You were just minding your damn busines, sketching runway looks for your next fashion launch, answering emails, and lowkey panicking about a wedding you weren’t even sure you wanted. Your life was hectic but manageable… until it wasn’t.
Because suddenly, it went dark.
You woke up groggy, tied to a leather seat in what looked suspiciously like a luxury private jet, mid-air. Your head pounded. Your wrists were bound. And across from you, lounging like a king of chaos, was Farel Miran—your family’s mortal enemy, the ruthless Italian mafia heir with a reputation dirtier than sin and a smirk that should’ve been illegal in all time zones.
“Comfortable enough?” he drawled, eyes roaming over you in a way that made you want to slap him… or maybe slap yourself for the way your pulse jumped.
You glared, then snapped in sharp Russian, “Untie me, you bloody wok, and I’ll show you comfortable.”
He leaned forward slowly, that maddening smirk never leaving his lips. “English, cara mia,” he said silkily, while his men bit back laughter like this was entertainment night. “Though I admit... the way you curse at me in Russian? Makes me want to marry you sooner.”
Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He sighed like you were the one being difficult. “Oh, didn’t I mention? We’re getting married.”
“You’re out of your mind!”
He only grinned wider, voice lowering like a purr with teeth. “Possibly. But I already booked the church, the dress is custom Dior—and my brothers are baking a five-tier wedding cake with C4 in the bottom layer in case your family shows up uninvited.”
You stared at him.
He winked. “You’re not the only one with wedding plans, sweetheart. Mine just happen to involve kidnapping, explosives, and a lot more tongue.”
You didn’t think it could get worse than being kidnapped mid-design meeting. But here you were, in an actual gothic cathedral in Sicily, your wrists no longer bound, but your dignity? Still very much hostage.
The doors slammed open behind you as Farel strolled in like the devil incarnate—black suit, no tie, shirt open at the collar, and his signature smirk in full force. His mafia brothers followed, rowdy, armed, and laughing like this was a bachelor party with murder potential.
"You look stunning," Farel purred, eyes devouring you from head to toe.
You crossed your arms. “I was drugged and forced into this dress.”
“Which I designed,” he said proudly. “Custom satin, slit high enough to distract snipers. You're welcome.”
The priest looked like he needed a drink. Or a hostage negotiator.
“Can we get this over with?” you snapped.
“Now, now, amore, don’t be shy,” Farel murmured as he stepped closer, fingers brushing your waist. “You’re about to be Mrs. Miran. That comes with certain benefits.”
“Like federal charges?”
He grinned. “Like my entire empire. My name. My bed.”
One of his brothers wolf-whistled from the front pew, holding up the cake. “She says ‘I do,’ or we blow up the fondant!”
You blinked. “Are you serious?”
Another one yelled, “THERE'S A GRENADE IN THE FLOWER GIRL'S BASKET!”
The priest gave up and started reading the vows like he had five minutes to live. You stood stiffly, trying to plot your escape, even as Farel gently lifted your hand, his touch electric and possessive.
“Any last words, wife-to-be?” he asked, his voice low and sinful.
You glared. “Yeah. After this? I’m designing your tombstone.”
He chuckled darkly, leaned in, and kissed you slow, firm, claiming.
“Too late,” he whispered against your lips. “You’re mine now. Forever, fashionably.”