In The Wrong Mafia Don's Bed

Francesca 'Frankie' Griffin POV The night before... I shoved Leo backward, the heavy oak door of his suite clicking shut behind us, severing us from the oppressive, oil-painted corridor of the Moretti estate. His room was a jarring monument to spoiled playboy excess. Limited-edition sneakers lined the walls, a sleek PS5 sat idle in the corner, and a fully stocked open bar gleamed under modern recessed lighting. It was a frat house wrapped in a billionaire's budget, a stark contrast to the blood-soaked legacy of his family. I walked straight to the bar and poured two measures of Grappa into crystal glasses. "The Sicilian Nuptial Toast," I said, my voice flat, holding a glass out to him. "Drink." Leo scoffed, crossing his arms over his silk Versace robe. He looked at the glass like it was poison. "Fuck your toast, Ice Queen. Damien and I have an arrangement. This marriage is on paper only. I’m not doing any archaic blood-binding bullshit with you." I didn't argue. I simply closed the distance between us. Before his arrogant smirk could fully form, I grabbed his wrist, twisting it into a brutal, calculated Krav Maga joint lock. Leo gasped, his knees buckling instantly under the agonizing pressure. I forced him downward until he crashed hard onto the leather sofa. I shoved the crystal glass into his trembling hand, leaning over him. "Drink," I commanded, the ice in my tone leaving no room for negotiation. Humiliation flashed in his dark eyes, but the physical pain kept him pinned. He raised the glass, his arm crossing over mine for the traditional sip. But as the rim touched his lips, he erupted into a violent, hacking cough. I instinctively pulled back, my eyes darting away for a fraction of a second to avoid the spill. When I looked back, he was wiping his mouth, his glass empty. I downed the burning liquid in my own glass, unaware that his shot was currently soaking the soil of an expensive potted majesty palm beside the sofa. I thought I had won. I thought I had tamed him. Hours later, the illusion shattered. The room was pitch black. Leo had thrown a blanket on the floor near the window, determined to keep his precious distance and preserve his twisted sense of freedom. I lay in the massive king-sized bed, but sleep wouldn't come. Instead, a terrifying, unnatural fire began to claw through my veins. My skin burned as if I were standing too close to an open furnace. My pulse roared in my ears, drowning out the silence of the room. My breath came in short, ragged gasps. The Grappa. Elena Moretti. The old woman had spiked the toast. It wasn't just alcohol; it was a potent, chemical command designed to ensure this union was consummated, stripping away my legendary self-control and leaving only raw, feral instinct. Rational thought evaporated, replaced by a predatory need that demanded to be fed. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the plush carpet. Leo heard my ragged breathing. He sat up, his silhouette stiffening in the pale moonlight filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "What the hell are you—" I lunged. My Krav Maga training fused seamlessly with the drug's violent heat. I tackled him to the floor before he could even scramble to his feet. He thrashed, panic contorting his handsome face as my weight pinned him down. "Frankie, stop! Are you insane?!" he yelled, his voice cracking with genuine terror. I didn't speak. I couldn't. I ripped the heavy gold Rolex from his wrist, tossing it blindly into the dark. He tried to push me off, but he was soft—a pampered prince who had never fought for his life. I yanked the silk tie from his Versace robe, dragging his arms above his head with a strength that terrified even me. "No, no, please!" he begged, thrashing wildly as I bound his wrists tightly to the heavy mahogany leg of the bedframe. He was completely trapped, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a fear he had never known. I tore the silk of his robe apart, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet room. The drug demanded a sacrifice, and the broken boy beneath me was the only prey left in the dark.