The mafia and his stepsister

The air smelled of expensive whiskey, old leather, and danger.

Luciano Moretti sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. His dark gray suit was tailored within an inch of its life, but it did nothing to soften the brutal power coiled in his massive frame. A scar curved over his right brow, a souvenir from a life lived in the shadows — a life built on blood, betrayal, and fear.

He was the king of this city’s underworld. The mere whisper of his name made grown men falter. Cold. Calculated. Brutal.  

Marriage.

To **her**.

Luciano’s jaw tightened at the thought. His new "wife" was none other than Aria Bellini — his twenty-one-year-old stepsister.

The same reckless, fiery girl who had once driven him insane by sneaking out of the house at night, laughing at his rules, tempting the very edge of his patience.  

Now?

Now she was a woman. Untouched. Beautiful in a way that made his blood turn molten. Forbidden.

The heavy doors swung open without warning.

Luciano didn't need to look to know it was her. He could feel her presence like a storm brewing on the horizon.

Aria stepped into the room with the kind of boldness that made seasoned killers blink. She wore ripped jeans, combat boots, and a black leather jacket too big for her slender frame. Her long, dark hair tumbled around her shoulders in wild waves. Her eyes — the same dangerous shade of emerald green he remembered — locked onto his with pure defiance.

"You sent for me?" she said, crossing her arms.

Luciano’s gaze swept over her, slow and deliberate.  

"Sit," he commanded, voice low and lethal.

Aria didn’t move.  

The men seated around the table stiffened. No one dared speak to Luciano Moretti that way.

Luciano’s mouth curved in something that might have been amusement. Or maybe it was warning.

"You’re already pushing your luck, little girl."

The way he said it — deep and rough — made Aria’s stomach twist in a way she refused to acknowledge. She stomped across the room and dropped into the chair directly across from him, spreading her legs slightly in a challenge.

Luciano leaned back, studying her like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve.

"I won’t waste time," he said. "Our father is dead. The Bellini and Moretti empires are vulnerable. Enemies are circling like vultures."

Aria’s hands curled into fists in her lap.

Their father — Salvatore Bellini — had raised them both after marrying Aria’s mother. He hadn’t been perfect, but he’d been the only real parent Aria had known.

And now he was gone.

"What does that have to do with me?" she snapped.

Luciano slid a folder across the table. It landed in front of her with a heavy slap.

Aria flipped it open — and froze.

Inside was a marriage contract. Her name scrawled next to his. A string of legal terms tying her to him in every way that mattered.

"You’re joking," she said hoarsely.

Luciano’s voice was like steel scraping over gravel.  

Her eyes flashed. "Why me? You could marry anyone. Some mafia princess. Some willing bimbo who'd spread her legs and give you heirs."

A muscle ticked in Luciano’s jaw.

"It had to be family. Someone with Bellini blood. The old families demand it to unite the two houses. If I marry outside, it’ll be seen as weakness. The vultures will strike."

Aria’s laugh was sharp and bitter. "So I’m a pawn. A trophy. Good to know."

Luciano’s gaze darkened.  

Aria slammed the folder shut and shoved it back toward him.

"Find someone else. I’m not some lamb you can drag to slaughter."

Luciano rose to his full height, towering over her.

"You think this is a choice?" he said, voice dangerously low. "You think I’d tie myself to you willingly? You’re a headache I don’t need."

Aria surged to her feet, fire blazing in her veins.  

He stalked around the table in three long strides until he was in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"Listen to me," he growled, crowding her back against the cold stone wall. "You have no idea what’s coming. You’re vulnerable without me. You think you’re strong, Aria? You think you can survive this world alone?"

His hand came up — slowly — and brushed a strand of hair from her face. His knuckles grazed her cheek in a featherlight touch that made her breath hitch.

"You wouldn’t last a week."

Aria's chest heaved with ragged breaths. She hated how her body reacted to him. How her heart pounded, how her skin tingled where he touched her.

Hated it.

Because this was wrong.

He was twice her age. Twice as cruel.  

But in that moment, pressed between the wall and his hard body, Aria felt something raw and dangerous awaken inside her.

Something she wasn’t sure she could control.

"I hate you," she whispered.

Luciano’s mouth curved into a dark, knowing smile.  

He stepped back, giving her space she desperately needed — and hated giving up.

"You have until tomorrow to sign," he said, his voice once again cold and composed. "After that, you’re on your own."

Aria watched him leave, her fists trembling at her sides.

She was trapped.  

It was because part of her — the reckless, self-destructive part — wanted to know what it would feel like to be his.

Even if it destroyed her.