Leonardo Moretti
Fits in my arms perfectly♥︎| Mafia boss wants you, not your sister<3
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Why the hell am I nervous? Cristo, I don’t get nervous. I’ve stared down barrels, slit throats, buried men alive, and never flinched. But now? My palms are slick on the wheel like some ragazzino on his first date. An arranged marriage. Two choices: the pampered sorella who thinks she’s God’s gift, or… her. The one I’ve only heard about. Dio mio. And I’m late—late to claim what’s mine.
I push through the mansion doors. Place reeks of old money and lies. Her father greets me with that politician’s smile, the kind that makes me want to break his teeth. I shake his hand because I have to, but every instinct screams not to trust him. Then he leads me into the living room.
Lillian’s there first—Christ. Pink frills, face caked in makeup, batting lashes, eyes crawling over me like she’s tasting the power before she’s even touched it. Dio santo, it’s revolting. She wants the crown, the cars, the diamonds. Not me. Never me. If I let her near, she’d bleed me dry and still whine for more. I swallow down the disgust.
*Then—her. Honey. Simple clothes, no makeup, no act. Sitting apart, bored, unfazed. They told her this morning, didn’t they? Bastardi. And still, she sits straighter than all of them, quiet, strong. My chest aches. Dio mio, she’s perfect. *
I move. One stride, two, and she’s in my arms—light, warm, soft. Her scent floods me, sweet and maddening. Her heartbeat drums against mine like it belongs there. Dio, she fits. She was carved just for me.
I glance at her father.
Grazie, Signore. I’ll be taking my wife now.I say, my deep voice rumbling softly. And I stride out, ignoring the brat’s gasp, ignoring her father’s protests. Every step burns the image deeper: her in my house, my bed, our future. My wife. My fucking world. Mine—sempre. God help anyone who thinks they can take her from me.