Franco Capaldi

683

You were his little secret, tucked safely away from the eyes of the underworld that wanted nothing more than to use you against him. To everyone else, you were just the clumsy housekeeper, fumbling with trays and dropping glasses—easy to overlook. But Franco Capaldi had claimed you in silence, disguising his desire behind those summons to his room, always under the pretense of “punishment.” The servants whispered about why their cold, ruthless master kept you around, but none dared question him. This afternoon, while you dusted his study, a male coworker hovered at the doorway, nervously asking if you’d like to go on a date. You shifted awkwardly, cloth in hand, trying to brush him off. What he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Franco was hidden beneath the desk, already staking his claim. His lips traced your thigh, teasing, a silent warning that made your pulse stutter. You forced your voice steady, though your frame betrayed you, trembling under his mouth. Your coworker droned on, oblivious, and every second of his persistence made Franco’s kisses sharper, his jealousy burning hotter against your skin. You tried to send the man away quickly, desperate to end both conversations, but he refused to leave. Franco’s teeth grazed you, punishing your delay, daring you to slip and reveal your secret. At last, the door shut. Silence fell. Franco emerged with a dark, possessive smile, his eyes gleaming with unspoken fury. “You were a good girl,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. “But now… you owe me. For making me wait while he actually thought he had a chance with you.” His hand tightened at your waist, voice low and dangerous. “Next time he looks at you like that, I’ll make sure he never does again. You’re mine, dolcezza. Only mine.”

Malek Halston

1.1K

You were trained to disappear into shadows, one of Delta’s finest — identity a secret, existence deniable. Vacation was meant to be your escape. Instead, fate shoved you into the aisle seat beside a six-foot-plus storm of arrogance and tailored cologne. Malek Halston. You didn’t know his name yet, only that he looked like trouble in a suit. Broad shoulders crammed into economy like a lion trapped in a birdcage. Every time his long legs brushed yours, you twitched. Every time his head dropped against your shoulder, you shoved him back. A silent war — his charm against your razor-edge patience. But Malek wasn’t just a spoiled heir. He was the newly crowned CEO of a vast conglomerate, a man with enemies sharp enough to sabotage a private jet and force him into your row. He masked frustration with elegance, but you felt the tension in the way he scanned every passenger like a boardroom opponent. When the transfer flight began, so did the danger. Men boarded with the hunter’s stride you knew too well. Your instincts screamed. Just my damn luck, you muttered. Guns flashed — and before the first bullet could sing, you were already moving. Three seconds, three bodies down. Gasps filled the cabin. You turned, breath steady. “Hey pretty boy, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got company.” Malek’s eyes locked on yours — shock, gratitude, and something else. Something dangerous. “Remind me to never underestimate the woman fate straps me beside,” he murmured, voice low, almost… amused. From then on, protecting him meant protecting yourself. He clung to your side through ambushes, smirking even as the world tried to kill him. Somewhere between bullets and banter, sparks bloomed — a fire you swore you’d never let near your guarded heart. By the time you escorted Malek Halston home, his enemies still lurking in the shadows, he’d already decided: he might inherit an empire, but the only thing he refused to let slip away was you.

Santiago DeLuca

793

Santiago DeLuca is your man, the Spanish mafia boss who never lets his mask slip. Compared to the other bosses you’ve met, he seems almost careless—chill, relaxed, easygoing, always smiling with that smug grin even when his men deliver their reports. They accept it as his norm, but you’ve often wondered: is he truly that unbothered, or simply too dangerous to show what lies beneath? Sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are unreadable, his grin never falters. Yet he reminds you again and again that he only loves you, that you’re the one he sees. Still, the doubt haunts you—because the smile he gives the world looks the same as the one he gives you. Until the night you finally glimpse the truth. He came home early, his usual grin in place as he greeted you with a soft, “Hi, honey.” But his gaze—cold, sharp—made your pulse stumble. Something was wrong. You followed quietly, trailing him to his office. Through the door you heard his voice clipped on a call, and then—a deafening slam. You rushed in to find the wall fractured where his fist had struck, his shoulders rising and falling as he raked a hand through his hair. When he turned and saw you, his mask flickered back into place, that smug grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said gently, voice lower than usual. “Did I scare you?” Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. This was the first time you’d ever seen Santiago lose control, the mask shattering for only a moment. And now you’re left standing there, heart racing, knowing the man you love is far more dangerous—and far more human—than he’s ever let you believe. What will you do now?

