CHAPTER ONE

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TRIGGER WARNING & DISCLAIMER

This is a dark mafia romance with morally gray characters, explicit content, and unfiltered emotional intensity. If you’re uncomfortable with dominance, manipulation, violence, psychological tension, or non-traditional relationship dynamics, this book may not be for you.

Married to the Monster explores themes of power, control, lust, betrayal, and obsession. The characters are flawed, dangerous, and unpredictable—and that’s exactly the point.

This story contains:

Explicit Erotica – No fade-to-black. High heat, raw passion, graphic intimacy.

Power Struggles & Dark Romance – Forced marriage, enemies-to-lovers, emotional warfare, and psychological games.

Possessive Male Leads – Alpha billionaire energy, dominance, and territorial obsession.

Mafia Themes & Violence – Blood, vengeance, and brutal consequences.

Emotionally Intense Content – Rebellion, betrayal, fear, longing, and morally questionable choices.

Trigger Elements – Gun violence, physical intimidation, verbal threats, control dynamics, and sexual dominance (always consensual).

This is not a soft romance. It’s fire, fury, and desire. Read at your own risk—and pleasure.

Zara Castellano was the devil’s daughter in designer heels.

At twenty-three, she was already infamous. Her beauty was lethal—flawless golden-brown skin, high cheekbones carved like royalty, and lips full enough to make grown men forget their names. Her eyes? Amber, rich and cold, framed by lashes so thick they looked sculpted. Her hair was jet black, a waterfall down her back, sleek and silk-straight, never a strand out of place.

But it wasn’t her beauty that scared people.

It was her ruthlessness.

She laughed in blood-soaked rooms. Gave orders with a smile. Took what she wanted and crushed what she didn’t. Spoiled. Rebellious. Cruel. Zara didn’t ask for permission—she gave ultimatums. She wasn’t her father’s shadow. She was his fire.

ZARA’S POV

The black SUV crawled into the warehouse lot like a predator circling its prey. Inside the car, silence reigned—except for the faint hum of the engine and the sharp tap-tap of my manicured nail against the armrest.

We were thirty minutes early. I liked to keep men like Leon Ricci nervous. It made the fear in their voice more authentic.

“Stay here until I say otherwise,” I told my guards as I stepped out, my heels slicing into the gravel like blades. Six-inch stilettos, crimson soles, matching my lipstick. My black trench coat flared around my thighs, hugging my curves beneath. I knew I was a vision of death. And I liked it that way.

The warehouse door creaked open as I entered. Inside, Leon knelt in the middle of the concrete floor like a man praying for resurrection. His shirt was stained with sweat. His hands, bound behind his back. His lip was split. Not by my order, but I wasn’t going to complain.

His eyes widened when he saw me, like seeing me in person made the rumors real.

“Miss Moretti…” His voice cracked.

I smiled coldly and removed my gloves one finger at a time. “Three weeks late, Leon. My father gave you one month. It’s been almost six.”

“I—I was trying, I swear—”

“You were trying to avoid paying,” I interrupted, circling him. “Or you thought I wouldn’t come myself. Mistake number one.”

I squatted beside him, letting my coat part slightly. I watched his throat bob as he struggled to keep his gaze above my waist.

I leaned in, my voice low. “You know, I always thought you were cute. All those times you came to our house—delivering briefcases, avoiding eye contact. Like a shy puppy scared of my father’s cane.”

He swallowed hard.

“You looked at me once,” I whispered near his ear. “When I was sixteen. Remember? You thought no one noticed. But I did.”

Leon looked down in shame.

“And now… look at you. On your knees. Hands tied. Still cute, though.”

I stood abruptly and faced my guards. “Leave us. Give me ten minutes.”

One of them hesitated. “Ma’am—”

“Ten minutes.”

The room cleared without another word.

I walked slowly back toward Leon, unbuttoning my coat and letting it fall to the ground. Beneath, I wore a tight black corset tucked into leather pants. My body was made for sin. My lips? Designed to command it.

“Z-Zara,” he whispered.

“Shhh.” I straddled him gently, pressing my body against his. He stiffened—both in fear and elsewhere. I smirked. “You’ve always wanted this, haven’t you?”

“Please… don’t do this.”

I rolled my hips once. He gasped.

“Still think you can beg your way out of this?” I asked.

He closed his eyes. “This isn’t right—”

I kissed him. Hard. I took what I wanted. I bit his lip and pulled his hair. And I moaned—because control was better than cocaine. I moved with slow, purposeful rhythm, my fingers trailing his chest, his throat, his jaw.

He whimpered beneath me.

I leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “You should thank me, Leon. Most men die before they ever get this close.”

I came fast and hard, riding the thrill of power and fear. As he was about to lose himself too, I pulled back.

“No,” I whispered, voice cold now. “You don’t get to finish.”

His eyes flew open in confusion. “What—?”

Bang.

The shot rang through the warehouse. Blood sprayed the floor. He screamed in agony—this time real and sharp. I stood, fixing my corset, walking to the desk drawer while he writhed beneath me.

Diamonds. He hadn’t even tried to hide them well.

I grabbed the pouch, turned back, and tilted my head.

“That,” I said, stepping over him, “covers about ten percent of what you owe. But don’t worry. I’ll be back for the rest.”

I picked up my coat and stepped outside. My guards flanked me immediately, but no one spoke. The air was thick with the scent of sex, blood, and smoke.

As I got into the SUV, my phone buzzed.

Come home. Now.

— Dad.

Lucien Blake looked like he’d been chiseled out of obsidian.

Tall, broad, and devastatingly cold. With sharp cheekbones, a perfect jawline lined with faint stubble, and piercing grey eyes that could freeze fire, he carried the quiet intensity of a man who’d lost too much and trusted too little. His black hair was always slightly messy, like he didn’t have time to care—and somehow, that made him more dangerous.

He was a billionaire by blood and grit, not birth. His past was a locked box, but rumor had it he’d clawed his way out of hell and built a tech empire with nothing but genius and rage. He didn’t beg. He didn’t kneel.

Until tonight.

They called him The Silent Storm.

Don Enzo Castellano didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. In his mid-sixties, he wore his power like a custom-tailored suit—literally. His silver hair was always slicked back, his dark three-piece always pressed, his cufflinks always real gold. His face, hardened by decades of blood and betrayal, was marked by a sharp jawline and cold, calculating eyes. Eyes that had watched kings rise and fall.

He built the Castellano empire with silence and violence—deals signed in whispers, enemies buried in silence. No one dared cross him and live to speak of it. His daughter was feared, but he was worshipped.

Lucien’s POV

Don Enzo Moretti’s office looked like something out of an 18th-century novel. All mahogany, gold accents, and thick velvet curtains. The kind of room built to remind you who had the power—and who didn’t.

I stood on the Persian rug, jaw tight, hands behind my back like I was in military formation. My charcoal suit clung to my broad frame, my shirt buttoned to the top. Professional. Presentable. Controlled.

I hated this place.

Enzo leaned back in his leather chair, swirling dark liquor in a glass. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and even seated, he radiated dominance. Every wrinkle on his face had been earned in blood.

“You owe me,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”

He sipped. “You’ve taken favors, protection, weapons, shelter. And now… you’re out of credit.”

I met his gaze. “So what’s the payment? You want territory? Arms?”

His lips curled into a smirk. “I want a son-in-law.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You’ll marry my daughter.”

The room spun for a second.

“Zara?” I asked, as if there could be another.

“Do you have another one in mind?” he shot back.

I stepped forward. “I’m already in a relationship.”

“With that blonde? Vanessa?” He gave a small laugh. “She’s… soft.”

“She’s my future.”

“No. Zara is.”

I clenched my fists. “You can’t force me to—”

“I can. And I am.”

A knock interrupted us. One of his guards entered, whispered something into Enzo’s ear. His expression darkened.

“She just shot Leon Ricci.”

I swallowed hard.

“She took the diamonds and left him screaming on the floor. No warning. No authorization. She’s out of control.”

He turned back to me. “You’ll marry her tomorrow.”

“What if I refuse?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then Vanessa dies. Along with her father. And her sister.”

My breath caught. He knew everything.

The next words came out like ash in my throat. “Fine.”

⸻

Later that night, I drove to Vanessa’s apartment in silence. She opened the door in a t-shirt and tears. Her blonde hair was up in a messy bun, and her eyes were already red.

“Lucien…” she whispered, stepping aside.

She curled into my chest like she was trying to hide from the world.

“What happened?”

“I have to marry someone else.”

She looked up, heart already breaking. “Why?”

“Because if I don’t, they’ll kill you.”

Vanessa sobbed, hitting my chest with her small fists. “It’s not fair! I love you!”

“I know.”

Later, she came into my room in red lace—something she’d never worn before. It clung to her pale skin, trembling as she whispered, “Let me be yours. One last time.”

And God, I let her.

I kissed her like I was dying. Touched her like I’d never get the chance again.

But even as I took her body…

Zara’s voice played in my mind.

Zara’s face. Her eyes. Her madness.

The daughter of the man who held my life in his hands.