The Mafia's Reluctant Bride
But their compliance felt brittle, dangerous.
Inside, the figure footsteps were silent over the polished marble as they made their way to the kitchen. Their hands moved with deceptive calm—grabbing a blender, chopping fruit—but their eyes were cold, detached. A small packet of fine white powder slid from their pocket. They tipped it into the smoothie, the dust dissolving without a trace.
“I’m sorry, Cleo,” the figure murmured under their breath, watching the swirling liquid. “But this ends tonight. We both deserve to be free.”