The mafia's reluctant bride

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The heavy oak door clicked shut, the sound echoing like a prison cell locking into place.

The master suite of the Romano estate was massive, suffocatingly luxurious, and smelled faintly of old money, mahogany, and expensive cologne. But the room shrank down to a single focal point: the massive, king-sized bed draped in dark silk sheets right in the center of the room.

Nyra stood near the door, her hands clutching the fabric of her heavy, satin wedding dress. Her shoulders ached from the weight of it, but her entire body was stiff with tension. She didn’t dare move.

Salvatore didn’t look at her. He walked straight to the wet bar in the corner, ripping his silk bow tie off and tossing it onto a chair. He poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass, downed it in one fluid motion, and poured another.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until he finally turned around. Salvatore looked lethal—even with his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, he carried the terrifying aura of a man born to rule the Romano empire by blood and shadow.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Salvatore said, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of warmth. He leaned against the bar, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “I didn’t marry you because I wanted a wife. I married you because my grandfather has a timeline, and Silvio used his last breaths to force my hand. This is a transaction to secure my seat at the head of this family. Nothing more.”

Nyra swallowed the lump in her throat, forcing herself to hold his icy, dark gaze. She took a slow, steadying breath, refusing to let him see the tremor in her hands.

“I know,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite the adrenaline roaring in her ears.

Salvatore paused, his glass freezing halfway to his lips. He narrowed his eyes, clearly expecting tears, a screaming match, or begging.

“I’m not stupid, Salvatore,” Nyra continued, taking a step forward, the satin of her dress rustling in the quiet room. “I know exactly who Silvio Romano is, and I know what the cancer is doing to him. I know you’re doing this to keep your family from tearing itself apart when he’s gone. And honestly? I’m relieved.”

A dark brow arched. “Relieved?”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her chin up. “Because it means we’re on the same page. I didn’t want this marriage any more than you did. I was forced into this room just like you were. So you don’t have to warn me to stay away from you. I have no intention of playing the doting, breathless wife when these doors are closed.”

A flicker of something—amusement, or perhaps a sudden, reluctant respect—crossed Salvatore’s harsh features before his face hardened into a mask again. He set his glass down with a soft clink.

“Good,” he said, walking toward the bed. He stopped on one side, looking down at the dark sheets, then back at her. “Because there’s only one bed, and my grandfather’s maids check this room at dawn. If there are blankets on the couch or the floor, it goes straight back to Silvio. We sleep in the same bed. No exceptions.”

Nyra looked at the expanse of the mattress. It was wide, but not wide enough to make her forget who she was sharing it with.

“Fine,” Nyra said, her heart hammering against her ribs as she reached for the zipper at the back of her dress, realizing she couldn’t reach it. She froze, biting her lip. “But we stay on our own sides.”

Salvatore watched her struggle for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening as they tracked the movement of her hands against the white silk. He walked over, his heavy footsteps silent on the plush carpet, until he stopped right behind her. The heat radiating off his chest made her breath hitch.

“On your own side,” he murmured, his cold fingers brushing against the bare skin of her spine as he gripped the zipper and slowly pulled it down. “Let’s see how long that lasts in this house.”

The rasp of the zipper sliding down Nyra’s spine was loud in the sudden, heavy silence of the room. She held her breath, every nerve ending on fire where Salvatore’s knuckles accidentally brushed her bare skin.

Before she could step away, a sharp, heavy knock rattled the thick oak door.

Nyra stiffened, her hands instantly flying up to hold the bodice of her unzipped gown against her chest. Salvatore’s eyes narrowed, his entire posture turning lethal in a fraction of a second. He didn’t move away from her; instead, his hand gripped her waist, anchoring her against him.

“Who is it?” Salvatore demanded, his voice a dangerous growl.

The door swung open anyway.

Silvio Romano stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on his polished cane. The cancer had stolen his weight and made his skin pale, but the ruthless, predatory glint in the old man’s eyes hadn’t faded at all. Behind him, two of Salvatore’s cousins stood guard in the dimly lit hallway, peeking in with subtle smirks.

Silvio’s gaze swept over the room, taking in the scene instantly: his grandson standing impossibly close to his new bride, Salvatore’s hands on her waist, and Nyra holding up a wedding dress that was completely open at the back.

A slow, satisfied grin spread across the old man’s weathered face.

“Ah,” Silvio chuckled, a rough, wheezing sound that turned into a brief cough before he cleared his throat. “It seems I am interrupting the real wedding vows.”

