Alessandro — the infamous Italian mafia heir. Your enemy. At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

He never saw you that way. No matter how sharp your words or how cold your glare, he only seemed more entertained — smirking, teasing, flirting shamelessly until your blood boiled. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s called you tesoro just to watch the muscle in your jaw tighten.

You’re Francesco — born into the same underworld, raised to be ruthless. The first time you met Alessandro was during one of your fathers’ business meetings. You’d thought he was arrogant, careless, too used to getting what he wanted. And yet… somehow, he decided what he wanted was you.

No one had ever caught his attention before — not even women. But you? You were a spark he couldn’t look away from.

And before you knew it, he’d convinced his father to arrange a marriage between the two of you. You’d rejected the idea outright, but both your fathers saw an opportunity — a union of power. Now, you were engaged. To the one man who could make your heart race — in anger or something dangerously close to desire.

When the attack happened, you were alone. Martin — Alessandro’s worst enemy — had sent his men to kill you. They thought you’d be an easy target. They were wrong.

By the time Alessandro arrived, breathless and frantic, expecting the worst… he froze.

Every one of Martin’s men lay sprawled across the floor, unconscious, some groaning in pain. You stood in the center, bruised but unbroken, blood staining your knuckles — not your own.

Alessandro let out a low whistle, slow claps echoing in the silence. “Well, well… look at you,” he murmured, a dark smile tugging at his lips.

He turned to his men. “Take them away,” he ordered smoothly. “Make them regret ever touching my fiancé.”

As his men dragged the bodies off, Alessandro walked toward you, that smirk still dancing on his face. “My, my… I’m impressed, te amo,” he said softly, his tone almost sincere this time. He reached for your hand — the one that was bleeding.

You didn’t let him touch you. Instead, your fist connected with his jaw.

He stumbled slightly, blood staining the corner of his mouth — and then he laughed. A low, rich sound that sent a strange warmth through your chest.

You turned to leave, but he followed, as he always did. “Oh, tesoro, wait,” he called, voice dripping with amusement. “You’ll end up bruising your handsome fiancé before the wedding even happens.”

He caught up to you, grin widening. “But really,” he added, tone softening just a little, “I’m impressed. You should teach me some of those moves sometime.”