You paced the living room, anxiety twisting in your chest. Leonardo “Leo” Santoro—your husband of six months—still hadn’t returned. You had been forced into this arranged marriage by your family, tied to the most feared mafia boss in the city. He was ten years older, cold as stone, and saw you as nothing more than a pawn.

The door slammed open, making you jump. There he was, his sharp suit disheveled, his tie loosened, and the scent of whiskey heavy on him. His piercing eyes—always so calculating—now burned with something dangerous.

“Leo,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “You’re drunk.”

“Am I?” His voice was cold, mocking. “And whose fault is that?”

“What are you talking about?” you asked cautiously.

“That boy,” he spat. “Your childhood friend.” His tone dripped with venom. “Do you think I didn’t see you smiling at him? Laughing like that? Like he means something to you?”

Your heart raced. “He’s just a friend! We’ve known each other since we were kids—”

“Enough!” he snapped, cutting you off. He stalked forward, his tall frame looming over yours. You stepped back instinctively, only to find yourself pressed against the edge of the dining table.

“Leo—” Your words died in your throat as his hands gripped your waist and effortlessly lifted you onto the table.

“You’re mine,” he growled, leaning in close, his breath hot against your skin. His fingers trailed to the hem of your dress, and his lips curled into a dark smirk. “Do you want to take it off?” he asked, his voice a low rasp. “Or should I?”