the fact that you’re a prisoner. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The scent of old paper and leather is a welcome change from the sterile emptiness of the rest of the house.

One moment you were alone, the next, Elijah is standing by the end of the bookshelf, watching you. He’s wearing a soft cashmere sweater, and his purple hair seems to glow in the light. He doesn’t smile, not at first. He just observes you with his pale, unreadable eyes.

“That’s a good choice,” he says, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “Dostoyevsky. He understood suffering.” He walks closer, his steps silent on the thick Persian rug. He stops beside the armchair you’re perched in, and you instinctively flinch. A flicker of something-not quite pleasure, but close-crosses his face before it’s gone.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, though you hadn’t made a sound. He reaches out, and you brace for a blow, but his hand just gently tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. His fingers are cool against your skin. “There’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m not like Alex. I appreciate the finer things. Beauty. Art. Quiet.” He leans in closer, his voice dropping even lower, a conspiratorial and chilling murmur. “I know this is hard. But you’ll get used to it. We’ll help you. You just have to be quiet and let it happen.”

You spent the morning in silence, a ghost in Matteo’s orbit. He hadn't spoken a word to you, but your presence was clearly required. Now, you sit on a leather couch in a sterile, high-rise office that isn't his main one, this one clearly used for more discreet business. The floor-to-ceiling windows show a panoramic view of the city, but the glass is thick, soundproof, and feels just as much like a cage as the mansion.

Matteo is behind a large mahogany desk, not looking at you, but at the two hulking men standing before him. They are sweating, despite the cool temperature of the room. One has a crudely bandaged hand; the other can’t stop shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“So, you are telling me,” Matteo says, his voice dangerously calm, “that a shipment-my shipment-was lost. And that you have no idea where it is.” It’s not a question. He places his hands flat on the desk, and the simple gesture seems to suck all the air from the room. “You lost me over two million dollars. But more than that... you made me look foolish.”

He finally turns his head, his dark eyes landing on you for the first time all day. He holds your gaze for a long, terrifying moment, a silent message passing between you. He is showing you something. He is showing you what happens to people who fail him. He then looks back at the men and gives a subtle, almost imperceptible nod to the corner of the room, where another of his men had been standing in shadow. “Take them downstairs. Get the answers. Be creative.” As the men are dragged out, their sudden, desperate pleas cut short by the closing door, Matteo turns his full attention to you. “Every action has a consequence. You understand, coniuge?”

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