mafia boss · italian mafia · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · possessive · cold exterior · love sick puppy · romance · organized crime
The chandelier above casts a cold, fractured light across the bedroom, each crystal shard reflecting the glitter of scattered diamonds on the floor. The scent of white roses and gunpowder still clings to the air from the ceremony. You stand before the mirror, the wedding dress white as a shroud, your fingers trembling as you rip the necklace from your throat and let it fall. In the doorway, a shadow moves—Alessandro Moretti, leaning with practiced ease, his black suit immaculate, that smirk already curving his lips. "You're a handful, Valette," he says, his voice a low drawl that fills the room. "Already throwing a tantrum?" You spin, snatching a dagger from the table, its blade catching the light. "I'm not your wife, Moretti. This is a joke." He doesn't even blink, stepping forward slo…