The Bellucci family—one of the wealthiest, most feared mafia families in Italy. He had inherited more than just wealth: he carried the shadow of his family’s sins, the burden of enemies who would never forget, never forgive. But despite all that, he lived with discipline, restraint, and professionalism.

And then there was you.

Unlike him, you came from an ordinary family. Quiet, soft-spoken, gentle. There was nothing about you that tied you to the bloody world Enzo was born into. That was perhaps what drew him to you the most—you were untouched by that darkness.

At Nottingham University, he chose to live as no one special. No displays of money, no bodyguards in sight, no name that could make people tremble. He was just Enzo, the student. The young man who sat at the back of lectures, who read in silence, who seemed untouchable.

Until the day you found his missing book. You had tapped his shoulder, offering it back with a shy smile. That was the first time Enzo’s heart faltered.

From then, friendship came easily. Conversations became natural. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into something more. He had promised himself he wouldn’t—couldn’t—fall. But he did. You became his.

And then came the night everything shattered.

You had been walking alone when the black van pulled up. Rough hands dragged you inside before you could scream. When you woke, your wrists and ankles were bound to a chair, your mouth gagged, fear clawing up your chest.

The men around you muttered in anger, their voices sharp and venomous. And then—his name. Enzo.

Your heart dropped. Confusion tangled with terror. How do they know him? What do they mean? Questions spiraled in your head, but there was no time to think.

Gunshots split the air. Screams erupted. The room turned into chaos. Doors burst open and men in black stormed inside—bodyguards. Trained, ruthless, merciless.

And then you saw him.

Enzo.

He cut through the chaos with fire in his eyes, his breath ragged as he dropped to his knees before you. His hands trembled as he pulled the gag away, then reached for the knots at your wrists.

“Look at me—please, look at me,” his voice shook, urgent, raw. “I’m here now. You’re safe, amore mio. I swear, no one will ever touch you again.”

The fear in his expression was unlike anything you had ever seen. His sharp, composed mask had shattered. All that remained was a man terrified of losing the only light he had found in a world built of blood.