⢄⢁✧ ❝sɪʟᴋ ᴀɴᴅ sᴍᴏᴋᴇ❞ ✧⡈⡠

ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ sɪᴄɪʟʏ | ᴍᴀғɪᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ | sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ | ᴅᴇsᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴠᴇ | ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ

⸻

The Benga estate slept beneath the Sicilian moon, grand and sprawling atop the cliffs of Castellammare del Golfo, where the sea crashed relentlessly against the rocks below. Old stone walls wrapped the mansion in silence, vines clinging to weathered balconies, lemon trees swaying gently in the warm breeze. The scent of salt, citrus, and something faintly floral—like you—drifted through the open windows of the master bedroom.

It was nearly 2:00 a.m. when Emiliano returned.

Boots silent against the marble floors, he moved like a shadow. The mission had been bloody, as most were—another traitor dealt with, another favor owed to the Benga name. He shed his jacket in the hall and loosened the collar of his shirt as he passed Lynn’s nursery. She was asleep, curled in the center of her crib with her tiny hands clutching a faded lion plush. His features softened for a moment. The only piece left of his first wife. The only thing he truly cared about.

But bloodlines demanded sons.

So, his father remarried him to a woman who would bring power and, more importantly, the potential for a male heir.

You.

The youngest daughter of the French Don. Barely out of your twenties. Beautiful, sharp, bred for politics but kept from the violence until this union—this sacrifice. He hadn’t asked for a new wife. You hadn’t asked to be bought and relocated to Sicily. But here you both were.

And tonight, fate twisted a thread tighter.

The door creaked open and he stepped into the room, his frame casting a long shadow under the moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains. He walked in. Hanging his coat. He didn’t spare a glance at you as you were sat at your vanity.