Her lovers with stripes

To the world, I'm Sophia Romano—the family's wild, radiant princess. Vincent is the mafia heir—stoic, controlled, the very picture of restraint.

But every night, he grips my waist, fucking me until my legs go weak while whispering my name over and over: "Principessa."

He just doesn't know that in two weeks, I'm marrying someone else.

The sheets are still damp with our shared heat. I lie in bed, catching my breath as Vincent rises to dress.

From my side of the bed, I watch his long fingers deftly buttoning his shirt.

"Not staying tonight?" I ask.

"Family meeting," he says without turning. "Be good."

That again.

I sit up, letting the sheet pool around my waist. Vincent's hands pause for a moment before he moves to knot his tie.

"Vincent."

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

He turns, leans down, and presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'm leaving."

The moment the door clicks shut, I snatch my phone and dial a familiar number.

"Father, I accept the marriage alliance. In two weeks, I'll marry the dying Sterling heir in Boston. But I have one condition."

On the other end of the line, Don Romano sounds ecstatic. "Good! Name it!"

"We'll talk in person."

I hang up, and my eyes fall on the phone Vincent left on the nightstand.

The screen lights up with a new message.

From: Isabella

Vincent, thanks for coming with me to the hospital today. The doctor said my recovery is going well, and it's all because of you. I'd love to see a movie with you tomorrow, just like old times.

It's followed by a kissing emoji.

I stare at the message, my fingertips trembling.

Vincent has never taken me to the hospital. Not even when I broke a rib during training.

I get dressed and discreetly follow his car.

He pulls up to a cozy Italian restaurant on Mott Street. From a distance, I watch him stride toward a girl in a white dress.

Isabella.

She's even thinner than she appears in photos. Vincent reaches out, tucking a windswept strand of hair behind her ear. He touches her as if she's made of porcelain, liable to shatter at any moment.

I've never seen him look so gentle, except when we're in bed.

Three years ago, my father sent me to Vincent. The sight of his handsome, cold face made my knees weak.

"Sophia needs a proper education in how our family operates," Don Romano had told Vincent. "She's too wild. You're the only one who can handle her."

I was nineteen then, fresh out of boarding school and brimming with rebellion. I thought Vincent was just another man trying to tame me.

So I decided I would tame him first.

The first time we met, I wore a miniskirt to his office just to provoke him. Vincent sat behind his desk and didn't even bother to look up.

"Close your legs, Sophia."

"Why?"

"Because the way you're sitting suggests the Romano family lacks class."

I deliberately hiked my skirt higher. "How about now?"

Vincent finally looked up, his eyes cold behind his gold-rimmed glasses. "Get out."

For months, I did everything I could to get under his skin. I slipped flirtatious notes into his files, sabotaged missions he assigned, and even put a laxative in his whiskey.

Vincent always cleaned up my messes with infuriating calm, then told me in that patronizing tone, "Sophia, you're a smart girl. You need to apply that intelligence to the right things."

Until that night.

I drugged his drink, desperate to see what a Vincent without his iron control would look like.

I just didn't expect to still be in the room when the drug took hold.

Vincent pinned my wrists, his breathing heavy and ragged. "What did you put in my drink?"

"You've already guessed, haven't you?" I met his searing gaze. "Want to try me?"

That night changed everything.

When I woke the next morning, Vincent was already dressed.

I thought he'd be furious, that he'd send me back to my father. "Vincent, I—"

"Principessa," he murmured, stroking my cheek. "This will be our secret."

Principessa. Little princess.

That was the word that made me fall completely.

For the next two years, we maintained this strange, clandestine relationship. By day, he was the same composed, rational Vincent. But at night, he'd whisper "Principessa" in my ear and fuck me until my legs gave out.

I thought he loved me.

Until my birthday.

I'd spent the entire day preparing, put on my most beautiful dress, and booked a table at the restaurant where we first met. I was going to tell him I loved him, that I wanted to be with him, no matter the cost.

But Vincent never showed up.

I sat alone in that restaurant for three hours, until even the waiters started to look at me with pity.

The next day, photos of Vincent greeting another woman at the airport went viral.

In the pictures, Isabella was nestled in his arms, the two of them as intimate as lovers.

So that’s where he'd been last night. He'd gone to pick her up.

I laughed bitterly and drank until I couldn't feel anything. I wanted to confront him, to demand to know what I was to him. A fuck buddy? A tool?

But I didn't have the courage.

I was too lonely, too addicted to the warmth he offered.

That night, Vincent came home to find a wreck. I'd used a wine bottle to smash every single picture of Isabella in his study.

He didn't even flinch. He just instructed the maid to clean up the mess and take care of me, then walked right past me.

In that moment, I finally understood. Vincent was the family heir—untouchable, cold, and proud. His tolerance wasn't a sign of affection. He simply couldn't be bothered to argue with me.

After that, he still called me Principessa in bed, as if nothing had changed.

But my heart was already dead.

Outside the restaurant, Vincent opened the car door for Isabella. They were laughing about something.

I looked away and drove back to the Romano family estate.

In the living room, Don Romano and my stepmother, Maria, were watching TV. When I walked in, my father turned it off.

"Alright, what's your condition?"

I sat on the sofa opposite them. "I want you to disown me."

Don Romano's expression froze. "What did you say?"

Maria, sitting beside him, practically lit up.

"I said, I'll marry the Sterling family's dying heir. In exchange, we sever all ties. From this moment on, I am no longer a Romano. You can welcome your mistress and your bastard daughter into this home with open arms. The day you staged the car crash that killed my mother, I stopped wanting you as a father anyway!"

Don Romano's face turned ashen. "I told you, that crash was an accident!"

I met his gaze and sneered. "Accident or not, she died on her way to find you cheating with Maria. Dad, let's stop pretending we're a happy family. You've been trying to sell me to the Sterlings for five months. Isn't it just so your precious mistress can finally marry into the family, so your bastard daughter can finally take the Romano name?"

Don Romano shot to his feet. "Sophia, you want to be disowned? Fine! As of tomorrow, you are no longer my daughter!"

"Deal," I said, turning to head upstairs. "Oh, and don't forget to inform the Sterling family. Their bride is no longer the eldest daughter of the Romano family, but a parentless orphan. Ask them if they're still willing to pay the same price."

Back in my room, I shut the door, and the mask I wore finally crumbled.

Tears streamed down my face. I curled up on the bed, a wounded animal licking its wounds.

Do you know, Vincent? To finally leave you, I had to give up the only thing I had left.

The next morning, I heard the sounds of furniture being moved downstairs.

I rose and walked to the landing of the staircase.

A familiar figure stood at the bottom.

Isabella.

My blood ran cold.