A Virgin For The 3 Mafia Bodyguards

Chapter One 

Nina’s POV

It rained on the day we buried my mother.

Not a soft, gentle rain.

The sky opened like it was angry, dropping cold water on black umbrellas, wet faces, and the fresh brown soil that waited for her coffin.

Cameras flashed in the distance.

Long black cars lined the road.

Security men stood everywhere with dark glasses and hard faces.

My father stood in front of the grave like a statue, jaw tight, fingers clenched around his umbrella. His black tailored suit was soaked at the edges, but he didn’t move. 

The governor was beside him, other powerful men standing close, murmuring prayers that sounded fake and far away.

I stood a little behind them, under an umbrella one of the aides held for me. My black dress clung to my skin. My heels were sinking into the mud.

People were crying.

Cousins. Aunties. Church members.

Their wails rose with the sound of the rain, filling the air until my chest felt tight.

But I couldn’t cry. My eyes burned, but the tears stayed stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

“She wouldn’t like this,” I whispered under my breath. “She always hated the rain.”

“Nina.”

A hand touched my elbow. Warm. Familiar.

I turned and saw Josh, my high school boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, I corrected in my head, but we never actually said the word “breakup.” We just… stopped.

He wore a black suit that fit his broad shoulders too well. His hair was wet and messy, raindrops sliding down his jaw. There was pity in his eyes, and something else. Something sharp.

“Come,” he said softly. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” I muttered, though my fingers were numb. “I want to stay.”

“You can’t even feel your feet,” he said. “Look at you, you’re freezing.”

He took the umbrella from the aide without asking and slipped his hand down to my wrist, his fingers closing around it. Firm. Not painful, but not gentle either.

“Just five minutes,” he said. “You need air.”

There was no air. Only rain and mud and perfume and the heavy smell of wet clothes and grief.

I looked back at the grave. The priest was still talking. My mother’s name floated through the rain and hit me like a slap.

I swallowed and let Josh lead me away.

He moved fast, weaving through the crowd. Journalists tried to come closer, but the security men pushed them back. I heard my father’s name, then mine, then the word “assassination” hissed like a curse between microphones.

We passed the line of cars and entered the side building of the cemetery, a small white structure with peeling paint and a metal door. I had never noticed it before.

Josh  opened the door and pulled me inside.

The room smelled of dust and old flowers. There was a single narrow window high on the wall, and the rain beat against it like fingers.

He closed the door behind us, shutting out the noise. The sudden quiet made my ears ring.

I wrapped my arms around myself. My dress was soaked. My hair stuck to my neck.

For a second, the reality hit: my mother was in that box outside. She was not sitting in the kitchen, humming, or texting me to ask if I had eaten.

“She’s really gone,” I breathed.

Josh  turned to me slowly. His eyes softened.

“Nina,” he said, and this time my name sounded like it used to in high school, when he would whisper it against my ear behind the classroom.

He stepped closer and cupped my face with both hands. His palms were warm, rough from the gym.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I know how much you loved her.”

The words cracked something inside me. My vision blurred.

“I should have been with her,” I choked out. “I was in the hostel, reading anatomy, and she was…” My voice broke. “She died alone in that car.”

“You couldn’t have known,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t your fault. Your father… your father should have…”

“Don’t talk about him,” I snapped.

He paused, then sighed and pulled me into his chest. My forehead hit his shirt. I smelled his cologne, that same woody scent he always wore, mixed with rain and sweat.

“It’s okay,” he murmured into my hair. “Cry, babe. Just cry.”

I stood stiff for a moment. Then the first tear slipped out. Just one, but it burned like acid on my skin.

My fingers twisted the front of his shirt. A sob rolled out of my chest, small and ugly. He stroked my back, murmuring, “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

For a few seconds, it felt good to lean on someone, to not stand straight like my father, perfectly stiff for the cameras. I pressed my face harder against him, letting the pain shake me.

Then I felt it.

His hands started moving lower. From my back to my waist. From my waist to the curve of my hips.

My body froze.

“Josh,” I whispered, pulling back a little.

