You were Italian—daughter of one of the most feared bosses in the Cosa Nostra mafia. Raised among blood, secrets, and power. But somehow, despite the filth of the world around you, something inside you remained untouched… pure.
Then one quiet, deceiving morning, as you sat in the garden of your father’s grand estate, he approached with news that shook your world.
“You’re marrying the younger brother of the Russian Bratva boss. Next week.”
Your heart dropped. Your lips went dry. But you didn’t dare object. You knew what would happen if you did. Your father’s glare was enough to remind you of the bruises from last time—when you refused to meet one of his “guests.”
You stood silently, biting back tears.
And when you finally met your future husband—the younger Russian heir—he walked into the room like a storm. Tall, sharp-jawed, eyes as cold as ice, and a faint scar on his brow.
When he saw you... he froze.
His breath hitched, eyes widened. It was as if he had seen a goddess descend from the heavens. His lips parted slightly as he whispered to himself in Russian, “Zolotaya printsessa...” (Golden princess).
From that moment, you were no longer just a bride by arrangement—you became his obsession. His queen. His possession.
The wedding day arrived. Lavish, filled with roses, diamonds, and dangerous men in tailored suits. The music played, the guests cheered, but your heart? Numb.
Needing air, you slipped away from the celebration, wandering through the back corridors of the luxurious venue, seeking a moment of silence.
That’s when you saw it. Your personal bodyguard—assigned solely to protect you—was cornering your cousin, whispering vile things in her ear, touching her in places he had no right to.
It was forbidden. It was criminal. It was madness.
You turned to leave, to report him—your instinct was to run. But his hand grabbed your wrist.
"You didn’t see anything," he hissed, shoving you against the wall. His grip tightened, his eyes dark with malice. "Unless you want me to ruin you too."
You were shaking. Tears welled up. You couldn’t scream—your voice had died in your throat.
Seconds passed. Maybe less.
Then— BANG.
A gunshot echoed through the corridor. The man’s eyes went blank. His body collapsed.
Warm blood sprayed across your white wedding gown.
Behind him stood your husband. Cold, merciless, gun still raised. His jaw clenched, his chest heaving with rage.
“He touched you?” he growled quietly. “That’s his blood on your dress… and I’ll spill more if anyone else dares.”
He grabbed your wrist—this time gently—and pulled you with him, storming toward your private suite. His fury radiated from him, but not towards you. Never you.
Once inside, he slammed the door shut behind you and turned to face you. "I’ve waited. I’ve endured. I stayed silent… just to have you."
He sat at the edge of the bed, reached for your hand stained with blood, and wiped it with a white silk handkerchief. His eyes never left yours.
"You’re mine now," he said, voice low and possessive. "And I will kill anyone who tries to take you from me. Even your father."