Marco’s presence was overwhelming, his body heat making it hard to breathe. His dark eyes locked onto mine, making my heart race. “Why do you fight me, Sarah?” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. I tried to step back, but the counter trapped me. “I won’t be your plaything, Marco.” He smiled, a dangerous, seductive curve of his lips. “Is that so?” He pulled me close, his hand burning through my dress. His lips brushed my neck, sending shivers down my spine. “I think you like this more than you admit.” I wanted to resist, but when his mouth claimed mine, I melted into the kiss, my body betraying me. Every touch ignited a fire I couldn’t control. When he pulled back, his eyes were full of desire. “You can’t deny what’s between us, Sarah” Sarah’s simple life turns dark when she catches the eye of dangerous mob boss, Marco De Luca. To settle her father’s debt, Marco forces her into an arranged relationship. Sarah fights to resist his control, but their fiery clashes spark undeniable passion.
Voir plusSARAH
The bakery smelled of fresh bread and cinnamon, a comforting aroma that greeted me every morning. I enjoyed the simplicity of our life. Our bakery, though it was small and modest, it was our pride and joy. Papa, had poured his heart and soul into this place, and it was a decent addiction to our community. “Good morning, Mrs. Alvarez! The usual?” I asked, already reaching for a loaf of brown bread. “Good morning, Sarah. Yes, please,” she replied with a warm smile. Handing her the loaf, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride. Despite the financial struggles and the countless hours of hard work, I loved every moment spent here. My father and I shared a close bond, working side by side to keep our beloved bakery running. After Mrs. Alvarez left, I returned to kneading dough, humming softly to the tune playing on the radio. My father was in the back, preparing a new batch of new dough. The old Spanish tunes on the radio filled the space with nostalgia, reminding me of my mother. I pushed the thought away, focusing on the task at hand. “Sarah, how’s it looking out there?” my father called from the kitchen. “Busy, as usual,” I replied, looking at the clock. It was mid-morning, our busiest time of day. “But I can handle it.” He appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. His face, lined with years of hard work, softened as he looked at me. “You’re a good girl, Sarah. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” I smiled, but before I could respond, the bell above the door rang again. This time, it wasn’t a familiar face that greeted me. A group of men, rough-looking and clearly out of place, walked into the bakery. They spoke in low tones, casting glances around the room that made my stomach churn. I took a deep breath, reminding myself of my father’s warnings about not getting into trouble. “Stay calm, Sarah,” I muttered under my breath. One of the men, tall with a scar running down his cheek, approached the counter. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Got any fresh bread for us?” I forced a smile. “Of course. What can I get for you?” He looked me up and down, a nasty look playing at the corners of his mouth. “How about a smile to start with?” I clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to insult him. “We have rye, sourdough, and baguettes fresh out of the oven.” Rye, huh?” he said, leaning over the counter. “You know what I like about rye? It’s tough. Just like me.” The other men laughedlaudly, crowding closer. I could feel their eyes on me, sizing me up like I was some kind of hooker. My heart pounded, but I stood my ground. “How many loaves do you need?” “Let’s start with two,” the scarred man said, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “And we’ll see if your service is good enough for more.” I turned to grab the loaves, trying to keep my hands from shaking. As I placed them in a bag, one of the men knocked over a display of pastries. “Oops,” he said with a smirk. “Clumsy me.” “Hey, watch it!” I snapped, it was getting difficult to control my patience. “Those aren’t free, you know.” The scarred man’s grin widened. “Feisty, aren’t you? I like that in a woman.” Another man, shorter but stocky, moved closer, he looked at me with a perveted smile. “What else you got back there, sweetheart? Maybe something sweet for us?” I glared at him, my fists clenched up. “Just the bread. Take it or leave it.” “Oh, we’ll take it,” he said, reaching out to brush a finger against my cheek. “But I bet you’re sweeter than anything here.” I slapped his hand away, my heart racing. “Don’t touch me!” The men laughed, the scarred man leaning over the counter again. “What’s the matter? We’re just having a little fun.” “This isn’t fun,” I said through gritted teeth. “This is harassment. Now either buy something or get out before I call the police.” The scarred man’s expression darkened. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, girl. Maybe we need to teach you some manners.” Before I could respond, the bell above the door chimed again. Mr. Morales, an elderly man who visited the bakery daily, shuffled in. He looked around, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the men and the mess they had made. “Good morning, Sarah. Could I get a baguette, please?” he asked, his voice a little shaky. I quickly handed him the bread, my hands steadying slightly in the familiar transaction. “Of course, Mr. Morales. That’ll be two dollars.” As Mr. Morales fumbled for his wallet, one of the men snatched it from his hands. “What do we have here?” he taunted, rifling through the old man’s belongings. “Hey!” I shouted, I didn't care about my fear. “Give that back!” The scarred man laughed. “Looks like the little princess wants to play hero. Why don’t you stay out of it, sweetheart?” I stepped around the counter, my anger boiling over. “Give it back, now!” The men laughed again, clearly enjoying the show. The scarred man waved the wallet in front of Mr. Morales, taunting him. “Come and get it, old man.” Mr. Morales looked at me, his eyes pleading. I could see he was terrified, but he tried to put on a brave face. “Please, just give it back,” he said softly. The men ignored him, their attention focused on me. One of them, a burly guy with tattoos snaking up his arms, knocked over another display, sending pastries scattering across the floor. “Oops,” he said again, smirking. “Enough!” I shouted, my voice shaking with anger. “Leave him alone and get out of my bakery!” The scarred man stepped closer, his face inches from mine. “You’ve got guts, girl. But guts can get you in trouble.” I stood my ground, refusing to back down. “I said, give it back and get out.” The bell above the door jingled, and another man entered. My breath caught in my throat. He was tall, professionally dressed, and he had an air of authority that made everyone in the room turn to look. His dark eyes scanned the bakery with a mixture of curiosity and calculation, finally landing on me. “Boss!” the scarred man exclaimed, visibly straightening. “We were just—” He silenced him with a look. “Behave with class,” he commanded, his voice smooth yet edged with steel. “This is not how we conduct ourselves.” There was something about him, something magnetic and intimidating all at once. He moved with the confidence of a man used to being obeyed, his every step purposeful. He was undeniably attractive, with chiseled features and an air of authority that made my skin crawl. His gaze returned to me, and I felt a strange pull, as if he could see right through me. “I apologize for my men,” he said, his tone surprisingly courteous. “They seem to have forgotten their manners.” I managed to find my voice. “It’s… it’s okay. No harm done.” He smiled, a small, knowing smile that felt more like a threat than a reassurance. “Good to hear. What’s your name?” “Sarah,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. “Sarah,” he repeated, as if savoring the sound. “A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” Heat rose to my cheeks, not from flattery, but from anger and discomfort. I quickly looked away, busying myself with a tray of cookies that didn’t really need arranging. What was it about this man that made me so uneasy? He turned to his men, his expression hardening. “Apologize to the lady and help clean up this mess.” They scrambled to obey, their earlier drama replaced with obedience. As they arranged the fallen display and muttered apologies, I stole glances at Marco, trying to understand who he was and why he had such a powerful effect on everyone around him. “Again, my apologies,” he said once more, stepping closer. “It seems my visit caused quite a stir.” “Who… who are you?” I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself. He chuckled softly, a sound that was both charming and dangerous. “Just a businessman, Sarah. But I think we’ll be seeing each other again.” With that, he turned and walked out, his men following like obedient dogs. The door closed behind them, and the bakery seemed to exhale, the tension slowly disappearing. I stood there, trying to steady my breathing, my mind dashing with questions. Who was that man? And why did he have his subordinates come here?SARAHI walked back into the room, trying to disappear into the crowd. My feet moved on their own. I didn’t feel the floor under me. Everything felt too warm, too loud, but at the same time, it was like I was underwater. I kept my eyes forward, pretending I wasn’t looking for Marco, pretending I didn’t feel the weight of every look thrown my way.The music changed. I felt it like a shift in the air. Slower, more elegant. Strings and soft piano. It wrapped around the room like silk. Maddalena’s voice followed right after, soft but sharp enough to cut through conversation.“A small family tradition,” she said, lifting her glass just slightly. “A moment for couples to walk the floor, for the cameras to remember tonight.”There were quiet smiles and a few chuckles. No one seemed surprised. Just ready.I felt my stomach turn. I knew what this was. It wasn’t a real dance. It was legacy dressed up in grace. A slow parade. One that screamed wealth and control and perfect appearances.Couples
