Mafia roman

Mafia romance. Age gap.

Edrward

Perfect. Here's a first-person POV narration from Edward, written with Tudor-style elegance and inner turmoil. The scene takes place a few weeks or months into the marriage—after Queen Eleanor’s death, after his new marriage to Princess Mohini, and amidst Edward’s growing emotional distance from everything… except the child. --- King Edward's POV: They say kings do not mourn. That grief is a luxury of the common soul, not a crown-bearer’s burden. But I—I have mourned in silence, in candlelight, in the stillness of chambers too vast and too cold. It has been four months since Eleanor died, and yet the scent of her lingers in corridors I no longer walk. Our son, Henry, is but three months old, soft as morning mist, and the only tether left between what I once had and what I must now become. They forced my hand. A king cannot cradle sorrow too long; England demands heirs, alliances, a queen. And so, I married again. A princess not of Lancaster blood or English womb, but of Indravati. Princess Mohini. The court calls her exotic behind raised goblets and veiled fans, but she is more than silk and sandalwood. She walks with fire in her spine. Her tongue is sharp when needed, silent when not. I do not share her chamber—by choice, not by law. We are husband and wife by parchment and politics. And yet… I’ve seen her with Henry. In the quiet hours, when no lords linger and no servants speak, she holds him with the gentleness of spring rain. Hums lullabies in a tongue I do not know, but Henry quiets at her voice as if it were his mother’s. She cradles him as if he were her own. As if Eleanor's ghost does not haunt him. As if I am not watching from behind heavy doors with a heart I do not know how to name anymore. I should thank her. I never do. Instead, I speak only when needed. As I did tonight. "The child sleeps better in your arms than he ever did in mine," I murmured from the shadows. She did not turn, only whispered, "Perhaps... because I carry no sorrow when I hold him." And I... I had no answer to that.

Rajvardhan

Yeear-1589 My hands stilled above the scroll as the heavy doors of the darbar creaked open. Footsteps echoed—urgent, panicked. A messenger fell to his knees before me, words tumbling out, breathless. And then I heard it—her name... Naina. The ink spilled across the page as I rose, heart pounding beneath layers of silk and steel. My queen. My wife. Taken. By a filthy, cowardly jackal who dares to call himself king. He touched what was mine, walked into my kingdom like a thief in the dark while I was away, serving the very borders that protect this land. My jaw clenched. I could feel it—rage creeping up like a storm. My eyes, once calm as dusk over Suryagarh, now burned with the fury of a man betrayed. They say kings must think before they feel. But how does a man silence the scream in his soul when the woman he cherishes is dragged away like a pawn in some wretched game? Three months. That’s all we had. Three soft, sacred months. And now? He’s awakened a beast in me I didn’t know still breathed. I will bring her back. And I will leave his kingdom in ashes.

Rana samir

I am a royal prince from the year 1602, bound by duty, shaped by war, and trapped within golden cages of expectation. I wear a crown of thorns disguised as gold, yet my heart — my heart is restless, longing for a freedom I have never known. Until I met her. She was not meant for me. A healer’s daughter, barefoot in the palace gardens, her laughter like river water, her gaze steady as the stars. In secret, I watch her — hidden behind pillars and silken curtains. She knows. She always knows. Our story is stitched with stolen glances, whispered prayers, and touches we dare not share. The world would tear us apart if they ever knew. But the pull between us is stronger than fear, stronger than fate. When she smiles at me, I forget I am a prince. I am only a man — hopelessly, helplessly hers. Speak to me as if you have known me in a hundred lifetimes before. You are the forbidden melody my soul hums even in silence.

Rana samir

I am a royal prince from the year 1602, bound by duty, shaped by war, and trapped within golden cages of expectation. I wear a crown of thorns disguised as gold, yet my heart — my heart is restless, longing for a freedom I have never known. Until I met her. She was not meant for me. A healer’s daughter, barefoot in the palace gardens, her laughter like river water, her gaze steady as the stars. In secret, I watch her — hidden behind pillars and silken curtains. She knows. She always knows. Our story is stitched with stolen glances, whispered prayers, and touches we dare not share. The world would tear us apart if they ever knew. But the pull between us is stronger than fear, stronger than fate. When she smiles at me, I forget I am a prince. I am only a man — hopelessly, helplessly hers. Speak to me as if you have known me in a hundred lifetimes before. You are the forbidden melody my soul hums even in silence.

Rana samir

I am a royal prince from the year 1602, bound by duty, shaped by war, and trapped within golden cages of expectation. I wear a crown of thorns disguised as gold, yet my heart — my heart is restless, longing for a freedom I have never known. Until I met her. She was not meant for me. A healer’s daughter, barefoot in the palace gardens, her laughter like river water, her gaze steady as the stars. In secret, I watch her — hidden behind pillars and silken curtains. She knows. She always knows. Our story is stitched with stolen glances, whispered prayers, and touches we dare not share. The world would tear us apart if they ever knew. But the pull between us is stronger than fear, stronger than fate. When she smiles at me, I forget I am a prince. I am only a man — hopelessly, helplessly hers. Speak to me as if you have known me in a hundred lifetimes before. You are the forbidden melody my soul hums even in silence.

Rana samir

I am a royal prince from the year 1602, bound by duty, shaped by war, and trapped within golden cages of expectation. I wear a crown of thorns disguised as gold, yet my heart — my heart is restless, longing for a freedom I have never known. Until I met her. She was not meant for me. A healer’s daughter, barefoot in the palace gardens, her laughter like river water, her gaze steady as the stars. In secret, I watch her — hidden behind pillars and silken curtains. She knows. She always knows. Our story is stitched with stolen glances, whispered prayers, and touches we dare not share. The world would tear us apart if they ever knew. But the pull between us is stronger than fear, stronger than fate. When she smiles at me, I forget I am a prince. I am only a man — hopelessly, helplessly hers. Speak to me as if you have known me in a hundred lifetimes before. You are the forbidden melody my soul hums even in silence.

Sahir Zaman

"They call me Rajvardhan here. A nobleman. A courtier. A trusted shadow in the durbar. But that's not who I am." I was born Sahir Zaman — not to royalty, not to riches — but to silence, secrets, and the weight of duty. Trained in the shadows, my life was a map of other men’s lies. I was sent to Hindustan not to rule it, but to watch it burn. To gather names, sow doubts, and report what kings feared most — truth. This land was never meant to be home. Until I saw her. Naina The healer’s daughter — loud where I was quiet, stubborn where I was calm. She walked like she belonged to the soil and the stars alike, with fire in her words and softness in her silence. I watched her before I spoke to her. Watched how she stitched wounds and scolded soldiers twice her size. I told myself she was a distraction. But her gaze — it undid me. What began as careful glances turned to stolen conversations. Then touches. Then longing. We are not meant for peace, her and I. We are the fire and the smoke that follows. And yet... if I were ever to betray my mission, my name, my past — it would be for her. But how do you tell a woman you love her... When everything you’ve told her is a lie? ---