In The Wrong Mafia Don's Bed

Damien POV

The corridor of the main wing was a suffocating tunnel of shadows and heavy Persian rugs that swallowed my footsteps. From the silk-lined walls, the oil portraits of past Moretti Dons stared down at me, their cold eyes judging my every move. I had just spent hours playing the dutiful groom, parading a bride I didn't want in front of our enemies and allies alike. My grandmother, Elena, thought she could leash me with this farce of a marriage. She was wrong.

I rounded the corner toward the honeymoon suite, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached.

"Don Moretti."

I stopped. Carl, Elena’s most loyal butler, stood in the middle of the hallway. He held a silver tray bearing a single crystal glass of amber whiskey.

"What is this, Carl?" I asked, my voice dangerously low.

"A blessing from the Matriarch, sir," Carl said, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. "From our homeland in Sicily. To grant you strength for the night."

I stared at the glass. I wasn't a fool. I knew exactly how desperate Elena was to secure an heir and prevent me from annulling this union on the grounds of non-consummation. The drink was laced.

"Leave us, Luca," I ordered my bodyguard without looking back. Luca hesitated for a fraction of a second before retreating into the shadows.

I looked back at Carl, letting my absolute contempt bleed into the air between us. I was the Don. No drug, no pathetic manipulation could break my iron will. I picked up the glass. Maintaining dead-eyed eye contact with the trembling butler, I downed the burning liquid in one swallow. It tasted like ash and bitter herbs.

I slammed the empty glass back onto the silver tray. "Thank her for her hospitality."

I didn't wait for his response. I strode toward the heavy mahogany door of the suite and pushed it open.

The moment the door clicked shut behind me, the drug hit my bloodstream like a freight train. My vision swam, a primal, uncontrollable heat clawing at my veins and setting my blood on fire. The room was a cavernous tomb, smelling of cedar, expensive leather, and the sickeningly sweet scent of roses.

Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of a woman tangled in the Egyptian cotton sheets of the four-poster bed. My supposed wife. I didn't care about her face in the dark. I only cared about finishing this transaction and purging the poison from my system.

I stripped off my suit jacket, the drug violently stripping away my legendary control. I didn't offer gentle words or soft touches. I took what was legally mine with ruthless, punishing efficiency. Driven by the unnatural, burning chemical surge in my veins, the act was entirely devoid of tenderness and over far too quickly. My body, usually a machine of endless stamina, betrayed me under Elena's toxic dosage.

I rolled off, my chest heaving, staring up at the dark vaulted ceiling as the haze began to recede, leaving behind a throbbing, vicious headache.

Beside me, the woman shifted. She sounded groggy, confused, as if waking from a deep daze. Then, she spoke. Her voice was a soft, hesitant whisper in the dark.

"It's okay... you were great."

I froze. The sheer audacity of the pity in her tone was like a physical blow to my chest.

Before I could even process the insult, she kept digging her own grave, her voice laced with a sickening mix of awkwardness and sympathy. "You were just in such a rush. It's alright; you'll have plenty of time to learn how to take your time."

A deadly silence descended upon the room. The remnants of the drug evaporated, replaced instantly by a cold, murderous rage. She thought I was weak. She thought I was defective.

I lunged. My hand snapped out in the dark, wrapping around her delicate wrist like a steel vice. I yanked her toward me, feeling her pulse instantly skyrocket in terror against my palm.

"You think I can't perform?" I hissed, my voice dropping to a lethal, icy register.