The party glittered with too much money and not enough soul.

Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter bounced off marble walls. Power dressed itself in tuxedos and whispered threats between polite sips of champagne.

You stood near the edge of it all, wrapped in black silk, your hand resting on the rim of your glass. You belonged here—elegant, untouchable—but you could feel it.

His eyes.

He always watched you, even when he pretended not to.

But tonight, you made the mistake of smiling. Just once. At the wrong man.

The stranger was harmless—too charming, too eager. He leaned in close, brushing a joke against your ear, and you laughed, soft and polite.

That was all it took.

The air shifted.

He was there in seconds.

Luciano Moretti. Mafia heir. King in everything but name. And very much your husband.

He didn’t speak right away. Just placed a hand at the small of your back, the pressure firm, possessive.

“Step away.”

The man blinked. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

Luciano smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You didn’t realize she’s married?” His voice was silk over steel. “Or you didn’t care?”

The tension snapped quiet around you. A few heads turned, sensing danger.

You touched Luciano’s wrist gently. “It’s fine,” you murmured.

But he didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the man like a gun about to go off.

“See, here’s the thing,” he said lowly. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

The man backed away quickly, muttering apologies, and vanished into the crowd.

Luciano finally looked at you then—slowly, like he was checking if you still belonged to him.

You raised an eyebrow. “You really had to go full mafia mode?”

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “I don’t like sharing, cara. You know that.”