TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN
As the wife of the Colombian cartel heir, Krystal Serrano is a symbol of diplomacy and control. Dressed in silk, wrapped in silence, and displayed like a crown jewel at the center of power. But behind the flawless smile lies a woman raised not just to survive, but to rule.
When her husband's betrayal ignites a war with the Italian mafia, Krystal is taken.
Kidnapped and hidden away by Zachary Romano, the young, ruthless Don who solves problems with bullets and buries questions with bodies.
He thought he had captured a soft, obedient mafia wife.
What he brought home was a storm in heels.
Krystal doesn't beg. She doesn't break. Her silence provokes, her lips taunt, and her gaze slices deeper than any blade. Inside the stone walls of his private villa, control begins to slip. Hatred turns into tension. Tension burns into obsession. And in their world, love always comes with blood on its hands.
The ring on her finger still binds her to a man who believes she belongs to him.
But what happens when a woman like Krystal meets someone dark enough to understand her, broken enough to match her, and reckless enough to want her?
Because there's a difference between loving a woman like Krystal…
And trying to own her.
And Zach Romano is about to learn—only one man can stand beside her.
The rest will be buried.
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Chapter: Zach Romano, With a SmileThe first breath that filled my lungs tasted like metal. Cold and sharp.My eyes opened slowly, blinking a few times before focusing on the unfamiliar interior. Leather so smooth it felt unnatural, soft lights hidden in the seams of the car ceiling, the engine barely making a sound.This wasn’t something I rode in just to get around. And I was sitting… on a leather couch facing another couch.Facing him.The man from the garden. The one who didn’t touch me. Didn’t say my name. But made me feel like I was already stripped bare under his stare.He sat casually, one arm resting on the back, legs crossed. Still wearing the same black shirt from last night, fitting far too comfortably on his body.His eyes lifted when I moved, then dropped to my feet. “You’re awake,”I instinctively leaned back, my spine hitting the side of the car door. “Who are you?” I asked, my voice hoarse.He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He offered
Last Updated: 2025-06-19
Chapter: gold lights, red handsThe pendant lights hung low between the olive trees, casting a golden glow over the crystal glasses and small linen-covered tables. Music drifted softly through the air, a blend of modern jazz and old Latin instrumentals, wrapping the night like a thin, expensive mist.The party was semi-formal. Guests arrived in long dresses and bow ties, but also in relaxed shoes and linen jackets. The scent from the antipasti table mixed with sea salt and too much perfume.I stood beside Matteo, my arm looped through his. His fingers locked around my wrist like an invisible cuff. A possessive grip he probably didn’t realize...or maybe he did.Bretta laughed loudly across the garden, her hand resting on Mauro’s arm as he stood there, patient as always. They spoke quickly, their body language like a small dance. Push and pull, tug and glance, like the world belonged only to them.“Let’s hope you’re not like her when you’re pregnant,” Matteo suddenly whispered in my ear.I didn’t turn to him. Just too
Last Updated: 2025-06-19
Chapter: if i vanish, blame the windThe sky above Santorini melted into a deep orange hue, spilling across the sea like paint on canvas. Our table sat right at the edge of the terrace, facing the ocean. The summer breeze brushed gently against my skin, carrying the salty scent of the sea mixed with a faint hint of rosemary from the restaurant kitchen. Soft jazz music played in the background, barely audible.Matteo hadn’t touched his wine.“Someone died this morning,” he said, staring into his empty glass. “Two men from Palermo. Shot in the street, broad daylight. Old-school. Brutal.”The steak knife in my hand paused over the still-bloody meat. I looked at him, waiting. He was always like that… opening conversations like dropping a grenade on the table.“They were probably trying to make a statement,” he went on. “Or send a message. We know who did it. But not enough to strike back without starting a full-blown war.”I leaned back into the linen-covered rattan chair and took a deep breath. The candlelight on the table
Last Updated: 2025-06-19
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