The Mafia Princess and Her Twin Bodyguards

CONTENT WARNINGS

This novel contains themes and content that may be disturbing or triggering to some readers. 

Organised crime / mafia violence 

Murder and execution scenes 

Graphic violence and injury 

Blood, gore, and descriptions of wounds 

Gun violence and shootouts 

Kidnapping and attempted kidnapping 

Attempted murder 

Terrorist-style attacks 

Mass casualty events 

Grief and bereavement 

Emotional trauma and PTSD symptoms 

Panic attacks and anxiety responses 

Familial betrayal 

Parent-child emotional abuse 

Physical assault 

Sexual assault 

Marital abuse and rape 

Toxic relationships 

Jealousy and obsession 

Morally grey protagonists 

Criminal protagonists 

Vigilante justice 

Revenge themes 

Power imbalance 

Explicit sexual content 

Open-door spice 

Multiple-partner relationship (MFM/MMF) 

Consensual polyamorous relationship 

Oral sex 

Anal sex 

Vaginal sex 

Double penetration 

Voyerism 

Praise Kink

Please consider your personal mental health before continuing. There will be no furhter warnings throughout the book.

Chapter 1

I had been dressed for sacrifice in white silk, diamond straps, and enough inherited expectation to choke a small country. 

The dress alone probably cost more than most people’s houses, which felt deeply offensive considering it barely covered my ass and required two women, a sewing kit, and what sounded suspiciously like prayer to get me into it. White silk clung to my body like a second skin beneath the ballroom lights, smooth and cool against my hips every time I moved, the fabric catching gold from the chandeliers overhead and turning almost liquid beneath the glow. Diamonds rested along the delicate straps at my shoulders, cold little points of light against my skin, while the slit running up my thigh apparently existed for “elegance,” though I strongly suspected it existed so old men with criminal empires could admire Alaric King’s daughter like an expensive acquisition before I was officially handed to another family. 

Nothing says romance quite like organised crime and couture. 

The ballroom smelled like roses, champagne, cigar smoke, and money, which, strangely enough, all carried almost the same scent after a while. Sweetness layered over rot. The string quartet played somewhere behind me, their music drifting through the enormous marble room in soft, sweeping notes while politicians laughed too loudly near the bar and armed men stood quietly along the walls pretending they weren’t armed men. Gold light spilled from the chandeliers overhead, catching against crystal glasses and polished black floors until the entire room glittered like something beautiful enough to forget it was dangerous. 

That was my father’s specialty. Danger disguised as luxury. 

I lifted my champagne flute to my lips just as my father’s voice landed beside me like a closing door. 

“Smile.” 

I swallowed the champagne first because experience had taught me that choking in front of Alaric King was interpreted as weakness rather than biology. 

“I am smiling,” I said lightly. 

“You look irritated.” 

“That’s because I’m at my own engagement party.” 

My father’s gaze slid toward me, pale and sharp enough to skin flesh from bone. “And yet somehow the evening continues.” 

I offered him my brightest public smile, the one perfected through years of charity galas, political dinners, funerals, business mergers, and endless social performances where I had been expected to stand quietly beside him looking beautiful and untouchable while men discussed power over my head as though I were another decorative object in the room. 

“Try not to sound too emotional, Father,” I murmured. “People might think you care.” 

His jaw tightened. 

A small victory on my part. 

I took another sip of champagne to hide my satisfaction while my eyes drifted across the ballroom toward my fiancé. 

Ettore Moretti was beautiful in the way expensive things often were. Polished. Sharp. Perfectly maintained. 

And entirely fucking insufferable. 

He stood near the centre of the room, surrounded by investors, politicians, and men from families old enough to have buried bodies beneath the foundations of half the city. Dark hair swept neatly away from his face beneath the chandelier light, every strand precisely in place despite the humidity rolling in from outside. His black tuxedo fit him obscenely well, tailored close across broad shoulders and a narrow waist, while the gold watch at his wrist probably cost more than my car. Women watched him openly when he moved through the crowd, and honestly, I understood why. Ettore looked like the kind of man romance novels lied about. 

The problem was that the second he opened his mouth, the illusion shattered. 

He knew exactly how beautiful he was. That was the disease. 

Confidence was attractive. Vanity made me want to commit felonies. 

He caught me watching him and smiled immediately, smooth and practised, the kind of smile that had probably destroyed twenty socialites and at least one model in Milan. 

I smiled back with all the warmth of a tax audit. 

“Your future husband,” my father said, as though the title itself should inspire gratitude. 

“He looks like he moisturises more than I do.” 

“He is politically valuable.” 

“Which is fortunate because personality-wise, he has all the appeal of wet cardboard.” 

“Valentina.” 

That tone. The warning tone. 

I almost rolled my eyes, but years of survival instinct stopped me just in time. 

My father exhaled slowly through his nose, already exhausted with me despite the evening barely having begun. “You will stop fighting this.” 

I stared into my champagne glass, watching bubbles rise toward the surface in frantic, desperate little streams. “I wasn’t aware I was winning.” 

Silence settled between us, heavy and familiar. 

Most people feared my father because he was powerful. Ruthless. Intelligent. The kind of man whose approval could build empires and whose anger could erase entire bloodlines before breakfast. 

I feared him because I knew exactly how little room existed in his heart for softness. 

My mother had died giving birth to my younger brother. The baby had died too. And whatever grief remained afterwards had calcified inside Alaric King until it became something colder than cruelty. He had lovers sometimes, beautiful women draped across his arm for charity functions and business dinners, but never for long and never with affection. Love, according to my father, was a structural weakness. A crack in the armour. Something men exploited and women drowned in. 

Unfortunately for him, I had inherited all the emotions he spent his life trying to kill. 

I wanted things. So many damn things. Freedom, for one. Noise. Mistakes. Excitement. I wanted to dance on tables and kiss strangers and drive too fast down coastal roads with music loud enough to drown out my own thoughts. I wanted to disappear for a week without security finding me. I wanted to wear tiny dresses because I liked them, not because they made shareholders happy. I wanted one reckless, selfish choice that belonged entirely to me. 

Instead, I got an arranged marriage and six armed guards standing near the exits.