The Mafia Boss’s Forbidden Lover

Isabella's POV

I'm standing at the door of Haven Books, staring at the string lights in my hands, wondering if I should add one more.

"That's enough, Isabella," I mutter to myself. "You've already hung three."

Even as I say it, I wrap the fourth strand around the doorframe anyway. The thin copper wire is sharp, cutting into my finger and drawing blood. I stick my finger in my mouth without thinking, tasting iron on my tongue.

"Careful there." Ezra from the grocery store next door pokes his head out. "You're more nervous about this anniversary party than most brides on their wedding day."

I smile around my finger, words coming out muffled. "Three years is important."

And tonight Marcus might...

I don't dare finish that thought out loud. Saying it might jinx it.

The autumn evening light slants through the bookstore. Dust motes float in the golden beams like countless tiny stars. I breathe in deep—paper, leather, the settled scent of years. This is the smell I know best, the one I love most.

The store isn't large. Two rows of shelves divide the space into three sections: bestsellers and new releases near the entrance, my carefully curated secondhand books in the middle, and at the very back, the rare collection Mom left behind. Her photograph hangs on the wall—she's wearing her apron, holding a soft brush, head bent as she cleans the spine of an old book.

Mom, can you see this? The store is three years old.

When she died three years ago, I didn't think I'd make it. This bookstore was her life's work. The old books, the restoration tools, the techniques she taught me—they all became my only anchor. Every day I mechanically opened the doors, arranged the shelves, helped customers. The motions were practiced, but I felt like I was walking through an empty shell.

Until Marcus appeared.

That was two years ago. He pushed through the door, said he was looking for an out-of-print collection of Rilke's poetry. I spent two weeks tracking it down. When I found it, he smiled and said, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to come back and see you."

I froze. My face burned like it had caught fire.

After that, he became a regular. He'd make me coffee when I was drowning in work, leaving it silently on the counter. He'd comfort me when I got upset over a damaged book. He'd stay after closing to help me count inventory. He said he loved my quietness, the way I looked when I was restoring old books.

"You're like these books, Isabella. Quiet, but full of stories."

I remember when he first said that. I was using a soft brush to carefully clean a nineteenth-century copy of Andersen's Fairy Tales. He stood behind me, watching for a long time, before speaking those words softly.

I think I fell in love with him in that moment.

Six months ago, I was organizing Mom's copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets. It was heavy, with a deep red hardcover and gold lettering that gleamed warmly under the lights. I planned to display it in the window, so I checked it extra carefully for any moisture damage or mold.

When I opened to the title page, I saw the ring tucked into the spine's hollow.

My hand froze mid-air. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst from my chest.

It was a silver ring with a small sapphire at its center. I lifted it out carefully, examining it in the light. Inside the band, two words were engraved: Soul Mate.

Soul mate.

I covered my mouth, almost unable to suppress a scream. This was so like Marcus—hiding romance in unexpected corners. He must have slipped it in when I wasn't looking, preparing for a special moment. Maybe tonight?

I remember my hands shaking as I placed the ring back in the spine and closed the book. That night I barely slept, my mind replaying the scene of him on one knee, pulling the ring from the book.

Don't overthink it, Isabella. Maybe it's just coincidence.

But I couldn't help myself.

For six months, I've checked that book almost every day, making sure the ring is still there. Sometimes when Marcus visits, I watch his movements, wondering if he'll go to that shelf. He does, but each time he only flips through other books casually before walking away as if nothing happened.

I thought he was waiting for the perfect moment.

The bell chimes, pulling me back to the present.

I turn to see Marcus walking in. He's wearing a navy suit, tie perfectly knotted, hair combed neat. Under the lights, his features are especially defined. He's carrying white roses.

"Hey." He smiles at me, that gentle smile with its hint of exclusivity. "For the most beautiful bookstore owner."

I take the flowers, my fingertips trembling slightly, my heartbeat losing its rhythm. "You always do this."

"Because you deserve it." His hand settles gently on my waist, and he kisses my forehead. "You look beautiful today."

I glance down at myself—simple beige dress, hair just casually tied in a ponytail. "Don't I look beautiful every day?"

"Every single day." He smiles, his gaze sweeping the store. "You've done a wonderful job. Your mom would be so proud."

My eyes sting slightly. He always knows what to say.

"Guests should be arriving soon?" he asks.

"Yeah, any minute now." I place the flowers in a glass vase by the counter. "You look a bit tired today?"

"A little." He rubs his temples. "Work's been busy lately."

"Then you should go home and rest early tonight." The words are barely out before I hear the disappointment in my own voice.

Maybe tonight isn't the night for a proposal.

"No." He takes my hand, looking at me seriously. "Tonight is important. I won't miss it."

My heart starts racing again.

Is he going to...

"Let me help you set up chairs." He releases my hand and heads toward the storage room.

I watch his back, taking a deep breath.

Don't be nervous, Isabella. Everything will be perfect.