“It’s okay,” he said, voice thicker now. “I’m just… I’m here.”

He tilted my chin up with his fingers. His eyes were dark, searching my face, then dropping to my mouth.

My heart stuttered.

He leaned in and kissed me.

The kiss was sudden. His lips crashed into mine, hard, wet from the rain. There was nothing gentle in it. No space. No air.

My brain went blank for a second. Then all the alarms in my body went off at once.

I pushed at his chest. “Stop,” I mumbled against his mouth. “Josh, stop.”

He didn’t. His arm tightened around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The wall dug into my back. His mouth moved over mine, urgent, like he was trying to swallow the grief out of me.

“I said stop,” I snapped, turning my head away.

He broke the kiss with an annoyed sound. His breath was rough. His pupils were blown wide.

“What?” he demanded.

“I don’t want this,” I said. My lips felt swollen. “Not now. Not here. My mother is being buried outside.”

He stared at me like I had just slapped him already.

“We’ve been dating for three years,” he said slowly. “Three years, Nina.”

“And?” I shot back, hugging myself.

“And you keep saying you want to wait,” he said, his voice rising. “Always waiting. Always ‘not now.’ When is it going to be now?”

My chest tightened. “Why are we even talking about this today?”

“Because I’m a man,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward his chest. Then his hand dropped lower, toward the front of his trousers, in a rude gesture that made my stomach turn.

“I’m a man with needs, Nina. I can’t just keep standing around, smiling for pictures and pretending I don’t feel anything.”

Anger flashed through my grief, hot and sharp.

“I am burying my mother,” I said. Each word came out clipped. “I can’t breathe. I can’t think. And you are talking about your needs?”

He laughed once. Cold. “Of course. It’s always about you, right?”

“What is wrong with you?” I whispered.

He stepped closer again, eyes narrowed. “You know, sometimes I think you enjoy torturing me. Always kissing, teasing, then pulling away. ‘I want to wait.’ ‘I’m not ready.’”

“Because I am not ready,” I repeated. “And you said you respected that…”

“I tried,” he cut in. “Three years, Nina. Three years of hotel dates and late-night calls and me going home alone. You think I’m a robot?”

He reached for me again, fingers grabbing my wrist.

“Let go,” I said, trying to pull back.

“Come on,” he said, leaning in. “Let me at least make you feel better. You’re tense, I can help you relax.”

“Josh, no,” I snapped.

But he was already lowering his head, aiming for my mouth again.

I twisted my face away. His lips landed on my cheek instead, sliding toward my ear. His free hand moved up my side, fingers bunching the wet fabric of my dress.

My skin crawled.

“Stop it!” I jerked my arm, but his grip tightened, bruising.

“You don’t understand,” he said harshly, voice hot against my ear. “I keep waiting and waiting, and you think I’m not human. I am. I’m flesh and blood. I’m tired of pretending.”

“You promised,” I said, anger shaking my words. “You promised you would wait with me.”

He snorted. “Yeah, and look where that got me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his eyes wild.

“That’s why I go out,” he burst out. “That’s why I fuck other girls, Nina. Because you keep locking your legs and locking your heart and leaving me hanging.”

The words hit me like a punch.

For a second, the room spun.

“You… what?” My voice came out small.

His jaw clenched. “You heard me.”

My hand moved before my brain could stop it.

The slap echoed in the small room. A sharp, clean sound that cut through the heavy air.

His head snapped to the side. A red print bloomed on his cheek.

He stood there, breathing hard. Rain beat against the window, loud and fast, like it was clapping for me.

Slowly, he turned his face back to me. His eyes were darker now. Hard. The boy I used to know was gone. This was someone else.

“You slapped me,” he said in a low voice.

“You deserved it,” I shot back, even though my hand was trembling. “You think you can cheat on me and then come here, on my mother’s burial, and try to use my grief to get what you want?”

He took one step forward.

I stepped back until my shoulders hit the wall.

“Josh, don’t,” I warned.

His hand lifted, fingers curling tight, like he was about to hit me but before he could reach me, we heard loud sounds of gunshots and commotion.