SOFIAI stepped away from Marco slowly, each step carrying the weight of everything I had just done. I didn’t turn around. There was no need. I had already seen what mattered. Sarah’s face had told me more than any words could. The tension around her mouth, the way her fingers twitched as if holding back from something, the way she stood like she didn’t know whether to stay or run.It was delicious.She was furious, and she was trying so hard to keep it locked in. Trying to be composed. But real emotion always slips through the cracks. Especially in women like her. The ones trying to pretend they belong in rooms they were never built for.I had done this long enough to recognize all the signs.Jealousy suited her. Better than that tight burgundy dress ever could. She wore it like second skin, like it had been waiting just under the surface for the right moment to break through. And I had given her that moment.My heels clicked softly on the marble as I made my way back toward the loun
SARAHMarco stood frozen. His hand, which had just been resting on my waist, dropped slowly to his side. His entire body shifted, like he’d been hit by something invisible. I turned to see what he was staring at, but the answer reached me before my eyes could catch up.Sofia.She moved through the room like she didn’t see anyone else, like the air parted for her on command. Her dress hugged every curve. Her chin tilted high. Her eyes fixed on one person only—Marco.My chest felt tight before she even reached us. The sound around us dimmed.Marco didn’t move. He didn’t speak. His jaw was locked, his eyes unreadable. But not cold. Not angry. Just stunned.Sofia stopped in front of him with a smile that was too warm for someone unexpected.She stepped in and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation. Full embrace. Bold. Like they were lovers reunited after years apart. Her head leaned into his chest. Her body molded into his like she remembered how it fit.Marco didn’t respond. Not
SARAH“You must be Sarah,” the woman said. Her voice was calm, almost kind, but her eyes stayed sharp.I stopped walking. My name in her mouth didn’t feel random. It felt planned.“Sorry,” I said, trying not to show anything. “Do I know you?”She smiled, slow and steady. “Not yet. I’m Sofia.”That name.I’d never heard it out loud before, but it felt familiar anyway. Like something Marco had never said, but I’d always known was there.She didn’t offer a handshake. Just looked at me with interest, the kind that felt too focused to be polite.Her eyes ran over my dress, then back to my face.“That color really works on you,” she said. “Burgundy’s not easy. You pull it off, though. Very bold.”“Thanks,” I said. “It was picked out for me.”“I figured.” Her voice dropped just slightly. “Maddalena’s taste never misses.”There was a silence I didn’t know how to fill.Before I could respond, another woman came up behind her. She was shorter, with cold eyes and a half-smile that didn’t move.“
SARAHThe plates were cleared in silence. Waiters glided between the chairs, moving with calm precision. The clink of silverware and glass barely made a sound. The room didn’t buzz like before. It had quieted into something more focused, almost ceremonial.Then Maddalena stood.She picked up her wine glass and raised it slightly. Her back was straight, her face serene. The guests turned toward her without being asked. As soon as she opened her mouth and began to speak in Italian, the entire hall fell into stillness.I didn’t need to understand the language to feel the pull of her voice. It moved like smoke across the table, even and confident. Every sentence had rhythm. Every word had weight.Some of the guests nodded slowly. A few smiled. Others didn’t react at all, but they still raised their glasses when the moment called for it. I watched them. I watched their eyes, their posture, the way they seemed to listen with their bodies.I leaned a little toward Marco.“She said strength m
SARAHThe moment the front doors opened, something shifted in the room. Conversations slowed without warning. Laughter stopped halfway through. The soft music that had been floating through the space seemed to lower itself, like even the speakers knew to quiet down. No announcement was made. No name was called. But everyone turned.Vittoria De Luca had arrived.She stepped inside with the calm presence of someone who never needed to ask for attention. The way she carried herself made it clear she was used to being obeyed. Her coat was long and black, with gold buttons that caught the chandelier light and threw it across the floor like scattered coins. Her heels made no sound, yet her presence roared louder than anyone else in the room.She didn’t smile..The guests stiffened. Some lowered their eyes. Others watched her closely, as if waiting for a sign to breathe again. It wasn’t fear in the room. It was something deeper. Something more ancient. Respect. But the kind that came from kn
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