The Mafia's Forbidden Bride

I woke to warmth. The kind that seeps into your bones, that makes you forget the rest of the world exists. Matteo's chest was against my back, solid and warm, his breath steady against my neck. His arm was draped lazily over my waist, his fingers tracing idle patterns against my skin. For a moment, I didn't move. I just let myself feel it-the impossible comfort of being in his arms, the quiet that only came after a storm. "You're awake," he murmured, voice rough with sleep. I smiled, eyes still closed. "You were drawing circles on my hip. Hard to stay asleep with that." He chuckled, the sound low and sinful, and pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "Maybe I wanted to wake you." I rolled onto my back, meeting his eyes. They were softer now, stripped of all the control and darkness he wore in front of the world. Just Matteo. My Matteo. "Careful," I whispered, brushing my fingers along his jaw. "You're starting to sound like you actually like me." His mouth curved, that small, dangerous smile. "Like?" His hand slid from my hip to cup my breast, thumb brushing my nipple until it hardened. His gaze darkened, even as his tone softened. "Piccola, you don't have the slightest idea what you do to me." The name-his name for me-sent a shiver straight through me. Before I could breathe, he leaned in and kissed me. Slow at first, savoring, then deeper, hungrier, like the taste of me was something he could never get enough of. The sheets tangled around us as his weight pressed me into the mattress, his hands roaming over bare skin, relearning every inch of me as though the night before hadn't been enough. I gasped when his lips trailed lower, across my throat, down to my chest, his teeth grazing until I arched for him. "Matteo..." I moaned, already melting, already gone. "Shh," he hushed, kissing his way lower, his voice husky with promise. "Let me take care of you, piccola. Again. And again... until you can't forget who you belong to." When it was over, I curled against him, breathless and stupidly happy, like maybe the world outside didn't matter. But then he spoke. "I'm leaving today." The words hit like ice water. I sat up. "What?" "Florence. Business trip. Father insists." He said it so casually, like he hadn't just shattered me. Instead, I swallowed the ache and smiled. The kind of smile you practice in mirrors, the one that hides more than it shows. "When are you leaving?" My voice was soft. Too soft. "Couple of hours. Father's jet." Matteo stretched lazily, like the weight of his absence meant nothing. He brushed his lips over my temple as if it would make up for everything. "Don't miss me too much, piccola." I forced a laugh, light and playful, the kind a sister might give a brother she adored. "Oh, please. Don't flatter yourself. I'll enjoy the quiet while it lasts." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. He smirked, clearly satisfied, and slid out of bed. I sat there clutching the sheets, watching him button his shirt. Every movement was torture, a reminder that soon this room would feel too big, too empty. I got up, wrapped in my robe, and followed him downstairs. I slipped into the role expected of me: the sweet sister, dutiful, loyal, sending him off with a smile. Only-sweet sisters don't ache for the touch of their brothers. Sweet sisters don't memorize the curve of their brother's mouth in case it's the last time they kiss it. At the car, he hugged me. His cologne clung to my skin, familiar, addictive. He pulled back just enough to press a kiss to my forehead. "Be good while I'm gone." I smiled again, steady, unshaken. "Always." And then I let him go. I stood at the driveway, watching the car disappear, the mask slipping the moment it turned the corner. My chest hollowed out, leaving nothing but the memory of his hands on me, the echo of his voice calling me piccola. I told myself it was fine. That I'd wait. That this was what sisters did-see their brothers off with grace. But deep down, I knew the truth. Sweet sisters don't burn this way. Two days later, I was in the library when the murmur of voices broke through my concentration. I glanced up from my open book, my eyes narrowing as I caught two maids whispering near the shelves. Their tones were hushed, conspiratorial, and I almost ignored them-until I caught one word. "Engaged." My chest tightened. I rose slowly, slipping between the rows of shelves, feigning disinterest as I plucked a book and pretended to scan its spine. My ears strained for every word. "They say Signor De Luca is engaged in Florence," the younger one said, excitement dancing in her tone. "To the daughter of the Moretti family. A perfect match." My hands froze around the book. The older maid sighed wistfully. "Of course it is. The Ricci family is powerful, influential. And she's beautiful. Didn't you see her at the gala? They say the entire family attended the ceremony already." My throat closed, but I forced a smile as I turned toward them, hugging the book against my chest. "You girls are up early with your gossip." My voice was light, too light. The younger maid blushed. "Forgive us, Signorina. We didn't know you were here." I tilted my head, keeping my expression calm though my heart was thundering. "This engagement... are you certain?" They exchanged a glance before nodding. "Yes, Signorina. The family all went. We just assumed you stayed back because you already knew," the older one said carefully. My stomach flipped. They thought I knew. I smiled tightly. "Of course. I was... busy with work. Couldn't make the trip." A lie. A flimsy shield. I didn't wait for their response; I walked away with what dignity I could gather, though my legs shook beneath me. By the time I reached my room, my composure shattered. I grabbed my phone, fingers trembling as I typed his name. Matteo De Luca. The headline flashed before my eyes, merciless and clear. Heir to the De Luca empire engaged to Mia Moretti in Florence. The picture burned into me. Matteo, impeccably dressed, was standing beside her. The same woman he had danced with at the gala. Her smile radiant. His hand resting over hers. I dropped the phone onto the bed as if it scalded me. My vision blurred with tears I hadn't wanted to shed. My Matteo. My secret. My betrayal. The walls of the room closed in, suffocating