“Fuck!” She finally said, still holding onto him.Don smirked. He was enjoying every bit of it and was not planning to stop anytime soon. He pulled out his fingers, gave her pussy a smack before thrusting it in again and increasing the strokes, not minding her pleas. ***Giulia (Julia) Buanchi, a stunning and daring woman has been used as a collateral to repay her father’s debt to a mafia leader. She has to serve him and do everything he asks of her.Donatello (don) Rossini reigns supreme as the merciless mafia lord, his dominance rivaled only by his new servant, Julia .They soon became entangled in a game of desire and seduction.Julia is now trapped in a world of deception and danger, one where the thin kin between love and loyalty grows weak.As she attempts to escape in hopes for survival, she is forced to face one dark truth: Don’s Obsession with her has the potential to either keep her safe or to destroy her.

The bruises on Meredith’s mother always looked like faded watercolors by the time they reached the "healing" stage—sickly yellows and muted purples. To Meredith, they were a map of a country she never wanted to visit again. As she stepped off the Tube at Temple Station, the humid, metallic scent of the London Underground clinging to her thrifted coat, Meredith adjusted the strap of her bag. It was heavy with textbooks, but heavier with the silence she had maintained since leaving her parents' cramped, shouting-filled flat. King’s College London. The name sounded like a sanctuary. To her, it was a fortress. She walked onto the Strand, the historic heart of the city, and looked up at the stone facades. She was a scholarship kid—the "charity case" with the highest entrance marks in the history of the faculty. She wasn't here for the parties or the networking. She was here to build a life where no man could ever tell her to shut up. Where no man could raise a hand and call it "love." The Shadow in the Lecture Hall The first few weeks were a blur of cold efficiency. Meredith was a ghost. She sat in the front row of every lecture, her hand the first to shoot up when a professor posed a complex question about international law or ethics. "Excellent point, Miss...?" Professor Sterling peered over his spectacles. "Meredith," she said, her voice like flint. She didn't offer a surname. She didn't offer a smile. Around her, the other students whispered. They wore designer loafers and carried lattes that cost more than her lunch for the week. They were soft. They were loud. And the boys—the boys were the worst. She watched them with a predatory stillness, noticing the way they took up too much space, the way they interrupted the girls, the way they assumed the world was theirs for the taking. She hated them all. But she hated Henry McFord the most.