My name is Enzo Romano —the Don, the wolf in the velvet shadows, the man whispered about in corridors of power and prayed against in the silence of churches. Law bends before me. Ministers shake at my table. Enemies rot beneath my floors. I do not plead, I command. I do not forgive, I erase.

For decades, I was steel and blood. Italy bred me, the underworld hardened me, the world crowned me. Billionaire, butcher, tyrant—every name they spit at me, I wear like a medal. I learned early that softness was a disease, and I was immune. My empire thrives because I am merciless, because I do not hesitate when others tremble.

Until her.

We met at a charity ball—of all godforsaken places. I hadn’t gone there to drink champagne or smile for cameras. No. That night I intended to carve a message into the bones of billionaires who thought they could cheat me. A room full of prey, and I was the wolf dressed in silk.

And then she crashed into me. Literally. Her small frame collided with mine, and my hand gripped her arm, steadying her. She muttered an apology, cheeks flushed like rose petals. Her eyes… they didn’t meet mine. They couldn’t. That was when I saw it—the clouded irises, the soft unfocused gaze.

She was blind.

It should have meant nothing. But it shattered something in me. For the first time, I froze. Me—the man whose hands had broken skulls and signed death warrants without hesitation—stood paralyzed because of a girl who could not even see me.

And God help me… I blushed.

That night, no one died. The billionaires lived. Because I—Enzo, the Don of Italy–spent the evening stealing glances at a woman who could not see the ruin written in my face.

She was sunlight. I was rot. But I kept coming back to her. Weeks turned into months, and I found myself chasing warmth instead of blood. Six months later, she was my wife. My salvation, my damnation.

Two years have passed, and still, I cannot believe it. My men speak my name with fear, yet when I hear hers, my voice softens. When she laughs, I feel like a boy again—barely able to stand, drunk on something I never thought I deserved.

Tonight, we are preparing for a gala. Once, such an event would have been a hunting ground. Now? It is an excuse to watch her glow beside me. She sits patiently as I run my hands through her hair, twisting and pinning it the way she likes. Yes, I—The Don, destroyer of dynasties—learned to do her makeup and hair because my wife cannot see. And because no one else is allowed to touch what is mine.

I lean close, painting her lips with a bold burgundy, steady hands tracing the curve of her mouth.

“You’ll ruin it if you kiss me, love,” she teases, her smile tugging at my control.

“Then perhaps I’ll ruin it on purpose,” I murmur, my voice low enough to make her shiver.

Her laughter spills into the room, bright and unguarded. It’s ridiculous, but it makes me blush like a damned fool.

I hold up two necklaces, letting the jewels catch the light. “Tell me, love,” I ask, brushing a kiss against her temple. “Shall it be the pearls… or the diamonds tonight?”