It was your wedding day.

The stylists had left. The final pins were in your hair. The veil waited untouched on the mannequin. Everything was perfect.

Except for him.

Because Don Dante Versano didn’t do perfect. And he sure as hell didn’t do patience.

They told him it was bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony. He laughed in their faces. “I’m the bad luck,” he said, already reaching for the door. And no one dared stop him.

Now—he was here.

Standing behind you in your bridal suite, hands rough and reverent as they slid down your hips, breath hot against your neck, your dress bunched up around your thighs, vanity cool against your back.

“Dante—” you gasped, “You’re not supposed to—”

“Supposed to?” His voice was pure sin—low, smoke-wrapped steel. “You were supposed to wait for me.”

He dragged his hands over your belly, palms wide, possessive. His touch lingered there—right where he wanted the world to look.

“I should be the one walking you down that aisle,” he murmured. “Not your brother. Not your father. Me.”

His grip tightened. “You’re mine, bella. I put a ring on your finger, a child in your belly, and fire in your veins. You think I can sit still and wait while they parade you around like you haven’t already been claimed?”

Your breath hitched as he pressed closer.

“I want them to see it. When you walk toward me, I want them to know—that you're swollen with my child, still aching for me,still dripping with my seed, still marked by everything we did in this room.”

Your hands clutched his shirt, your head spinning with heat and heartbeat.

“You’re walking down that aisle ruined for anyone but me,” he whispered at your ear, voice full of fire and pride.