Six Months Contract With The Mafia God

Isabella checked the time on her phone: 7:15 AM. He must have gotten up early, let her sleep. Or maybe she’d been sleeping so deeply from the anxiety exhaustion that she hadn’t heard him leave.

She tried to sit up and immediately understood how much worse things had gotten overnight.

Her body ached. Every muscle felt tight, tense, screaming with need for something she couldn’t name. The anxiety was a physical pressure in her chest, not just mental, not just emotional, but actually physical, like her organs were trying to climb out of her skin.

Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Isabella pressed her palms flat against the mattress and watched them tremble. Yesterday the tremors had been subtle. This morning they were pronounced. Undeniable.

She was two days into withdrawal now, and her body was in full revolt.

***

Isabella dragged herself to the bathroom and looked at her reflection.

She barely recognized herself.

Her skin was pale...not just pale but almost translucent, like she’d already become a ghost of herself. Dark circles hung under her eyes. Her hair was matted from sleep. And her expression...hollow, desperate, terrified.

She looked like a junkie.

The realization hit her with sickening clarity: she WAS a junkie.

Isabella gripped the edges of the sink and forced herself to breathe. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. The technique that usually helped was useless now. The anxiety was too big, too physical, too demanding to be controlled with breathing exercises alone.

She needed the medication.

The thought came with a surge of shame so intense it nearly knocked her down. She was dependent. She was addicted. She was trapped.

And Dante couldn’t know.

Isabella went through the motions of showering, of dressing in fresh clothes, of trying to look like someone who wasn’t falling apart. The shower helped slightly, the warm water provided a brief moment of physical comfort, but by the time she emerged, the tremors were back.

She’d have to hide them.

***

Dante was in the kitchen when she emerged from the bedroom.

He was making coffee, shirtless, his muscular frame moving with the ease of someone completely comfortable in his own space. When he saw her, he smiled.

”Good morning,” he said, and there was something almost tender in his voice. ”I was about to wake you up. I made coffee.”

”Thank you,” Isabella said, and her voice sounded almost normal.

She took the coffee cup he offered, and she had to grip it with both hands to hide the tremor. She held it in front of her chest like a shield.

Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly.

”You okay?” he asked.

”Just tired,” Isabella said. ”Didn’t sleep well.”

”I noticed,” Dante said. ”You were moving around a lot. Having nightmares?”

”Just restless,” Isabella said. ”My body’s still catching up with the adrenaline from yesterday.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. Her body WAS still in a state of heightened stress. It was just that the stress wasn’t from the adrenaline of escape, it was from chemical withdrawal.

Dante studied her for a long moment, and Isabella held her breath, terrified he would see through the lie, that he would notice the obvious signs of addiction that she could see so clearly in her own reflection.

But he seemed to accept her explanation.

”Eat something,” he said, and moved to the stove where he had eggs and fresh bread waiting. ”You need to get your strength back.”

Isabella sat at the kitchen island and watched him cook, trying to maintain the facade of a woman who was simply tired, not a woman whose body was screaming for a drug she didn’t even understand.

The eggs were beautiful when he plated them...perfectly cooked, still steaming. The bread was fresh and warm. Under normal circumstances, Isabella would have been hungry.

She wasn’t hungry now.

She forced herself to eat, mechanically lifting the fork, putting food in her mouth, chewing, swallowing. Each motion was deliberate and controlled. She couldn’t let him see how much effort even this simple task required.

***

Dante sat across from her with his own plate, and he was watching her.

Not in an obvious way, but Isabella noticed. The way his eyes tracked her movements. The way he seemed to be taking in her symptoms. The tremor in her hands. The difficulty with the fork. The way she was gripping the edge of the island to keep steady.

”Your hands are shaking,” he said finally, casually, like he was just making conversation.

Isabella’s heart rate spiked.

”Withdrawal,” she said, using the word deliberately but in a way that could be interpreted as caffeine withdrawal. ”I haven’t had my medication in three days. My body’s probably low on caffeine or something.”

”Or something,” Dante repeated, and there was something in his tone that suggested he wasn’t entirely convinced.

But he didn’t push. He just continued eating, watching her, processing whatever he was seeing.

Isabella forced herself to finish eating, to drink her coffee, to act like a woman who was just tired and adjusting to escape. But inside, her body was screaming, and she was beginning to understand that hiding this was going to become increasingly impossible.

***

After breakfast, Dante excused himself.

”I need to make some calls,” he said. ”Check on operations, make sure everything is secure. I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

”Of course,” Isabella said.

She watched him disappear into a back room of the villa, and she felt a wave of relief mixed with terror. Relief that she had a moment alone.

***

Dante closed the door to the private study and stood for a long moment, processing what he’d observed.

The tremors. The anxiety. The physical deterioration. The way she was moving like someone in pain. The difficulty eating. All of it pointed to one thing: withdrawal.

And if she was going through withdrawal, that meant someone had gotten her dependent on something.

Dante thought about the medication she’d mentioned. The anxiety medication. The pills she was supposed to receive.