All Chapters of The Mafia King's Trophy: Chapter 1 - Chapter 8

AmaraThe blood drying on my wedding dress feels like it’s sealing me into this nightmare. I sit stiffly in the back of the SUV, the world rushing past the tinted windows as Matteo Dragonetti chats casually with the men in the front seat. His cousins, I think. I’ve tuned most of it out—his smug voice grates on me—but every now and then, his tone sharpens, reminding me that this isn’t over.I take in his side profile, even though I hate myself for doing it. My captor is all sharp edges and dark allure, the kind of man who looks like he’s stepped out of some brooding mafia fantasy. His jawline is sharp enough to cut glass, his beard perfectly trimmed, framing full lips that curve into that maddening, arrogant smirk far too often. His dark hair is artfully messy, like he just rolled out of bed but still manages to look better than anyone has a right to.The tattoos creeping up his neck draw my eyes in ways I hate. Dark, intricate lines snake over his skin, disappearing under the crisp

AmaraThe towel feels too heavy against my skin as I step out of the en suite bathroom, the steam curling around me like a suffocating blanket. I keep the towel wrapped tight, refusing to let this situation overwhelm me. I’ve scrubbed my skin raw trying to get rid of the blood, but I can still feel it. I can still smell it.My reflection in the mirror had been a reminder of everything that’s happened—blood still stuck to the roots of my hair, bruises forming where Matteo’s hands had yanked and dragged me.When I open the wardrobe door, I freeze. Inside, rows of clothes hang neatly on golden rods. Dresses, jeans, blouses, shoes lined up like soldiers on parade. It’s all pristine, untouched, like something out of a high-end boutique. My fingers brush against one of the tags, and when I look at the size, my blood runs cold.It’s my size. Every single piece right down to the underwear.I yank a pair of pants off the hanger and hold them up, then toss them aside and grab a blouse. Same th

MatteoThe whiskey burns on the way down, but it’s not enough to drown out the irritation buzzing under my skin. I slam the glass down on the parlor’s side table, the sharp clink echoing through the room. The fire in the hearth crackles, the only sound in the suffocating silence, but it does nothing to distract me from the gnawing thought eating away at me: I lost control.What the fuck was I thinking, going into her room like that? Threatening her. Taunting her.I rub a hand down my face, the tension in my shoulders refusing to loosen. She gets under my skin in a way I can’t explain, and I hate it. I hate how I felt the need to prove something to her, to remind her of her place. It was a moment of weakness, and I don’t do weakness. Not for anyone, and especially not for her.The door creaks open behind me, and I don’t bother turning around. Only one person in this house enters a room as quiet as a ghost.“You look like shit,” Markus says, his voice calm, almost detached, as he walk

AmaraIt’s been a week. A week of silence, of waiting, of wondering. The absence of Matteo Dragonetti isn’t a relief—it’s a torment.The food arrives three times a day, always on time, always brought by someone who doesn’t so much as glance in my direction. The quiet stretches endlessly, the silence in this room more suffocating than Matteo’s hand on my throat ever was.Every creak of the floorboards, every shadow under the door, sends my heart racing. Every night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, too afraid to close my eyes. What if he comes back? What if I wake up to him pinning me down again, that infuriating smirk on his face, the venom in his voice?It’s driving me insane.I pull my knees to my chest, staring out the window. The sun is high, bathing the garden in light, but it feels like a world away. A world I’m no longer part of.Then I see him.Matteo.He’s in the garden, his dark hair catching the sunlight, the sharp lines of his face softened by the light. My breath cat