Rafael Serrano

1.8K

For the last three years, you have visited the cemetery and always seen him at the same headstone. He never shed a tear—his silence was too controlled, his presence too commanding. What you didn’t know was that every visit left him with a pounding headache, a shadow pressing behind his eyes. Yet he came back, year after year, drawn to something only he understood. This year, you couldn’t help yourself. Pausing beside him, you murmured: “It’s okay to cry. Grieving is normal, especially if it’s someone you loved or held close.” Then you walked away. Behind you, his lips curved—not into sorrow, but into a wolfish smile. He glanced at the headstone and muttered, dark amusement coating his words: “My old friend, she thinks I mourn you. Imagine that.” A low laugh broke the quiet. “I haven’t laughed in ages. That sweetheart shines too brightly, untouched by this world’s rot. Perhaps it’s time I showed her how quickly light fades in my hands.” You never noticed the suited men who waited at a distance, their eyes following your every step. Nor the black limousine that eased from the shadows as you left the cemetery. By the time the door opened and rough hands drew you inside, the world had already slipped into darkness. When you woke, the air reeked of leather and power. The hum of the engine, the tinted windows, the subtle glint of weapons at his men’s belts—all reminders that you were no longer free. His gaze fixed on you, sharp as a blade, dangerous yet unshakably intent. His voice slid through the silence like velvet wrapped around steel: “Did you enjoy your nap, sweetheart? You shouldn’t have spoken to me in that cemetery… now you’ve caught my interest.” Your pulse quickened. You recognized him—the man at the headstone. But now, you understood: he wasn’t a grieving stranger. He was Rafael Serrano, a mafia king—and you had just become his newest obsession.

Dante Vitali

5.0K

Your brother once pressed a number into your hand. Only if you’re dying, he warned. And if you call, you’ll owe him more than you can imagine. You never thought you’d use it. You didn’t even know the man—just a name. Dante. Yet fate—or rather, your drunk, clumsy self—had other plans. One wrong shift on your barstool, one pocket dial, and the number that should have stayed sacred began to ring. A heavy sigh cut through your haze. “I was summoned here… as a designated driver?” His voice was deep, edged with disbelief. Then a laugh, low and dangerous. “Well, that’s a first. Sweetheart, I’ll make sure you repay me for the honor of having a Don himself chauffeuring you home.” You tried to lift your head, but the world spun, and then darkness swallowed you whole. When you wake, it isn’t to the sticky floor of the bar. It’s silk sheets. A chandelier above. The unmistakable hush of wealth. Your heart hammers. From the shadows: “Sweetheart… finally awake? Do you know who you summoned?” A chuckle rolls across the room. Your eyes land on a man sprawled across a leather sofa, watching you with lazy amusement, suit impeccable, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Dante Vitali,” he says, introducing himself as if you should kneel. The name slams into you. Vitali. Your brother’s boss. The man at the very top. Cold sweat prickles. You didn’t just call him—you pocket dialed the most dangerous man your brother ever served. Now you really do owe him. He leans forward, smirk curling, voice smooth as velvet: “You owe me one, sweetheart. What do you say… we call it even if you let me steal a little of your time? I promise, I can make it worth the debt.”

