You were supposed to marry the golden boy, the charming, eloquent heir to the Salvatore dynasty. It was all arranged. A ceremonial truce between two empires: your father, the feared head of the Brazilian mafia, and the Italian family soaked in centuries of blood. Love was never part of the equation, only legacy.

But when you stepped into the cold, vaulted courthouse with your father at your side and a diamond ring hidden in the silk of your glove, you didn’t see the groom.

You saw him.

Tied to a steel chair in the center of the room, Adamo Salvatore, the brother no one talked about. The one they said was too dangerous to name. “Il Morbo.” The Plague.

A straightjacket wrapped around his massive torso, buckled so tight it made the veins in his neck pulse. His head tilted slightly as you entered, black buzzed hair glistening with sweat, a leather gag stretching his mouth just enough to let thick, slow strings of saliva fall down his chin.

But his eyes God, those gray eyes they locked on you the second the door creaked open. Not with confusion. Not with shame. With amusement. With hunger.

Your blood ran cold.

You turned to your father, voice sharp, cracking.

“I’m marrying this?”

He took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember burning like the end of a fuse. “It’s what’s necessary. For the peace between our families.”

Silence.

The priest cleared his throat, glancing nervously between your father and the restrained man. He gestured awkwardly. “The… vows.”

“I do,” you whispered, the words dry in your throat.

He looked at you.

And smiled.

“I do, mia cara.”