The Mafia's Forbidden Bride

The ride home was silent. Too silent.

Matteo drove, his hands firm on the wheel, his jaw set in stone. The city lights streamed past the windows, throwing fleeting shadows across his face. I sat with my hands clasped in my lap, staring out the window. My mind replayed the images-him with her, the way our-his parents had so pleased, Bryan's calculating gaze as though every move tonight was another play on his chessboard.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Finally, I turned my head, my voice barely above a whisper. She was beautiful.

His hands tightened briefly around the steering wheel, but he said nothing.

The silence lingered, the air between us grew thick with everything unsaid till we got home. He didn't look at me as walked through the grand entryway of the de Luca estate, the sound of our footsteps echoing off marble floors like gunshots in the stillness.

I barely got two steps into my room after a quick bath, the steam still clinging to my skin, before the door slammed shut behind me with a resounding crack.

Matteo.

He stood there, body tense. His eyes-usually a storm contained-were dark, raw, and unreadable. His jaw was clenched so hard I thought his teeth might break. It was obvious: he'd just come from another clash with Alessandro.

I turned my back to him, casually, adjusting the tie on my bathrobe in front of the mirror. My hands moved to my face, dabbing moisturizer with slow motions as though he wasn't there burning holes into me.

"What?" I said flatly.

"Was that fun for you?" His voice was low, dangerous, laced with something far more than anger. "Letting him touch you like that? Letting him look at you? You were all smiles and laughter."

I paused, my hand hovering over the jar of cream, before slowly meeting his reflection in the mirror. One brow arched in mock confusion. "Excuse me?"

"You know exactly what I mean."

A bitter laugh escaped me, sharp and cutting, masking the way my pulse skittered. "Oh, I'm sorry, Matteo. I didn't realize my entire existence was yours to control."

His fists clenched at his sides, his voice rising, taut with fury. "Is that what you think? I'm controlling?"

I spun toward him, eyes blazing. "Oh, you tell me, Matteo."

"I'm trying to protect you."

"Protect me?" My voice cracked, anger spilling in my chest. "From what? From living? From breathing? Or is this just you taking out your rage at your father on me?"

The words hit their mark. His face flinched and for a second, I thought he would walk out of my room. But instead-

He moved.

One step. Two. Slow and calculated. My breath hitched as my back hit the wall with a dull thud, and suddenly his hands were framing my face. His breath was hot, uneven, his control unraveling before my eyes.

"Don't," he whispered harshly, the word trembling with restraint. "Don't ever compare me to him. You don't know what you do to me, Piccola."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "Then tell me."

Maybe it was the challenge in my tone, the way I refused to look away. Maybe it was the years of restraint. But something snapped.

His mouth crashed against mine.

The kiss wasn't soft. It was fire-wild, consuming, years of tension combusting in an instant. His hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, while my fists gripped his shirt like I could fuse us together. The taste of him drowned me, salt and whiskey and something dangerous I couldn't name.

When we broke apart, I was shaking, lips swollen, breath ragged. This wasn't innocent anymore and we both knew it.

"Matteo-" I tried to speak, but the word broke into a gasp as his lips traced the line of my jaw, down the column of my neck, each touch scorching, leaving me undone.

"This is wrong," he muttered against my skin, though his hands betrayed him, sliding over my waist and lifting me up. "So damn wrong."

"Then stop." My voice trembled, defiant and pleading all at once. "Stop if you mean it."

But he didn't. Neither did I.

His mouth devoured mine again, rougher, hungrier, his control obliterated. And I... I loved it.

We stumbled blindly, knocking into the desk, the lamp shattering to the floor with a sharp crash. His teeth grazed my lower lip, and I thought I might come undone right there.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" His growl vibrated against my ear, raw, desperate with need.

"Then show me," I breathed, my body arching into his touch. Any ounce of self-control he had then flew out the window. He loosened my robe, baring my skin, and pressed me against the wall with his body caging mine. His finger slipped between my thighs, finding me already wet, a guttural sound tore from his chest.

"Already soaked, Piccola," he hissed, pushing a finger inside me, slow, deliberate. "Pathetic. You were waiting for this, weren't you?"

I tried to answer, but all I managed was a moan as he worked with long, tortuous strokes, curling his finger until my knees threatened to give out. He didn't speed up. Instead, he pulled out just as I was spiraling, leaving me clenching around nothing.

"Matteo, please..." I whispered.

"Beg louder," he commanded, his lips brushing my ear as his free hand squeezed my breast, pinching the nipple until I gasped.

"Please, Matteo. I need you."

He smirked, satisfied, before sinking to his knees. His mouth replaced his fingers, his tongue parting me, slow and devastating. My hands flew into his hair, pulling, guiding, but he held me still, forcing me to endure every languid lick, every tease. When he finally sucked my clit into his mouth, I screamed, my legs trembling around his shoulders.

"Come for me, piccola," he growled against my slick heat. The vibrations of his voice shattered me, pleasure ripping through me so violently I nearly collapsed, but he held me firm, drawing out every last wave until I was shaking.

I barely had time to catch my breath before he was on me again, lifting me off the ground and pressing me against the wall. His trousers were already undone, his cock heavy and straining against my stomach.

"You're mine," he said, the words harsh as he slammed into me in one brutal thrust. I cried out, nails clawing at his back, the stretch burning, overwhelming, perfect.

He set a merciless pace, each thrust driving me higher against the wall, his grip on my thighs bruising, his mouth devouring mine. Every sound he made was raw-groans, curses, my name rasped like prayer.

"Piccola," he gasped, forehead pressed against mine, sweat dripping between us. "You'll never let anyone else touch you like this. Only me. Say it."

"Only you," I sobbed, the words breaking as he angled deeper, hitting the spot that made me scream.

Pleasure coiled tight, unbearable, and when he pinched my clit between his fingers, I shattered around him, crying out his name. He followed, grinding into me as he spilled deep inside, his hoarse groan muffled against my neck.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence, our bodies trembling against the wall, slick with sweat, hearts hammering. He didn't let me go. His lips brushed my temple, softer now, almost reverent.

"My little piccola," he whispered again, but this time it sounded less like punishment and more like possession.