His Forbidden Heiress, Mafia Love Story

Sienna’s POV They say a bride should feel butterflies the night before her wedding. Me? I felt nauseated. Not from nerves, oh no, I wish it were that cute. My stomach was twisting because something about Damian had felt wrong for weeks. There were too many late-night “meetings,” too many excuses, too many “you wouldn’t understand, babe.” And apparently, I didn’t. Because there he was. My fiancé. The man my father said was my “perfect match,” the man who proposed in front of three hundred guests at a gala just so the media would eat it up. That same man was currently buried between the legs of a woman who definitely wasn’t me. And to top it off? She was moaning his name loud enough to wake the neighbors. How Pathetic! I froze in the doorway, veil still pinned to my hair from rehearsal, bridal heels dangling from my hand. I looked ridiculous, like the punchline in a cruel joke. All I could think was, wow, my wedding playlist should’ve included Beyoncé’s Irreplaceable. My throat burned, but not from tears. Oh no, Damian didn’t deserve my tears. He deserved a blunt instrument to the head, maybe, but not tears. Still, my heart cracked, because some stupid part of me, some naive, love-starved Sienna had hoped he would at least pretend to care. “Damian,” I whispered. Not loud enough to be heard. My voice didn’t work anyways. For some reason it felt like my lungs were closing up. I was legit choking on disbelief. I should’ve slammed the door, screamed, set fire to his imported silk sheets. Instead, I backed away quietly, my fingers gripping the doorframe until my knuckles hurt. My pulse was roaring in my ears. He didn’t even notice me, too busy breaking every vow he hadn’t made yet. I walked out without confrontation. Because what was the point? My father hadn’t picked Damian for his loyalty or his love. He picked him because of political power. Because Dominic doesn’t care about love, or me, or my heart. He only cares about image, legacy, and winning. And I, foolish Sienna, had agreed. By the time I made it home, my mascara was running down my face like war paint. Mara and Claire didn’t even look surprised when I stumbled into my apartment, veil still pinned to my hair. “Tell me you didn’t marry him.” Mara said, eyeing the state of me. “Better,” I croaked, dropping onto the couch. “Caught him with someone else.” Claire gasped dramatically. “I knew it! I told you his smile was too symmetrical. Only liars have teeth that perfect.” Claire stood up and went to get a bottle of wine. “He’s trash,” Claire said, handing me the bottle. “And not even recyclable trash. Like, landfill trash.” “Actually,” Mara chimed in, “I think he's a biohazard. Infectious. Should come with a warning label: may cause nausea, rage, and homicidal tendencies.” I let out a laugh that cracked halfway through. My best friends knew me too well, they could joke even when my world was falling apart. “Don’t you dare cry over him,” Mara warned, pointing her manicured nail at me. “You better stand him up. Let him look like the fool he is.” “Or,” Claire added with a wicked grin, “you could do something even better. Go out tonight. Find someone delicious. Let that loser know he didn’t ruin you. He just cleared the way for someone better.” I nearly choked on my wine. “Excuse me?” She wiggled her brows. “Maybe you might as well lose that pesky virginity problem.” I stared at them. “You want me to lose my virginity two nights before my wedding?” Claire shrugged. “Technically, it’s not your wedding anymore.” Mara lifted her glass. “To Sienna Cross. May she get laid by a man worthy of her.” I wanted to roll my eyes. I wanted to argue. But deep down, I also wanted to forget. Because if I sat here stewing, I would remember Damian’s smirk, my father’s disappointed glare, the way I had just detonated my entire life. “Fine,” I said, my voice wobbling between defiance and despair. “Take me out. Get me drunk. But I’m not sleeping with anyone.” Claire grinned like the cat who caught the canary. “We’ll see.” The club was pulsing by the time we arrived. It was chaos wrapped in neon lights. Music pounded through my veins, lights strobed across the crowd, and bodies moved like they were trying to sweat out their sins. The air reeked of perfume and alcohol. Mara dragged me to the bar while Claire scoped the dance floor for suitable candidates. I wasn’t ready. My heart still felt like shattered glass, and here I was, supposed to tape it together with cheap liquor and bad decisions. I ordered tequila anyway. Three shots later, the music blurred. I let Mara pull me onto the dance floor. For once, I didn’t think about Damian. Or my father. Or tomorrow. I just closed my eyes and moved. That’s when I felt it. A stare. It prickled the back of my neck, slid down my spine, and left goosebumps in its wake. I opened my eyes, scanning the crowd. And then I saw him. Tall. Broad. Dressed in a suit that looked like sin stitched in fabric. He leaned against the bar like he owned the place, drink untouched, eyes locked on me. Dark eyes. Dangerous eyes. My stomach flipped. He didn’t smile. Didn’t look away. Just watched, like I was something he couldn’t decide whether to devour or destroy. I should have looked away. Should have pretended I hadn’t noticed. But something about him rooted me to the spot. But like a storm cloud rolling in, Damian stood in front of me. His voice cut through the music, harsh and ugly. “What the hell are you doing here, Sienna?” My heart plummeted. Of course he had to find me. Of course he would ruin this too. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “You’re embarrassing me, running around like some cheap…” "Let go, Damian!” I snapped, yanking against his hold. People were staring, whispers rippling through the crowd. Where was Mara and Claire when I needed them? “You are my fiancé…“ “Don’t.” My voice shook, but I forced steel into it. “Don’t you dare call me that.” And then he was gone. Yanked off me and punched by the man built like a nightmare in Armani. Damian stumbled, clutching his face as blood streamed from his nose. The stranger from the bar stood between us, fists clenched, eyes blazing like fire in the dark. The stranger, my stranger drove his fist into his face again. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His presence screamed loud enough. Damian spat blood. “Who the hell are you?” The stranger moved closer, his voice low, lethal. “Someone you don’t want to meet again.” And then Damian was on the floor. The stranger didn’t stop until security swarmed. Even then, he stood over Damian like a predator assessing prey. When he turned back to me, my breath caught. “Are you hurt?” His voice was rough, like gravel dragged across stone. I shook my head, my throat refused to work. “Then leave,” he said, as if it were an order, not advice. But instead of leaving, I whispered, “Wait.” He looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was. But something in me didn’t want this moment to end. “I..I thank you,” I managed, my voice shaking. His expression didn’t change. No warmth, no softness. Just cold disdain . Then he walked away, swallowed by the crowd like smoke dissolving into air. We went home immediately. Back in my apartment, my friends babbled about how insane the night had been. But I barely heard them. My mind was stuck on him, the stranger who fought for me without knowing my name, who looked at me like I was both temptation and trouble. I told myself I was imagining things. That I would never see him again. But when I opened my bag to grab my phone, I froze. A folded piece of paper was inside. My heart hammered as I opened it, breath catching at the words written in bold, unfamiliar handwriting. Stay safe. That was it. No name. No explanation. Just two words that left me more breathless than Damian ever had.