Forced To Marry The Mafia’s Rival Heir

Chapter 8

Clara’s POV

The apartment felt like a cage after Robins left, the echo of his footsteps fading down the frontstep like a promise or a warning. I leaned against the door for what felt like an eternity, my breath coming in ragged bursts as I tried to steady myself. That last message from the blocked ID burned in my pocket like a live wire: “Enjoy your evening, Clara. But remember: secrets have a way of unraveling. Especially when they're kissed away.“ Who the hell was this? The Volkovs? Someone from my father's inner circle testing my loyalty? Or worse someone tied to Robins' own shadowed world, watching us both? The photo they'd sent earlier, capturing that intimate moment on the plaza, proved they were close. Too close. Paranoia clawed at me, but I shoved it down. Tonight was about us. About stealing a sliver of normalcy in this tangled mess of lies and legacies.

I glanced at the clock; thirty-five minutes left. No time to waste. I hurried to the bedroom, stripping off my campus clothes and diving into the closet. My fingers trembled as I selected the dress: a sleeveless emerald gown that hugged my curves like a second skin, the fabric shimmering under the light. The slits ran daringly up to my thighs, promising glimpses with every step; a bold choice, one that screamed confidence even as doubt gnawed at my insides. I slipped it on, the cool silk gliding over my skin, and paired it with five-inch pencil heels that made my legs look endless. My hair went up in a sleek bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame my face, softening the look just enough to balance the seduction. Makeup was quick but precise: smoky eyes to make my greens pop, a touch of red on my lips for that dangerous allure. As I stared at my reflection, I hardly recognized the woman gazing back; Angela, the carefree student, or Clara, the mafia princess playing with fire? Both, maybe. And tonight, I needed both to survive.

My phone buzzed again as I grabbed my clutch. I froze, heart in my throat. Another notification? I pulled it out, relief flooding me when I saw it was just a low-battery warning. But the earlier messages lingered like ghosts. “He's not who you think he is.“ I shook my head, locking the screen. No. I wouldn't let them ruin this. Robins had followed me out of concern, not malice. That hug, that kiss, it had felt real. Electric. Worth the risk.

I slipped out of the apartment, double-checking the locks, and hailed a cab to the restaurant. The city lights blurred past the window, an array of neon and shadow that mirrored my racing thoughts. What if the watcher was out there now, tailing me? What if Robins' reaction to those carvings meant he knew more about my family than he let on? The double-axe motif wasn't common; it was a Black family signature, etched into our history like a brand. If he recognized it... Suspense coiled tighter in my chest, but so did the anticipation. Forty minutes on the dot, but traffic had other plans. I'd be a few minutes late. Perfect. Let him wait, let the tension build.

The restaurant loomed ahead, a chic rooftop haven called Lumière, with twinkling string lights draping the terrace like stars brought to earth. I paid the driver and stepped out, the cool evening breeze teasing the slits of my dress. Heads turned as I entered, whispers followed, but I ignored them, my heels clicking with purpose across the polished marble floor. The host smiled knowingly, but before he could ask for my name, I spotted Robins. He was seated at a corner table on the edge of the terrace, the city skyline sprawling behind him like a dramatic backdrop. Candlelight flickered across his face, highlighting those sharp cheekbones and the faint stubble that made him look dangerously approachable. He waved subtly, his blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine.

I walked toward him, hips swaying in a deliberate strut, the gown's slits flashing just enough to tease. Seduction was my weapon tonight, a distraction from the storm brewing inside. It worked, his gaze darkened, tracing my form with undisguised appreciation. He stood as I approached, ever the gentleman, his white furry shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the toned chest beneath. "Angela," he murmured, voice like velvet over gravel. "You look... breathtaking." He took my hand, brushing his lips against my knuckles in a kiss that lingered, warm and possessive. All eyes turned to us, electricity sparked where his mouth met my skin, and I had to bite back a gasp.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice husky, laced with charm. "Sorry I'm a little late. Traffic conspired against me."

He pulled out my chair with effortless grace, his hand grazing the small of my back as I sat; a touch that sent heat pooling low in my belly. "Worth every second," he said, settling across from me. The table was intimate, set with crystal glasses and a single red rose in a vase, the ambient jazz music weaving through the air like a secret shared between us.

The waiter appeared almost immediately, menu in hand. Robins gestured to me. "Ladies first. What would you like?"

I smiled playfully, tilting my head. "You go ahead. I'm still deciding."

He shook his head, those blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "I could chat with you over a glass of wine all night. But you should eat something; keep your strength up." His tone dipped suggestively at the end, a flirtatious edge that made my pulse quicken.

Insistent as ever. I took the menu, scanning it quickly. "Fine, then. Coleslaw and a lap of roasted chicken. Light, but satisfying."

The waiter noted it down, then turned to Robins. "And for you, sir?"

