Vows of sin

Romano Estate, SicilyAlessia Romano stood at the edge of the marble balcony, the cool evening breeze teasing strands of her dark hair free from their chignon. Below, the estate was alive with light and laughter, the elite of the mafia world gathered like royalty under a canopy of crystal chandeliers and gilded ceilings. Everything was pristine, choreographed, perfect.Except her.The dress her father had chosen clung to her figure like a second skin—black silk, strapless, slit to the thigh. A calculated display, a silent message to every man in attendance: Look, but don’t touch. She’s already spoken for.She traced the rim of her untouched champagne glass, jaw clenched tight enough to ache. This wasn’t a party. It was a transaction.And she was the currency.Below, her father, Don Lorenzo Romano, lifted his glass in the center of the grand ballroom. His voice, smooth and authoritative, rang out across the hall.“To peace,” he announced, eyes gleaming with triumph. “To an alliance for

Alessia’s POVThe moment his lips crashed against hers, something inside Alessia shattered.It wasn’t the kiss.It was the claim.Feral. Dominant. Final.Dante Moretti had made it clear—he didn’t want her love. He wanted her submission. Her silence. Her spine.And for one, terrifying second, she’d kissed him back.Now, hours later, she stood beneath the spray of a scalding shower, scrubbing her skin raw. Steam curled around her like smoke, but it couldn’t purge the memory of his touch. His breath. His promise.Try to run again, and I won’t stop at kissing you.She pressed her palms to the cold marble tile, breath shallow, heart pounding. Not from fear.From rage.He thought he could own her.He thought her father’s name and an unwanted ring were enough to bring her to heel.But she’d spent her entire life learning to survive in the shadows of powerful men. She hadn’t endured the control of Don Lorenzo Romano just to be handed off like some bloodied olive branch to a Moretti.Alessia t

Catalina’s POVCatalina never believed in ghosts.Not until she became one.The world thought her dead—cremated, scattered, erased. Her name scrubbed from databases, her face removed from archives, her file closed in every intelligence and mafia network from Italy to Dubai. But she hadn’t died in that fire. She had clawed her way out of it, broken and bloodied, with nothing left but vengeance and a half-burnt photograph.She stood now in the backroom of a decaying speakeasy tucked beneath Venice’s cracked bones. Time hadn’t touched the walls here, nor the velvet drapes that sagged from the ceiling. Smoke curled lazily under golden lamps, mingling with the scent of spilled gin and lies.Across from her, a man in a bloodstained shirt shook in his bindings. His lips trembled like they might forget how to lie.“I didn’t know who she was,” he whimpered. “I was just delivering a message. That’s all. A letter from a girl named Chiara Romano.”Catalina stirred the ice in her glass with a silv

Dante’s POVDante perched on the edge of his bed, the moonlight slicing through the blackout curtains in slats of silver. His suit lay discarded on the floor, and the only sound in the room was the soft drip of the marble sink. He’d sent his guards home—this was a private matter now, one he needed to face alone.Alessia.Thoughts of her burned hotter than any bullet wound. She was alive, but shaken—her defiance wounded him more than any physical blow could. After the fire alarm and that intercepted message, he knew she was digging into his past. Whoever had sent her that warning letter knew his secrets… or suspected them. And Dante intended to find out which of his men had failed him, before turning his wrath on the traitor.He rose, buttoning his shirt with slow precision. Action was the remedy for doubt. He paced toward the balcony overlooking the estate grounds, the floodlights carving the darkness into stark triangles. A single black sedan waited at the gate—a message from the riv

Alessia Romano had been raised to fear men like Dante Moretti. Cold. Untouchable. Rumored to ruin with a kiss and conquer with a whisper. But now—now he wasn’t a legend, or even a distant shadow.He was heat at her back.Breath at her throat.And his hand on her bare skin as he said:“Tell me to stop.”The silk of her robe had slipped down her shoulder. The bathroom mirror was fogged, the only light flickering from the candles he’d lit while she was soaking in the bath. He’d come in without a word, like a predator claiming territory.And she hadn’t stopped him.Not when his fingers trailed the rim of the tub. Not when his eyes raked over her like a man memorizing his favorite sin.“I…” Alessia’s voice trembled, but not from fear.Desire was a slow poison. It made her bones weak and her judgment weaker.He leaned in closer. “Say it.”“Stop,” she whispered.He froze.But she didn’t move.Didn’t pull away.Didn’t mean it.He watched her in the mirror, his reflection a shadow behind hers.