I Kidnapped The Mafia Don, Tied Him To My Bed Chapter 09

I Kidnapped The Mafia Don, Tied Him To My Bed Chapter 09

I thought I had a very long dream.

Someone crying in the dream. Someone shouting my name. Someone pressing their forehead to my hand.

Saying “can’t” over and over

That voice was too loud. Too loud for me to die in peace.

So I woke up.

When I opened my eyes, I thought I’d made it to heaven.

White ceiling. White sheets. Disinfectant in the air. Outside the window, the Ferretti estate garden. Roses in

full bloom.

A man’s face entered my vision. Unshaven. Red-rimmed eyes. Cracked lips. Like he hadn’t drunk or slept in

days. It was Caspian.

“…Hell’s customer service got this good?” My voice scraped like sandpaper. “Comes with a Don bedside

attendant?”

Caspian froze.

He stared at me for five full seconds. Then shot up. His chair crashed to the floor.

He didn’t call the doctor. He bent down. Buried his face in the crook of my neck. His whole body shook.

He held me with a force that almost crushed me. Like if he loosened his grip, I’d vanish again.

“Zoya Carter,” his voice was muffled against my shoulder. Hoarse beyond recognition. “You better give me an

explanation.”

I laughed. My ribs ached. “I almost died and you want an explanation?”

He lifted his head. Those gray eyes were all bloodshot. All me. “You didn’t almost die. You died.”

“Three minutes eleven seconds. Your heart stopped for three minutes eleven seconds.”

He turned my face. Thumb traced my cheekbone. Like he was checking if I was really back.

“Ferretti family medical team. CPR. Defibrillator. Epinephrine. Everything we had. The doctors said less than

three percent chance of bringing you back.”

“Then why didn’t you let them stop?”

Caspian looked at me. Something in his gaze I couldn’t name.

“Because you still owe me an answer.”

Later, the truth came together piece by piece.

Not terminal brain cancer.

Never was.

My diagnosis report had been switched. The real patient was another Zoya Carter in this city. Same name.

Similar age. A complete stranger. She was the one with terminal brain cancer.

What I had was a rare neurological inflammation. Similar symptoms. Not fatal. Treatable. Curable.

Who did it?

The investigation pointed to my mother, Ivy Reed.

She needed a “dying daughter” for moral blackmail-You’re dying anyway. Kidneys’re going to waste. Might

as well save your brother.

She bribed someone in hospital records. Swapped the reports. Even forged my follow-up records. Every visit,

same answer. Terminal. No hope.

Ten years of silence. Her first contact? A demand for my death.

When Caspian told me this, I was eating the oatmeal he fed me. Spoon froze halfway. Oatmeal slid from the

corner of my mouth. I didn’t feel it.

“Where is she?”

“Handled.”

He didn’t say what “handled” meant. I didn’t ask.

On Ferretti family territory, touching the Don’s woman? There was only one outcome.

I stayed silent a long time. Finally asked, “What about my brother?”

“The kid didn’t know. Placed in foster care.”

I nodded. Good.

I stayed at the Ferretti estate. Not as a prisoner. To recover.

Caspian moved the entire medical team into the estate. Watched me take meds, eat, do rehab daily.

The ruthless Don Ferretti turned into a man whose eyes lit up when I finished an extra bite of food.

Maren came to talk with me every day. Brought all kinds of weird supplements.

Victor dropped by occasionally. Didn’t talk. Just sat reading the newspaper. But every time he left, he’d place

a caramel on my nightstand.

Exactly like ten years ago.

One night, I couldn’t sleep.

Caspian’s eyes opened suddenly. We stared at each other.

He asked, used to this now, “Milk or cake?”

I shook my head.

He asked again, “Steak or roast chicken?”

I shook my head again.

He watched me for a few seconds. Dark gaze. Rejection barely restrained. “Body’s not fully recovered. Don’t

even think about it.”

Where did his mind go? Was I that kind of person?

I hesitated. “Caspian, I had a dream. Dreamed I had terminal brain cancer. Tied you up and slept with you…

was that a dream?”

He went quiet a few seconds. Then rolled me under him. “Used me up and want to skip the bill?”

“So it wasn’t a dream??”

“You tied me up for seven days. Used seventeen ties. I said ‘untie me’ thirty-eight times.”

My face burned instantly.

“You counted??”

Caspian didn’t answer. He lowered his head. Kissed my forehead. Light. Slow. Like I might shatter. “Zoya, there’s something I never told you.”

“What?”

“The first night you tied me up. After you fell asleep. I could’ve gotten free.”

I went still.

“Those ties weren’t tight.”

“Then why didn’t you run?”

Caspian’s lips fell on my eyes. Voice low as a sigh. “Because I’d been waiting eleven years for you. Why

would I run?”

Moonlight through the window. Overlapping shadows on the wall.

Words broken. Breath ragged. He had me dizzy, wrecked. And I heard him say it by my ear, again and again.

“I love you, Zoya.”

“From the day I saw you crying on your front steps.”

“I swore I’d keep you with me.”

I had no strength to answer.

But I reached up. Wrapped my arms around his neck. Buried my face in his shoulder.

Later, I fell asleep.

No dreams.

Didn’t need them anymore.

Three days later, Caspian Ferretti held a wedding at the estate.

No memoriam photos. No burial plot. No will.

Just white lace. Roses. And a mafia Don with red-rimmed eyes, hands shaking as he slid the ring onto my

finger.

Maren cried harder than me.

Victor handed over a caramel.

Gideon Reeve stood in the corner. Pressed the shutter.

Lara Quinn rushed up and hugged me. Sobbing. “Zoya! If you ever write a will again, I’ll tear it up!”

I laughed. Patted her back. “Not writing one. Never again.”

When the wedding ended, Caspian held my hand. Walked back to the main house.

Sunset painted the whole estate gold.

He stopped suddenly. Looked at me sideways. “Zoya.”

“Yeah?”

“Still running?”

I shook my head. Rose on my toes. Kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Not running. Can’t run anymore. Got a Don chasing me daily. No way to escape.”

He smiled.

I tightened my grip on his hand.

This lifetime-never apart.