IDNAPPED ON WEDDING DAY AND BONDED TO THE MAFIA KING

The Moretti estate was a fortress of glass and steel perched on the cliffs of the Hudson River. Armed guards patrolled the grounds, and the gates clanged shut behind us like the jaws of a beast. I was ushered into a bedroom that was a gilded cage of velvet and gold, plush carpets, a four-poster bed with silk sheets, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the turbulent river below. It was luxurious, but the door locked from the outside.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the lace of my dress feeling like it was strangling me. My mind raced. Why me? What did Eric Moretti want with a woman like me? I was no one special, just the daughter of a failing businessman.

An hour later, Eric entered. He had discarded his jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the corded muscles of his neck and a hint of dark tattoos snaking across his chest. He tossed a manila folder onto the duvet beside me.

"Read it, Seraphina. All of it."

I opened the file with trembling fingers. My world didn't just crack, it disintegrated. Inside were bank statements, photographs of Daniel at underground gambling dens run by the Volkov Syndicate, and finally, the contract.

The words blurred before my eyes. Daniel owed three million dollars in gambling debts. To settle it, he had pledged the Rossi family assets, and me.

"Upon the wedding night, the bride, Seraphina Rossi, shall be delivered to the Volkov Syndicate for a 'First Night' auction. Opening bid, two million dollars. Balance of proceeds to be split between the Syndicate and Daniel Whitmore IV."

"He didn't just sell me to cover his debt," I whispered, the paper fluttering from my hand. "He wanted a profit. He wanted an extra two million dollars for handing me over to be auctioned."

"Five million dollars," Eric said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight making me roll toward him. His presence was overwhelming: the heat from his body, the intensity in his eyes. "That is the value your fiancé put on your life. He was going to let the Russians bid on your virginity while he went back to his penthouse to count his share."

I looked at him, tears finally spilling over. "And what about you? Why did you stop him? Are you going to keep me as collateral now? Am I just another debt you're collecting?"

Eric reached out, his thumb catching a tear on my cheek. His touch was surprisingly gentle, yet his eyes were a storm of possessiveness. The contact sent a shiver through me, a mix of fear and something warmer, more dangerous.

"I've spent twelve years making sure you stayed pure for a man who deserved you," he rasped. "I watched you graduate, I watched you work, I watched you live. I stayed in the shadows because my world is blood and ash, and I didn't want to stain you."

He leaned in, his scent overpowering my senses. "But when I saw that contract, when I realized a cockroach like Whitmore was going to sell what I've worshiped from afar, I realized I was done being a guardian. I'm taking what's mine."

His words ignited a fire in my belly. "Yours? I'm not a thing to be taken!"

Eric's hand moved from my cheek to my neck, his fingers tracing the pulse that raced there. "Not a thing, Seraphina. A treasure. And treasures are guarded, or stolen by those bold enough to claim them."

Before I could respond, his lips brushed mine, a teasing, feather-light touch that left me breathless. It was my first real taste of him, and it was intoxicating. But he pulled back, his eyes dark with restraint. "Not tonight. You need time to process. But know this, I will wait as long as it takes."

He left me alone, the door locking behind him. I collapsed onto the bed, my body humming from that brief contact. Daniel's betrayal stung, but Eric's promise terrified me more, because a part of me wanted him to keep it.

The night stretched on, my mind a whirlwind. I paced the room, the silk sheets beckoning, but sleep eluded me. Eric's touch lingered on my skin, a ghost that made my heart race. Was this Stockholm syndrome, or something real? The contract lay on the floor, a reminder of Daniel's cold calculation. Compared to that, Eric's obsession felt like fire, dangerous, but alive.

In the Moretti family, tradition dictated loyalty to the code, omertà, the silence that bound them. Eric had broken it for me, an outsider. What would that cost him? The mafia's "Ten Commandments" flashed in my mind from stories I'd heard, no cooperation with police, respect for wives, always available for the family. Eric was defying the core by choosing me.