"Just the wine for now," Robins said smoothly. "Two glasses of your most expensive vintage; the Château Margaux, if you have it." The choice screamed class, demeanor, old money whispers that echoed his watch from earlier. It was a power move, subtle but unmistakable, and it sent a thrill through me. Who was this man, really? Researcher by day, but with ties that screamed deeper waters.

As the waiter departed, Robins leaned in, his gaze holding mine captive. "So, tell me more about you, Angela. Beyond the clumsy wine-spiller and the brilliant critic of my research."

I laughed lightly, the sound genuine despite the undercurrent of suspense. "What do you want to know? I'm an open book." A lie, of course; my pages were redacted, hidden behind aliases and family secrets. But we danced around it, sharing surface truths that felt profound in the moment. He spoke of his passion for oncology, the late nights in the lab chasing breakthroughs that could save lives. I shared fabricated tales of my "classes," weaving in real enthusiasm for neuropathology to keep the connection alive. Neither of us probed too deep; no mentions of family, no hints at the mafia undercurrents that bound us unknowingly. It was a delicate balance, romantic and charged, like walking a tightrope over an abyss.

The food arrived, my coleslaw crisp and tangy, the roasted chicken succulent and perfectly seasoned. Robins watched me eat with a satisfied smile, sipping his wine slowly. "You have this way about you," he said between bites I insisted he take from my plate. "Like you're holding back a storm, but letting just enough out to keep things interesting."

My heart skipped. Was he sensing my secrets? "Maybe I am," I teased, taking a sip of the rich, velvety wine. It warmed me from the inside, loosening the tension. "And you? Mr. Mysterious with the perfect timing and the expensive tastes."

He grinned, but there was a dramatic depth to it, a shadow that made the moment suspenseful. "Guilty. But let's lighten this up. Tell me the worst date you've ever been on?"

The conversation shifted, cracking open into lighter, naughtier territory. I leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "Oh, easy. A guy took me to a fast-food joint and spent the whole time talking about his ex's 'assets.' Yours?"

He threw his head back and laughed, a rich sound that drew envious glances from nearby tables. "Blind date set up by a colleague. She showed up in a wedding dress; said it was 'ironic.' Turned out she was actually getting married the next day. To someone else."

I burst out laughing, the wine making everything funnier, warmer. From there, the jokes escalated into dirty, nasty quips about romance, s*x, and relationships that had us both in stitches. "You know," I said, wiping a tear from my eye, "relationships are like fine wine. They get better with age, but if you spill them too early, you're just left with a stain."

He smirked, leaning closer. "Speaking of stains... that wine incident at the party? Best accident ever. Though if we're talking spills, I'd rather discuss other... fluids."

The innuendo hung in the air, charged and playful. I swatted his arm lightly. "Naughty! But fine; s*x is overrated until it's with someone who knows how to read the room. Or the body."

"Agreed," he replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "It's all about the chemistry. Like us; explosive from the start." Our laughter mingled, drawing us closer, the romantic pull undeniable. Each joke peeled back a layer, making us more affectionate, more intertwined. His hand found mine across the table, fingers interlacing in a way that felt both tender and possessive. The city lights twinkled below, but the world narrowed to just us, dramatic and intimate.

As the plates cleared and the wine glasses emptied, the evening wound toward its peak. Robins' expression turned serious, though his eyes held a vulnerable spark. He squeezed my hand. "Angela... this has been incredible. More than I expected. From the moment you spilled that wine, you've been in my head. I don't do this often; but I have to ask." He paused, dramatic tension building as he searched my face. "Will you be my girlfriend? Officially. Exclusively."

Shock hit me like a wave, followed by a heartfelt joy that bloomed in my chest. Me? The one who'd been crushing on him from afar, stalking his papers and his life under an alias? I'd assumed it was a slow burn for him; we'd just met at that party, texts and encounters building gradually. I didn't think he'd fall this fast, this hard. But here he was, proposing a relationship, his blue eyes earnest and hopeful. Deep down, my heart screamed yes; I was intoxicatingly in love, drawn to him like a moth to flame. But I couldn't seem desperate, cheap. Not with the secrets weighing me down.

I swallowed, my reply emotional and measured, voice soft with anticipation. "Robins... that's... wow. I'm flattered, truly. But I need to think about it. Just a little time, okay?"

His smile faltered for a split second, but he nodded, understanding flickering in his gaze. "Take all the time you need. But know this; I'm not going anywhere."

The moment hung, romantic and suspenseful, my internal conflict raging. As we lingered over the last sips of wine, my phone vibrated in my clutch. I ignored it at first, but curiosity and dread won out. Glancing discreetly under the table, the screen lit up with another blocked message: “Girlfriend? How sweet. But ask him about the crash, Clara. Before he proposes something deadlier.“

My blood ran cold. They were here. Watching us now.