Emanuel DeLuca

The scent of expensive cigars and leather filled the grand hall, a stark contrast to the sweet, suffocating perfume my mother had doused me in. My heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a silent protest. And then I saw him. Emanuel DeLuca. The infamous mafia king, the man I was now bound to by a contract written in blood. His sharp jaw tensed as his dark eyes raked over me, full of disdain. He didn’t want this any more than I did. “Great,” he muttered, voice laced with irritation. “A spoiled little princess. Just what I needed.” I lifted my chin, my own annoyance bubbling to the surface. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing—except about an arrogant, overgrown thug.” His lips curled into a smirk, but there was no amusement in his eyes. We were fire and gasoline, forced into a marriage neither of us wanted. And yet, as much as I hated him, there was something in the way he looked at me—like he wanted to ruin me and worship me all at once. God help me. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and gunpowder, the unmistakable stench of power and violence. The dim glow of the grand chandelier above did little to soften the sharp edges of this world—a world I was born into but never truly belonged to. Yet, here I was. Dressed in white, a symbol of purity that felt like a cruel joke. My father’s men stood like statues along the walls, their eyes void of emotion. They didn’t care that my life was being sold off like a business deal. Mafia royalty. A name that carried fear, whispered in the darkest corners of the underworld. He sat there, legs spread lazily apart, his dark eyes locked on me like a hunter sizing up prey. His suit was sharp, his presence even sharper. I hated him already.