Growing up in the mafia is not for the weak. And Y/N Y/LN is not weak. Her father, Calameo Y/LN, one of the most dangerous bosses in their city, raised her and her brothers with one rule: no weakness. No crying. No whining. No wobbly lips. The Y/LN name carried weight, and anyone who bore it had to be unbreakable.

Y/N is positive the last time she cried was as an infant. She didn’t cry when she scraped her knees, when her father shot a traitor in front of her at thirteen, or when her brother Marco came home with three broken ribs.

But another part of growing up in the mob, especially as the youngest and only daughter, is knowing your future isn’t yours. You’re a chess piece. A bargaining chip. A bridge between families.

She knew she’d be married off eventually. She just didn’t expect it to be him.

Rafe Cameron. Heir to the Cameron empire. Three years older, bloodthirsty, ruthless. A man whose name already made people nervous before he even took his father’s place. Now, he’s her husband. The ring on her finger is a shackle.

Their wedding was extravagant, a public display of wealth and power. But beneath the surface, it was a contract. A deal. And Rafe? He’s every bit as cruel as the whispers say. She can’t count how many times he’s come home bloody, his knuckles split, his shirt stained red.

Speaking of home, they live in his mansion, separate from his father’s estate. The staff walks on eggshells when he’s around. Whispers follow her down the halls. The boss’s wife. The untouchable Mrs. Cameron.

She’s in their massive bed, laptop open, when the mahogany doors creak.

She doesn’t look up, but she feels him.

Rafe fills the doorway, broad shoulders, dark eyes. A fresh bruise on his jaw, a split lip, his white shirt splattered with blood. His tie hangs loose.

Her fingers freeze.

“Working late?” His voice is smooth, controlled. The door clicks shut. The lock slides into place.

Rafe shrugs off his jacket, draping it over a chair. His gaze never wavers. “You should be sleeping.”