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TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN
Last Updated : 2026-02-23
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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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TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN Sunglasses, Secrets, and Stupid Men
I opened my eyes again, staring up at the blue sky between the coffee leaves, and the sentence I’d just read resurfaced in my head like an annoying song.[You never see him. You just know when he’s there because everyone else starts acting careful.]“Yes,” I muttered under my breath. “I know.”But that wasn’t the part that made my throat feel bitter. It wasn’t the fact that Zach knew we were going to Los Angeles. It wasn’t even the way he texted like my neck was property of the Romano family.What made me sick was the simple part. The part too domestic for my life.Papa had only mentioned the L.A. trip at the family dinner table. And I had only mentioned it in one chat.Bogotá & the Idiots.That was it.Two circles. Two possibilities. And one of them leaked.I lifted my phone off my chest, unlocked the screen again, and opened the old chat with the +39 number. The two messages were still there neat, cold, like fingerprints on glass.[Your neck is empty.][Don’t go to Los Angeles witho
Last Updated : 2026-02-23TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN The Coffee Grove and the Ghost I Googled
Papa’s coffee grove stretched behind the mansion like a small world that didn’t care who married who or who got kidnapped by whom last month. On the left side, there was Mama’s chili patch, not big at all but guarded like a national border.I dropped onto the oversized rattan daybed beneath a cream canvas umbrella. The linen pillows were warm from the sun. My bare feet touched the fabric and immediately went limp. Medellín’s late-morning air had that infuriatingly perfect temperature, with the smell of damp soil from watering, coffee leaves, and something sweet from flowers whose names I never remember.On my stomach, my new phone lit up.In front of me, Gemma and Sofia were already running like two rejects from a finishing school for toddlers.“DON’T STEP ON ABUELA’S PLANTS!” I yelled without lifting my head.“OKAAY!” Sofia shouted back from far away, which usually meant yes, but later.Gemma, craftier and calmer, didn’t shout anything. She just looked over her shoulder while she ran
Last Updated : 2026-02-23TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN Found, Forgotten, and Everything In Between
Morning in the Serrano house never understood the meaning of the word slow.Somewhere down the hall, a blender roared to life. Children’s laughter bounced off the walls. The old kitchen radio murmured soft reggaeton. And someone—God knew who—had already started yelling about shoes before the sun had even fully hauled itself up.I stood at the kitchen sink, fingers curled over the cold granite edge, letting the faucet run for a second before I shut it off again.My neck felt… bare.Instinct tugged my hand upward, stopping halfway. Upstairs, in the drawer of my room, rested a single piece of sea-glass on a chain, engraved with one small word on the back. Found.“If you stand there any longer, the floor’s going to get depressed,” a warm, raspy voice called from near the stove.I blinked, lifting my head.Aunt Marisol stood before the big stove, spatula in one hand, cast-iron pan in the other, a red checkered apron cinched around her waist. Her dark hair, streaked with white, was twisted
Last Updated : 2026-02-07TO HATE, TO TOUCH, TO RUIN Bare
The room feels bigger once the door closes behind me.Sounds from downstairs still drift up in fragments: Bretta’s shrill laugh, Gemma shrieking about something involving ice cream, Mama scolding someone over plates. It all blurs into a low hum, like a TV left on in another room.I drop onto the bed.The mattress bounces lightly. Cold sheets brush my bare back beneath an oversized T-shirt. My jeans are draped over the chair. My bra is God knows where. Only one lamp is on, a dim yellow glow on the nightstand, throwing long shadows on the wall and soft lines across the ceiling.My hand slides down my arm, then reaches for my phone beside the pillow. The screen lights up, catching my reflection for a second: hair tied up in a lazy knot, eyeliner barely hanging on, naked lips. I look like the discount version of myself.Perfect for tonight.My thumb hovers over the one chat icon that matters most.Bogotá & the Idiots.Their profile picture is pure nepotism energy: Isabella in red lipstick
Last Updated : 2026-01-13
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