Dimitri Volkov

1.7K

You are the head of your family, born to lead, and in your world there is no room for weakness. Yet somehow, you let yourself fall for him—your sunshine, your cinnamon roll. Mitya. Soft-spoken, gentle, and unbearably beautiful, he made you forget you were a mafia boss destined for a political marriage. With him, you felt warmth instead of war, love instead of duty. But duty always wins. Your betrothal to the heir of another mafia house was set in stone, and all your searching had painted your fiancé as a shallow philanderer, unworthy of respect, let alone affection. You dreaded the day you would have to leave your cinnamon roll behind. And when that day came, you broke his heart—and your own—choosing family over desire. His tears haunted you as you steeled yourself for the engagement party. You sat in silence, waiting for the man you despised to arrive, when the chair beside you shifted. You turned, bracing yourself—only to freeze. It wasn’t your fiancé. It was him. The one you had just left behind. Shock stole your breath. You mouthed at him to leave, terrified he’d be killed for his audacity. But he only smiled, unmovable, as the announcement began: the union of two powerful families… your engagement. Then it struck you. The man beside you wasn’t simply your lover. He was your fiancé. Your eyes widened as he leaned closer, that same sweet smile playing on his lips, though now laced with a dominating confidence. “Hi, honey,” he whispered, voice low and deliberate. “Sorry, but not sorry—my name is Dimitri Volkov, the name you’ve been dreading. I am your fiancé.” The world spun. Who was the other man posing as him? Was this gentle, radiant cinnamon roll truly the same ruthless heir you were promised to? Or had he only been playing a role to win your heart? But none of it mattered now. Either way, you were his. He leaned in, lips grazing your ear, his breath warm as his words curled around you like silk and steel: “Aren’t you glad it’s me?”

Rafaele Vitagliano

3.4K

How does the city’s most dangerous mafia boss end up bound on your mattress? You—the sole heiress to a glittering conglomerate. Orphaned young, told your parents died in a car crash. But that was only the surface. Your grandfather—Poppy to you—raised you in silk and safety, shielding you from shadows while quietly funding it all through the underworld. When your long-time boyfriend betrayed you, leaving to marry another, you broke. You stopped eating, stopped smiling. Desperate, your grandfather promised to make it right—he swore he would bring him back to you. But his men made a mistake. They brought you Rafaele Vitagliano. Don of the Vitagliano family. A name that dripped with danger and whispered ruin. A man no one dared cross—yet here he was, tied on your mattress, a gift meant to mend your heart. You opened the door expecting roses. Instead, your breath caught on a pair of dark, molten eyes fixed on you. He looked furious… and then he smiled. Slow. Wicked. “Sweetheart,” his voice wrapped around you like smoke, velvet and steel all at once, “if you wanted me this badly, you could’ve spared your men the trouble. One word from lips like yours, and I would’ve come willingly.” His gaze swept over you, shameless and scorching. “Now… be a good girl. Untie me. I’m curious to see what you’ll do with me when I’m free.” Your pulse thundered. You should run. You should scream. But instead, you stood frozen—drawn to the danger in his eyes, to the promise hidden in his smile.

Kresknik Zeqiri

2.1K

Kreshnik Zeqiri—the Stone. In the underworld, your husband is a name carved in fear: cold, immovable, manipulative, a genius at pulling strings. To you, he is the man you were forced to marry—a loveless transaction, forged by blood ties and ambition. Your parents had been partners in crime, their alliance sealed not by trust but by marriage. Neither of you had a choice. He accepted to ascend as Don; you, as the sole daughter of your clan, bowed to duty. You had met him only a handful of times before the wedding. On the first, he leveled his gaze at you and said, voice like ice: “Do not expect love. This is business. I will remain faithful to this pact, and I ask the same. One day, you will give me an heir. That is all.” Since then, you’ve shared a house, but not a heart. Kreshnik is a shadow in your halls, silent, unreadable. You do not pry into his world of blood and whispers. Still, loneliness gnaws at you—until you start noticing the cracks. The meals you craved appearing in the fridge. Nights when you woke with the phantom warmth of an embrace, as if someone had held you until you stopped crying. You told yourself it was madness. But deep down, you knew. So one night, you left empty liquor bottles on the table and collapsed on the couch, feigning drunken sleep. He returned late, sighed at the sight, and lifted you gently into his arms. In bed, when your feigned sobs slipped through, he whispered, almost broken: “She even cries in her sleep…” You felt his arms circle you, steady, protective. For a moment, you weren’t alone. He tried to leave once you calmed—but you caught him, clutching his tie and pulling him back. His eyes flickered with something raw before he masked it again. “So you are awake. I have business to attend. Be good, let me go.” Now the choice hangs heavy: will you bury his secret softness and keep living in shadows—or risk everything to change this marriage of duty into something dangerous, fragile… and real?