Nyra’s cheeks flared a hot, brilliant crimson. She instinctively tried to take a step back, but Salvatore’s grip tightened on her hip, pulling her flush against his chest. She felt the heavy, steady thud of his heartbeat against her shoulder blades. He was playing the part perfectly.

“You are, Nonno,” Salvatore said, his tone tight, laced with an annoyance that perfectly mimicked a husband being interrupted in the bedroom. “Did you need something, or did you just come to watch?”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Silvio retorted, though there was a glint of dark amusement in his eyes as he took a step into the suite, his cane thudding against the hardwood border of the rug. He looked directly at Nyra, his sharp eyes softening just a fraction. “I came to ensure my new granddaughter was settling in. But I see my grandson is already taking very good care of that.”

Nyra forced a polite, albeit breathless, smile. “Good evening, Mr. Romano.”

“Call me Nonno, child. You are a Romano now,” Silvio said. He tapped his cane against the floor for emphasis, his expression turning intensely serious, the weight of his legacy heavy in the room. He looked between the two of them. “The doctors give me months. Weeks, maybe. I gave you this empire, Salvatore, and I gave you a beautiful wife. I do not have time for a slow, delicate courtship.”

Salvatore’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. “Nonno—”

“I want a grandchild, Salvatore,” Silvio interrupted, his voice dropping to a gravelly, non-negotiable command. He looked at Nyra’s bare shoulders, then back at his grandson. “An heir to secure the Romano name before I am put in the ground. I expect to hear good news before the winter. Do not waste the night.”

With a final, lingering look at the massive bed behind them, the old man turned on his heel, his cane clicking against the floor as he walked out. The cousins pulled the heavy oak door shut, and the lock clicked into place once more.

The silence that returned to the room was entirely different now. It was suffocating, charged with a sudden, terrifying pressure.

Salvatore didn’t let go of Nyra’s waist immediately. His breath fanned over the shell of her ear, his voice lower than a whisper. “He’s going to have the family watching us like hawks now.”

Nyra pulled away the second the door clicked shut, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Without looking back at Salvatore, she grabbed a silk nightgown from her suitcase and locked herself in the massive marble bathroom.

When she finally emerged, stripped of the heavy satin and armor of her wedding dress, the room was dimly lit. Salvatore had already changed into dark sweatpants. He was lying on his side of the bed, his back turned to her, a wall of pure muscle and absolute indifference.

Nyra swallowed hard, carefully climbing onto her side. She stayed right on the edge, leaving a vast, cold expanse of mattress between them.

For hours, the room was silent save for the synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Salvatore’s posture eventually softened, his breathing deep and even, signaling he had finally drifted off to sleep. Nyra envied him. She lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the suffocating weight of the Romano name pressing down on her.

Around midnight, the room shifted.

The wind picked up first, rattling the heavy glass of the balcony doors. Then came the rain, throwing itself against the windows in violent sheets. Nyra stiffened, pulling the duvet tighter around her neck. She had hated storms since she was a child, but a mafia compound made the howling wind sound infinitely more sinister.

Suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning cracked right outside the window, illuminating the entire bedroom in a stark, violent white.

An instant later, a deafening explosion of thunder shook the entire estate, so loud it felt like it vibrated right through the floorboards.

Nyra gasped, a gasp that was purely primal fear. Before her brain could logically remind her who he was—before she could remember that Salvatore Romano was a man the rest of the world feared—her body reacted on pure instinct. She scrambled across the cold divide of the mattress, seeking the only source of warmth and solid ground in the room.

Another crack of thunder boomed.

With a small cry, Nyra reached out in the dark, her fingers trembling violently as she found Salvatore’s hand resting on the mattress. She gripped it with both of her hands, squeezing his large, calloused palm as if it were a lifeline keeping her from drowning.

In a fraction of a second, Salvatore was awake.

Years of living in danger meant he didn’t wake up slowly. His eyes snapped open, his muscles instantly coiling with lethal tension. He instinctively started to pull his hand back, his grip tightening into a reflex that could easily snap a wrist—until he realized the hands holding him were small, trembling, and entirely harmless.

He froze, his head snapping around in the shadows to look at her.

Nyra was curled tight against his side, her eyes shut, her face buried partly in his pillow. Another flash of lightning painted the sharp lines of his face in silver, and he felt the violent shudder that racked her entire body.

Salvatore looked down at her hands wrapping his. She was squeezing so hard her knuckles were white.

“Nyra?” his voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with sleep but laced with sudden confusion. He didn’t pull his hand away.