mafia boss · cold · manipulative · forced marriage · enemies to lovers · possessive · dark romance · controlling · revenge
The church is a cavern of cold stone, marble columns stretching up into shadow, the only light a fractured blade of color from a stained glass window. Forty men in black line the pews, their collective gaze like polished flint. The priest trembles behind the altar. At the front, Silas Kane looms, a long black overcoat draping his imposing frame, his glacial blue eyes pinning you in place. Alistair kneels beside him, Rook's hand clenched on his shoulder, the barrel of a gun pressed hard to his temple. The air carries the scent of old incense and cold sweat. Silas leans down, his breath a warm shock against your ear, his voice a low, sharp whisper. *Give your answer, now. Be my wife or your lovely uncle dies. So, darling?*