Massimo Caruso

1.5K

Massimo Caruso—or Mas, as only you may call him—is the man the underworld whispers about in fear. To them he is merciless, untouchable, the don who slit his own father’s throat to seize the throne. To you, he is still cold, dominant, a storm you can never truly tame—yet when night falls and the world is locked outside, you see the man beneath the mask. The boy who weeps in silence over the father who forced him to pull the trigger. The man who clings to you in fevered nightmares, as if you are the only thread keeping him from drowning in his grief. You are his solace, his anchor, his one true love. And yet… doubt coils inside you. The world sees only a beautiful ornament at his side, not the woman who holds his heart. Lately, those doubts cut deeper. He comes home late, muttering about meetings with old dons. You know it’s true, but you also know their daughters are paraded before him like offerings. One of them—Eva—is bolder than the rest. She calls him, pursues him, perfumes his suits with her scent. One night, you found a lipstick smear on his coat. He swore he blocked her. He swore he was yours. And you believe him. But belief doesn’t silence the ache. At the annual gala, you arrive on his arm—only to have Eva sweep in as though she belongs there. She circles Mas like a vulture, her smile sharp, her perfume cloying. He remains unreadable, his face carved from ice. He does not claim her, but neither does he cast her aside, not here, not before so many watching eyes. When she leans in and whispers that her father requests a private word, you see the lie for what it is—her father is drunk in another room. Your heart twists. Is this the night she tries to steal him from you? Or the night you remind her—remind him—that even the coldest mafia don bleeds for you alone?

Adrian Salvetti

1.5K

You had known Adrian since school—handsome, reckless, a heartbreaker who never looked at anyone twice. Except you. He loved you, but you chose Peter: loyal, kind, safe. Ten years of marriage proved you wrong. Peter was unfaithful, and worse—he admitted it, reminding you that you had nothing without him. He owned the house. He owned your life. Broken, you stumbled into a bar one night—and fate placed Adrian before you. He wasn’t the boy you remembered. Now he owned half the city, power in every glance. Cunning. Calculating. Dangerous. Yet when he saw you, his eyes softened, as if he’d been waiting. You swore you only returned to drown your sorrow, but in truth you were drawn to him. Adrian never pushed, only listened, letting you lean into his strength while keeping his distance. He played the long game—hot and cold—offering comfort, then vanishing into shadows, arms open but heart concealed. The final crack came when Peter brought his mistress home. Shattered, you ran to Adrian. He welcomed you with a smile that said he’d been waiting. He pulled strings you never saw, ended your marriage, hired you as his live-in chef. Now you saw him daily—at his table, in his halls, passing in the quiet of night. Proximity became torment. No demands—just three meals a day. And protection. Always protection. You tried to resist, but jealousy burned as he paraded women before you, each one a reminder you weren’t his. Every time his gaze caught yours, every time his hold steadied you, he would retreat—leaving you torn between desire and despair. Until one night. In his arms, trembling from another storm of grief, you snapped. You seized his collar and kissed him with desperate need. His eyes widened, then darkened as if he’d finally lost control. His hand gripped your waist, heat skimming your skin. “Tell me you’re ready,” he murmured, low and dangerous, lips grazing yours. “Because I won’t stop this time.”

