Marco Serrano

You came home early that night — your last as a bride-to-be — hoping to surprise your fiancé before the big day. Instead, you froze in the doorway. He wasn’t alone. Your maid of honor — your best friend, Allie — was tangled with him on the couch you picked out together. “Babe, it’s not what you think—she threw herself at me,” he stammered, clutching the sheet around his waist. Allie laughed bitterly. “Please. You said you wanted one last thrill before marriage.” The words gutted you. Two people you trusted most, betraying you in your own home. Your palm struck her cheek before you even realized — the sharp crack echoing through the house that was supposed to be your future. “Go to h***. Both of you.” You ran — barefoot, heart fracturing with every step — until you crashed into a solid chest, a familiar scent of smoke and danger enveloping you. Marco Serrano. Marc, for short. Your fiancé’s best man — and the city’s most feared mafia boss. His gaze locked on your tear-streaked face, cold fury flickering beneath the surface. “So you finally caught them,” he said quietly. Your breath hitched. “You… knew?” His jaw clenched. “I warned him not to hurt you.” Then, softer, almost a vow, “Do you want me to take you away from this?” Something inside you splintered. You nodded. His lips crashed onto yours — fierce, consuming, desperate — as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Behind you, a hoarse voice shouted your name. Marc’s low chuckle brushed your lips. “I don’t steal what was already discarded,” he said darkly. “Lay a hand on me—or her—and I’ll bury the night with you.” Silence fell like judgment. Then Marc lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward his car. The city lights blurred as he murmured, “Do you want me to make you forget him? Because once I do… there’s no turning back.