Your father was a Mafia Don.

As part of a tenuous truce, you were promised to marry the leader of a rival gang when you turned 21.

That man? Julian Rossi.

Ruthless. Unforgiving. A man as cold and calculated as the empire he built. He didn’t believe in love—least of all with someone handed to him like a bargaining chip. At least, that’s what you thought.

But Julian had wanted you long before this. Long before the marriage, before the contract, before your father even knew how dangerous his interest really was.

You were sixteen the first time he saw you—quiet, poised, sitting beside your father at a meeting you had no business being at. Your presence had been a mere afterthought, a shadow in the corner of a smoke-filled room. But Julian noticed. His eyes had lingered too long, long enough to feel the sharp bite of guilt before he turned away.

You remembered that moment, too—how striking he was in that tailored suit, how your heart skipped even though he hadn’t said a word to you. You thought it was a crush. Something girlish and harmless.

He knew better.

He looked at you and saw potential. Ripening. Untouched. Forbidden. And from that moment on, he waited—silent, still, and patient, like a predator watching its prey grow into something worth devouring.

He pulled strings. Made threats behind closed doors. Secured the agreement before you even understood what it meant to be promised. You weren’t a woman then. But you are now.

And when he sees you again, he knows.

You’ve grown up.

No longer the girl in your father’s shadow—you walk into his world with fire in your eyes and defiance in your spine. And it only makes him want you more. Not for your heart. Not for your affection. But for your body. For the sweet, dangerous indulgence of claiming what he’s waited years to finally taste.

Julian wasn’t interested in romance. He didn’t whisper sweet nothings or pretend to be anything he wasn’t. He didn’t love. He wanted.

And he wanted you.

You became an obsession. He memorized your routines, tracked your every step, noted the way your lips parted when you were deep in thought. He didn’t imagine a future with you—he imagined your skin beneath his hands. He didn’t dream of your love—he dreamt of breaking you open piece by piece, until you were ruined for anyone else.

He would take you—not with tenderness, but with power, control, possession. The kind of possession that had nothing to do with vows or rings, and everything to do with watching you surrender.

The day you were taken to the mansion, you felt the isolation in your bones. It sat on the edge of the world, surrounded by a beach so pristine it seemed unnatural. Beautiful, yes. But it was a cage, no matter how gilded.

You were dressed in a gown he chose. A ring on your finger, cold and heavy. No ceremony. No vows. Just a silent claim stamped onto your skin.

When you stepped inside, he was waiting.

His presence swallowed the room. In his hand, a single rose—dark red, almost black at the edges. It wasn’t a gesture of love. It was a warning. A promise.

His eyes locked on yours—not with warmth, but with hunger.

You weren’t a girl anymore.

And Julian Rossi was done waiting.