me. I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of my throat. That explained the trip Serafina had embarked on yesterday. When I finally dragged myself together, I went to Serafina. She was arranging flowers in the greenhouse, her elegance infuriatingly serene. "Why didn't you tell me?" My voice cracked, though I tried to keep it steady. Her head tilted slightly, eyes cool and calm. "Tell you what, Isla?" She smiled. "That he's engaged. That the family already went to Florence without me. That I wasn't even thought of enough to be told!" She sighed, as though I were being dramatic, and smoothed a petal between her fingers. "It was an impromptu arrangement, nothing more. These things happen quickly, and Matteo is-well, Matteo. You know how duty works." I laughed bitterly, though it sounded broken. "Duty. Right. And I'm supposed to just smile and accept that the one person I..." I swallowed the rest, forcing my face into something, more detached. "It doesn't matter. I only thought I deserved to know as a member of the family." Her gaze lingered on me for a moment too long before she turned away, dismissive. "I'm sorry, Isla" That was all she said. By the time Matteo came to my room that evening, my grief had hardened into fury. He pushed the door open without knocking, his broad frame filling the doorway, his expression unreadable. "Isla, we need to talk." I shot to my feet, the sting in my chest burning hotter than tears could soothe. "Talk? About what? About how you danced with her at the gala while I watched like a fool? Or how you were in Florence getting engaged while I stayed here, waiting for scraps of your time?" His jaw tightened, eyes darkening. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this-" "Don't!" My voice cracked, but I held my ground, glaring at him through the blur of unshed tears. "Don't feed me excuses. You could have told me, Matteo. You should have told me." He stepped forward, closing the space between us, his voice low and urgent. "It wasn't my choice, Isla. You know how these things work. My father-" "Your father?" I laughed bitterly, sharp and hollow. "Since when have you ever bowed to Alessandro's commands? You fight him at every turn, but suddenly now, when it comes to her, you just... obey?" His silence was damning. Guilt flickered in his eyes, though his lips pressed into a hard line. I felt the floor tilt beneath me, my breath hitching. "You promised me," I whispered, softer now, the venom draining into raw hurt. "You promised I'd never be alone. That it was you and me against the world." His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for me but didn't dare. "It still is. Isla, you don't understand what's at stake. This-this engagement, it's politics, it's business. It's survival." "And what am I, Matteo?" My voice broke entirely, the words spilling like a wound that wouldn't close. "A shadow you keep in the dark? A secret you can't even name? Or just the charity case your family took in-loyalty to the dead, nothing more?" Pain carved across his features. "Don't you dare call yourself that. You are more to me than anyone else, Isla. You always have been." "Then prove it!" I snapped, tears streaming down my cheeks. "Prove it, Matteo! Because right now, all I see is you smiling next to her like I never mattered." He crossed the room in two strides, too close now, too overwhelming. I backed up until the edge of the bed caught me. His scent-cedarwood, musk, and something distinctly him-wrapped around me, blurring the edges of my anger with dangerous familiarity. "You think I wanted this?" His voice was low, rough, almost a growl. One hand braced against the wall beside my head, caging me in. "You think any of this was my choice?" "Then why didn't you fight it?" My chest heaved, tears burning my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "Why do you let them decide everything for you? For us?" For a moment, silence. Then his hand lifted, cupping my chin, forcing my eyes up to his. His touch was gentle, infuriatingly so, though fire burned beneath it-like he was both restraining himself and unraveling all at once. "I fight every damn day, piccola," he rasped, his thumb brushing the corner of my trembling lip. "But you-you're the only battle I don't know how to win. You undo me." My chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, his nearness suffocating and intoxicating all at once. His words brushed against my lips, his restraint hanging by a thread I almost wanted to snap. "Tell me to go," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And I will." But my throat locked. I couldn't form the words, couldn't push him away when my heart screamed for the opposite. Instead, I whispered, broken and furious all at once, "Damn you, Matteo." And then I pulled him to me. Or maybe he moved first-I couldn't tell. All I knew was the crash of his mouth against mine, hot and desperate, anger and grief tangled into reckless surrender. The kiss wasn't gentle-it was punishment and apology fused together. His hand slid into my hair, tugging, anchoring me as though he feared I'd vanish if he let go. My fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, hating him, needing him still. But then Florence intruded-the image of him standing beside her, the whispers of his engagement wrapping around my ribs like chains. The truth was a blade, and I let it cut through the haze of desire. I pushed against his chest, trembling but firm. "Stop." Matteo froze, breath heavy against my cheek, his hand still tangled in my hair. His eyes searched mine, raw, desperate, begging me to take it back, to let him stay. I swallowed the ache and forced steel into my voice. "Leave, Matteo." For a heartbeat, he didn't move. Then his jaw clenched, and without another word, he turned and strode out, the door slamming shut behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the bed, pressing a hand to my mouth as the sobs finally tore free. I cried until my chest ached, until my throat burned, until there was nothing left but the hollow echo of his absence. The sheets still carried his scent, cruel and familiar, and I curled into them as though they could anchor me. But the truth was unrelenting: he was promised to another, and all I had left was the ghost of a kiss that had already felt like goodbye.