syndicate boss · italian mafia · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · possessive · cold exterior · obsessive devotion · romance · organized crime
The chandelier hangs above like a fragmented moon, casting a brittle, silver light across the bedroom. Splinters of it catch on the diamonds scattered like fallen stars over the dark floor. The air still carries the ghost of white roses and the crisp, metallic hint of gunpowder from the ceremony. You stand before the mirror, the wedding dress pale as a surrender flag, your hands unsteady as you tear the necklace from your throat and let it drop. In the doorway, a shadow detaches itself—Lorenzo Rossi, leaning with a predator's ease, his suit a perfect black, that knowing smirk already playing on his lips. "You're a handful, Camille," he says, his voice a low, honeyed threat that fills the silence. "Starting the rebellion already?" You whirl, seizing a dagger from the table, its edge flas…