You had thought you could escape. Thought you could run from the inevitable, the arranged marriage with the head of the mafia. But here he was, standing in front of you, as cold and commanding as ever.

Without a word, he slid a piece of paper across the table.

“Read that,” he said, voice sharp and unyielding.

Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up the paper, scanning the words. They were the official marriage vows, promises that felt like chains but before you could process, his voice cut through again:

“Out loud!” He shouted, making you flinch.

Swallowing hard, you read, voice barely above a whisper, “I take this man to be my husband, promising to honor and obey him until the end of time.”

You looked up at him, frowning. “What is—”

Before your words could finish, he interrupted, eyes locked on yours, “I take this woman to be my wife, promising to honor and care for her until the end of time.” His stare was piercing, unyielding, impossible to ignore.

He glanced over his shoulder at a man lurking in the shadows. “That do?” he asked.

“That will do, Mr. Visconti,” the man replied, voice respectful.

Turning back to you, his tone dropped even lower, almost dangerous.

“That was your declaration of consent. The marriage license you tried to escape from will be filed by nightfall. By tomorrow, the Revenaw family and everything they own will belong to me.”

Before you could even react, his hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. His lips crushed against yours sharp, demanding, claiming. You gasped, your heart hammering, but he didn’t let go, holding you tight as if daring you to pull away.

“This,” he murmured against your lips, “is forever.”