All Chapters of Contract Marriage to the Cold Hearted Mafia Boss : Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

Fabrizio The neon lights are the only thing illuminating the gloom of the venue. The bustle and smoke wrap me in an atmosphere of adrenaline that revives my recently slumped spirits a bit. Female attention doesn't take long to arrive, and I'm not completely indifferent to those who approach me offering their company; however, I can't decide on anyone. I head up to the club's private VIP box and ask for a bottle of whiskey and to be left undisturbed; tonight I need to get drunk to finally forget and let go. I sink into the couch and lean my head back against the cushion, massaging my temples with my eyes closed, waiting for the alcohol to arrive. “Why so lonely?” asks a female voice I know all too well. I open my eyes and lift my head a bit to see her standing in the doorway. She carries a tray with the bottle and two glasses, which makes me arch an eyebrow. “I said I wanted to be alone, Tylor. Don't come fucking with me.” The blonde ignores my rejection and approaches, setting th

Bianca I don’t miss the way his eyes travel over my body, taking in the black, jeweled dress that fits me perfectly down to mid-thigh before flaring out and cascading to the floor. I’m grateful Edoardo hasn’t been watching me quite so closely, allowing me to choose a high-necked dress that doesn’t leave my breasts hanging out as though I’m a stripper. It has a small, teardrop-shaped cutout that reveals a glimpse of skin right between them. It’s the most striking detail, and his eyes tell me he notices it. The intense look he gives me is nothing like the one from that first night, which was much sweeter, much more innocent. However, it doesn’t carry that low, perverted undertone men usually give me, either. He looks at me differently, like someone admiring a work of art that completely fascinates him. My own gaze isn’t exactly modest, either. I take my time admiring his broad shoulders and how impeccably the black tuxedo fits him. With his jacket unbuttoned, I get a better view of hi

Fabrizio Coming to Chicago keeps getting harder for me; I can't stand their capo or any of his leaders. They’re a pack of perverted bastards. If I didn't fully understand that we have to keep them under control if we want to maintain power, I’d ask Antonio not to send me to this snake pit anymore. In theory, this should be Enzo’s job—there’s a reason he married the crown princess of this realm—but I also get that he’s extremely busy manufacturing weapons for the Arabs. That's a hit we can’t afford to mess up, because we’re bringing the Bratva down on us by taking away their business. Anyway, as usual, Fabrizio understands everyone; it would be nice if once in a while someone understood me. I end my string of mental complaints as I step into the house of D’Angelo, the head pervert in this shitshow. Tonight’s reason for celebrating is the birthday of the eldest of his nephews—apparently his favorite and successor, since he has no sons of his own. I think the bastard might even be

Bianca I feel like my heart is going to burst inside my chest when his lips press against mine. I don't know what to do, I don’t know how to react because I’ve never returned a kiss in my entire life—I’ve been forced, so many times, but I’ve never kissed back. The sensation is overwhelming; it is sublime, burning, crushing, perfect. I let myself be carried away by the movement of his lips, by his hands cupping my cheeks, clinging to me as if he were afraid to let me go, and I don't want him to—I never want him to let me go. My fingers travel to the nape of his neck and tangle in his hair. His soft tongue tempts me, and I open my mouth without hesitation to welcome him. He explores me, making his delicious flavor explode in my mouth—a minty mix with a touch of nicotine that, far from being off-putting, excites me even more. I barely recognize myself as my tongue seeks out his, joining his in a perfect dance, as if this were normal, right, properly meant to be. As if we were born to d

Bianca The bitter taste rises to my mouth again, and I cover my mouth with my hand to hold back a heave. Everyone at the table notices my action, and reactions are immediate. "Are you going to throw up?" Edoardo asks, a satisfied smile dancing on his lips. My blood runs cold, and I pray to God—if He exists—not to give this bloody psychopath the satisfaction. I take a deep breath to compose myself and reply: "No, I felt nauseous, but it's gone." He takes my hand across the table, and I have to restrain myself from pulling away; doing so would only bring me trouble. Anyone looking at him from the outside would think he is the most in-love man alive. "It seems you are finally going to fulfill your duty and give me that child I yearn for so much." My insides twist at the mere thought of it, and tears threaten to form because it is very likely he is right, and that truly would be my breaking point. Greta scoffs across from me and slams her cutlery down onto her plate with a clatter.