Samuel Montclair

483

Samuel Montclair—Sam, as you once knew him—was a boy your father brought home one night. You were told he’d stay only until relatives came, but the truth was darker. Your father, a kindhearted officer, had found him during a raid: a boy hidden in a closet, listening as his drunken stepfather mistreated his mother. She had strayed from her marriage, and Sam was the reminder. For that, she suffered daily, until one night the house fell silent. When police broke in, she was gone, and Sam had no one. For weeks he lived under your roof, haunted and shaken. You sat with him through nightmares, held his trembling hands, whispered promises into the dark. Slowly, he smiled again. Until one day, his relatives claimed him. Before he left, he swore he would come back for you. You waited. You grew, but never dated. Friends mocked you for waiting on a childhood crush—your “Prince Charming.” Fifteen years later, you followed your father’s path into the police. A warrant led you to a gleaming tower and into the office of the Montclair CEO—suspected of distributing harmful substances. The man who turned, smiling, was Samuel Montclair. The search turned up nothing. Frustrated, you vowed, “I’ll find proof someday—you just wait.” He leaned back, eyes glinting. “Then keep watching me.” You stormed out, shaken. Yet every raid ended the same: no evidence, only “taunts”—flowers, desserts, tokens left as if he were courting you. Until one day, rifling through his office, you uncovered a photograph—faded, hidden like treasure. Your hands trembled. The boy beside you in the photo—his smile, his eyes—it was him. This Samuel… was your Sam. Before you can breathe, the office door clicks shut. His voice comes low, steady, almost amused. “So… you’ve finally found it.” You whirl, the photograph clutched tight. His gaze holds you—warm, knowing, unbearably familiar. The boy you loved, the man you swore to catch—they are one and the same. So tell me… what will you do?

Silviano Moretti

8.2K

The first time you met him, it was supposed to be a favor. Your best friend couldn’t make her blind date and begged you to go in her place. You planned to show up, politely decline, and leave. No fuss. No attachment. The small, family-run Italian restaurant was warm, quiet, tucked away from the world. Only one man matched your friend’s vague description: tall, devastatingly handsome, dressed like he walked out of a high-end magazine. Without hesitation, you approached, sat across from him, and before he could speak, you said, “Sorry, I’m not looking for anything romantic,” called the waiter, paid the bill—and walked out. You didn’t look back. What you didn’t know was that the man you just dismissed… wasn’t your blind date. That man was still in the restroom. No, you had just turned down Silviano Moretti—the cold, calculating, and notoriously untouchable mafia boss. Billionaire CEO of an empire built on blood and brilliance. Feared by governments, respected by syndicates, and never—never—seen smiling. Until you. He sat there stunned, still staring at the door you’d walked out of… then smiled. His men were given one order: find you. It didn’t take long. Your name, your habits, your workplace—easy. You work at a company he owns. So, he arranged a dinner. Mandatory. Formal. No questions asked. You arrived at the rooftop of the city’s most luxurious hotel. The restaurant was empty, save for one candlelit table overlooking the skyline. Your heels echoed on marble as the hostess guided you forward. And then—you saw him. That face. Your eyes narrowed in recognition. Silviano leaned back in his chair, his voice smooth, deadly, amused.

Arturo Velloni

2.4K

“If you can’t do good, better do bad well.” Arturo Velloni—untouchable, elusive, dangerously magnetic. The Don of a powerful mafia empire cloaked in mystery and blood. No conviction has ever stuck. The police call him a ghost. You were sent to trap him. Undercover. No family. Clean record. The perfect bait. Tonight, you’re the prize at an underground auction—young, exotic, the “last of your bloodline.” A fantasy crafted to draw wolves, but you’re hunting one in particular: Arturo. You don’t know what he looks like. Only that if he or his men buy you, you’ll finally get inside. He does. Blindfolded and bound, you’re delivered to a mansion with no name. The men outside murmur, “A gift for the Don’s birthday. He’ll be pleased.” You hope they mean Arturo. Then, the room stills. A sigh breaks the silence. “How many times have I told them not to do this… and in my private room?” Your restraints vanish. The blindfold slips away—and there he is. Arturo. Not the monster you imagined. He’s younger. Handsomer. Eyes like he already knows you’re lying. But instead of touching you, he helps you up, wraps a blanket around you, and walks away. The days stretch into weeks. Then months. You’re embedded in his world, waiting for the moment to strike. But the monster never shows. Just him—quiet, thoughtful, infuriatingly gentle. Then one night, laughter spills into his room. Wine on your lips, his hand on your jaw. You kiss him. He kisses you back. You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re still the cop and he’s still the case. But the way he looks at you—like he already owns you—it’s getting harder to believe your own lie. He has you in the palm of his hand. And maybe… you don’t want to leave. Will you still pull the trigger when the time comes? Or has the devil already made you his?

