รักเกินห้ามใจ นายแสนร้าย | ขุนเขาxนิสา

The marble floors of New York City Hall glinted coldly under the fluorescent lights.

One minute remained until our scheduled appointment. Vincenzo’s phone went straight to voicemail for the forty-seventh time.

I leaned against a marble pillar.

Then my phone pinged.

My informant had sent me a screenshot from Seraphina’s private Instagram story.

Truth or dare went way too far. We actually got married.

Below the caption was a photo.

Seraphina and Vincenzo were holding a freshly signed marriage certificate.

The city clerk’s stamp was still visible at the bottom.

Vincenzo’s fingers pinched Seraphina’s cheek, a lazy smirk on his face.

His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar.

The same shirt I had pressed for him that morning.

Three months earlier, I had brought him that custom silk shirt for our engagement photos.

He had been cleaning his Beretta 92F, not even looking up.

“It’s just a family formality. Stop being so dramatic.”

My thumb hovered over the screen. I liked the post and typed “Congratulations.”

My phone rang immediately.

Vincenzo’s voice was sharp with annoyance.

“Delete that comment. Seraphina’s almost crying. It was just a game. I’ll divorce her in a month, then we’ll get married. Go back to the apartment and stop acting like a child.”

I looked down at the crumpled appointment confirmation in my hand. I had booked it three months in advance.

A small, cold smile touched my lips.

Three years of late nights covering his back, three years of putting my family’s plans on hold for him, three years of pretending his casual cruelty did not hurt.

All of it, just a game.

Marco, my driver and bodyguard, opened the door of the waiting Bentley.

“Where to, Miss?”

“Manhattan apartment,” I said, sliding into the back seat.

The apartment was loud when I walked in.

Vincenzo’s capos sat rigidly on the leather couches, half-empty whiskey glasses on crystal coasters, crushed cigarette butts in brass ashtrays.

One of them said to him: “Don Vincenzo... what if Donna doesn’t let this blow over?”

Vincenzo was on the couch, Seraphina curled in his lap, twisting the marriage license between her manicured fingers.

Vincenzo replied: “She won’t. She knows I love her. Five years ago, when the Moretti faction hunted her down, I was the one who risked my life to save her.”

His words took me straight back.

My family had gone to war with the Moretti faction over the Brooklyn port territories.

I had been chased for miles, my car rolling down a steep hillside.

Vincenzo had not hesitated for a second. He had jumped straight off the highway and slid down the slope to find me.

If he had not thrown himself down that hill, I would have died that day.

But when had he changed?

Probably three years ago, when he met Seraphina.

The room went silent when they saw me. All of Vincenzo’s core men stood up respectfully at the sight of me.

“Elena,” Seraphina said, putting on a wide, innocent smile.

“Don’t be mad. It was just a game. Vincenzo’s too nice to let me lose.”

Vincenzo looked up, his arm tightening around Seraphina’s waist.

“It’s just a piece of paper, Elena. I’ll divorce her in a month. My heart’s still with you. Don’t be so stubborn.”

“Took you long enough. We were wondering if you’d bailed entirely. Seraphina was asking about that risotto you make. She’d heard it’s good.”

I walked to the coffee table and picked up the marriage license. The photo was good.

They looked happy, more natural than we had ever looked in any family press photo.

“It’s a nice photo,” I said, setting it back down. “Congratulations, Vincenzo. I mean it.”

Vincenzo’s jaw tightened.

“I told you it was a game. Stop being unreasonable.”

“I’m not being unreasonable,” I said, my voice calm and even.

I looked around the room, meeting each man’s eyes one by one, before settling on Seraphina’s triumphant face.

“I’m happy for you both.”