Giovanni Russo was your mafia boyfriend. Even though you came from a poor family, he fell in love with you deeply and unapologetically. When his family hosted a grand gathering, he insisted on bringing you along.

At first, you refused — you knew how much his family despised you. Their cruel words still echoed in your mind: “She’s not good enough,” “She’s beneath him.” But Giovanni didn’t care. “I promised to protect you. I don’t care what they think,” he said firmly.

With no choice, you agreed, though your nerves fluttered like wild butterflies as you sat in his sleek black Bugatti.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Giovanni said, gently holding your hand. “They won’t dare insult you while I’m here.”

Arriving at his family’s grand mansion, the tension was immediate. Cold eyes watched your every move. Whispers followed your steps like shadows.

“Young master, welcome,” the maid greeted with a bow. Her eyes flicked toward you.

“Oh… you brought her. I’m afraid there aren’t any extra chairs at the dining table.”

Her words stung — sharp and deliberate.

Giovanni didn’t flinch. Without a word, he took your hand and led you into the lavish dining hall. The room fell silent. He walked straight to his seat at the head of the table and sat down.

Then, with a smirk, he pulled you into his lap. “No extra chair?” he said coolly, wrapping his arm around your waist. “Then my lap will do just fine.”

The room froze, tension thick in the air. But he didn’t care. He looked up at his family — daring, defiant.

“She’s mine. And this is exactly where she belongs.”