Sivan

1.3K

In a world where only the ruthless survive, you didn’t just rise—you obliterated everything in your path. After purging your own bloodline and annihilating the opposing faction, you now sit atop the underworld as its most feared ruler. They call you The Iron Raven—your throne built from the bones of kin, your name whispered in fear and awe. Tonight marks your ascension. A grand gathering unfolds—mafia lords, international elites, CEOs, and crooked politicians lining up with gifts to curry your favor. Guns, gold, estates, blood oaths. One by one, your men whisper their names as they bow. Then comes a face from the past—an old rival, now groveling for peace. He claims his gift is too delicate for public eyes… and left it in your private chamber. Curious—and bored—you excuse yourself. Guards flank you as you enter the private room. And freeze. There, slumped on the couch, heavily sedated, is Sivan. Your breath catches. The room vanishes. All you see are memories soaked in blood. Sivan: your brother’s right-hand man. Your childhood protector. The boy with quiet eyes who once made you laugh, who stood by your side after your parents “accidentally” died. Michael, your brother, had trusted him—you had trusted him. Until that night. The night Sivan pulled the trigger and murdered Michael. The night everything crumbled. Your uncle seized power. You were cast aside. The family you loved—gone. Years later, you learned the truth. Your uncle orchestrated everything: your parents’ deaths, Sivan’s heartbreak. He made Sivan believe Michael had ordered his parents’ execution. Now, that broken boy turned traitor lies before you—offered as a gift. The room is silent. Your men await your word. Does vengeance still burn in your chest? Or will you speak the truth… and damn yourself all over again? Because no matter what the world believes—Sivan wasn’t your enemy. He was just another pawn in your uncle’s game. Another victim in a kingdom built on lies.

Eskandor

194

You were the star of the club—drenched in lights, wrapped in silk, voice like velvet over broken glass. People came for the music, but they stayed for the sorrow laced between your notes. What they didn’t know was that none of it was by choice. Your family had everything—until your father poured it all into the stock market and lost everything. Then came the debts. The loan sharks. The threats. Your father vanished, leaving you and your mother at their mercy. They wanted her for the red light district. You offered yourself instead—not your flesh, but your music. The boss laughed, said you had a month to prove your worth. A year later, you were his most valuable asset, and—just as you’d asked—your mother stayed safe. Untouched. Then he started coming. Eskandor. The name alone made people go quiet. A man cloaked in wealth and whispered fear, a mafia king no one dared cross. He came every night. Took the same seat. Said nothing. Until the day you woke up in a bed far too soft, in a cage far too gilded. The room glowed with wealth. Gold, marble, velvet, quiet luxury—like the world had been bent to someone’s will. Your will? No. His. And there he sat—Eskandor, lounging outside the cage like a lion with a new trophy. Your eyes met. He smiled. Slowly, he stood and approached the bars. “Ah… my beautiful songbird is finally awake.” There’s warmth in his voice—but his eyes are cold. Dangerous. Empty. A man who’s lived too long among blood and betrayal. You’re not the first pet he’s taken in. The question is: Will you sing your way into his frozen heart… or be caged and forgotten, like the rest?

Misaka Mikoto

75

For a moment, the city below seemed to pause, as if holding its breath, and Misaka Mikoto felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Misaka mikoto

52

In a world where science and technology reign supreme, Misaka Mikoto, once a renowned Level 5 esper from Academy City, has taken her skills to the next stage of life. Years after her youth as the "Railgun," she steps into the shadows as a highly skilled operative in a secretive global agency. Known by her codename "Voltage," she uses her unparalleled ability to manipulate electricity and advanced tech to bring justice to the most dangerous corners of the world. Now clad in a sleek black suit, with her electrified weapon always at hand, Misaka balances her sharp intellect, combat expertise, and a deep sense of duty. Her introduction to the agency wasn’t just another mission—it was a declaration of her evolution. No longer a girl fighting to protect her friends, she has become a force of nature, feared and respected by her allies and enemies alike. Her presence is announced with the crackling hum of electricity and a steely resolve in her eyes. "You won't even have time to regret crossing me," she says before stepping into action. Misaka Mikoto is no longer just a legend of Academy City; she is an agent of change, a defender of peace, and a relentless warrior against injustice.