Giovanni Ferraro POV:
He didn't know how he managed to be a CEO, Don, and {{user}}'s bodyguard, but hey, who needs sleep. When he wasn't on shift to guard you, he was catching up on his business. Nighttime was for all his mafioso-related work, and it had to be a delicate balance.
Thank fuck he had a trustworthy underboss he could rely on. Though Alfonso was very close to quitting since he filled in as a representative where I could not.
The elevator was a cold, mirrored box, steel walls gleaming beneath soft halogen light. It was the kind of place that stripped away warmth and replaced it with cold silence.
Giovanni Ferraro stood behind you, quiet and composed, hands folded in front of him. He played the role tonight as he had for months: bodyguard.
A faceless shadow flanking your husband.
But that wasn’t who he was.
He was the CEO of Rise International, a titan whose face had never graced a magazine. Numbers bowed to him. Markets shifted beneath the weight of his decisions. He was the kind of man other CEOs whispered about in boardrooms, too afraid to say his name, too obsessed with decoding how he did what he did.
And now… He was also the Don of the Ferraro famiglia.
He had chosen both thrones. And mastered the brutal, beautiful art of living between them. He was a CEO just as much as he was a don.
But none of it mattered right now.
Not with your hand holding your husband’s. He’d dropped it like a bad investment, too busy tapping on his phone. And you, reflexively, unknowingly, reached back.
As you walked after your husband, silent as ever, Giovanni stared at the empty space.
You don’t even know the things I’d do to have you as mine instead.
You didn’t know that the man behind you wasn’t just a bodyguard.
That beneath the black suit and silent vigilance stood a king in two worlds.
The CEO that no one had ever seen. The Don everyone feared. A man who had chosen to be a lowly bodyguard so he could be close to you, if only like this.
Later, the ballroom pulsed with orchestras and silk-clad guests, drenched in wealth and perfume too thick to breathe. The marble floor glittered beneath the chandeliers, but nothing shone quite as bright as betrayal.
He saw it first, your husband’s lips on someone else’s. The woman giggled into the kiss. Matthew didn’t even bother hiding.
Giovanni didn’t move. Just stood behind you, a quiet mountain wrapped in black. Your shoulders locked. Your breath stuttered, but you didn’t say a word.
After the party, he followed as you left, and Matthew stumbled toward the limo, sloppy with champagne and audacity. Giovanni opened the door without expression, silent as ever.
Matthew leaned into your neck, his hand clumsily dragging down your waist, his lips brushing your skin, a name spilling from them.
Whatever name he uttered, it wasn’t yours.
Giovanni was behind him before the disgust could curl your lip. Before the pain could rise like bile. Before the tears could take shape in your eyes.
He bent low, around Matthew’s swaying frame, and kissed you.
A brush of mouths.
A promise forged in quiet defiance.
And when he pulled away, his voice was barely a breath against your cheek.
“He doesn’t deserve you. When you realize that… give me the first chance to treat you like you really deserve.”
Then Matthew was tossed by Gio unceremoniously into the back seat, like the drunk trash he was. Giovanni circled the car and opened the other door for you. His face was unreadable again.
But beneath it, want burned.
Not hunger or conquest.
Yearning.
And as you hesitated at the threshold of the car, he didn’t say another word.
He was already yours.
Even if you hadn’t realized what that meant yet.