Forced To Marry The Mafia’s Rival Heir

Chapter 6

Clara’s POV

The drive home with Chloe was a blur of her excited chatter. “Angie, who was that guy you were practically eye-f*****g by the entrance?” Chloe asked, one hand lazily gripping the steering wheel as she glanced over with a teasing smirk, her tone laced with playful accusation. But, I barely heard her. My thumbs flew across the screen, saving the unknown number as “Blue Eyes” before typing back.

Me: Sweet dreams to you too… though I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight.

The reply came almost instantly.

Blue Eyes: Same. That wine stain is still on my shirt. Guess your little oops moment refuses to come off, like a love note written in red.

I bit my lip to keep from grinning like an i***t in front of Chloe. She dropped me at the gated entrance of the family estate, waving as the wrought-iron doors closed behind her taillights. The moment the car disappeared, I kicked off my heels on the marble steps and padded barefoot through the silent house, past the armed guards who nodded without a word. Upstairs, in the safety of my bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed still in my dress, phone clutched to my chest like a talisman.

We texted until the city outside my window turned the color of ash and the first birds began to call. He sent a photo of the stained shirt draped over his desk chair, captioned “Wasn’t planning on this, but if I had…..that move would’ve unleashed some serious chaos vibe.”

I hit back with a selfie of my flushed cheeks and messy hair, captioned “Guilty AF.”

“No regrets tho…” he typed back, “This just got interesting”

I smiled at the text, I liked the way this convo was going.

He told me about the paper he was supposed to be writing on terminal neurodegenerative pathways; I teased that he was clearly distracted. He asked what music I fell asleep to. I lied and said classical, because the truth old-school R&B my mother used to play felt too personal, too Clara. He said he listened to jazz when he couldn’t sleep. We traded favorite quotes from medical journals until they dissolved into simpler things: favorite color (his: the green of my eyes; mine: the blue of his), favorite season, favorite way to ruin a perfectly good white shirt.

By the time the clock read 3:17 a.m., my eyes burned and my heart felt too large for my chest.

Blue Eyes: I should let you sleep, Angela.

Me: Don’t you dare.

Blue Eyes: Then stay with me a little longer.

I did. Until the sky outside turned pale rose and my phone died in my hand, the last thing I saw was his final message:

Blue Eyes: Dream of me.

I woke to sunlight slicing through the curtains and the dull throb of too little sleep and too much hope. University lectures dragged like sitting in trafic. I sat in the back row of the anatomy theater, pretending to take notes while actually rereading our chat thread for the hundredth time. Every time his name lit up my screen with a new good-morning message, a ridiculous smile took over my face.

Good morning, clumsy girl. Coffee yet?

I typed back between slides on cranial nerves: Not yet. Dreaming of blue eyes kept me up.

His reply: Dangerous dreams. Be careful.

I searched for him all morning outside the medical library, the courtyard café where the research students gathered, even the quiet bench beneath the old oak he was rumored to favor. Nothing. Just the lingering buzz of anticipation in my veins.

By late afternoon, exhaustion and the weight of borrowed textbooks finally sent me toward the main library to return them. I had an armful of thick volumes on oncology, neuropathology, and two dog-eared copies of Robins’ own published papers that I’d checked out weeks ago under my alias. The irony wasn’t lost on me as I struggled with the heavy stack, heels clicking across the stone plaza. And then, because fate apparently has a sense of humor, my ankle turned on an uneven paving stone. The books swung.

I staggered forward and strong hands caught me from behind, steadying both me and the leaning tower of textbooks before they could crash to the ground.

“Careful, Angela,” that suede voice murmured against my ear. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

My breath left me in a rush. Robins straightened, one arm still around my waist, the other rescuing the topmost book before it slid. He was in a charcoal sweater today, sleeves pushed up, that faint scar on his knuckle catching the sunlight. Up close in daylight, he was even more unfair; sharp cheekbones, the shadow of stubble, those ink-blue eyes fixed on me with amused warmth.

I laughed, breathless. “It’s not my fault the campus is conspiring to throw me at you.”

He took half the stack from my arms without asking, lightening the load. “Conspiracy confirmed. Though I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose.”

“Never,” I lied, falling into step beside him as we headed toward the library steps. My pulse hammered so loudly I was sure he could hear it. He just realized that I held his project in my hand with the stack of books that I had carried. He was surprised and it triggered a conversation about it.

We walked slowly toward the library steps, the discussion about his research flowing effortlessly between us. He probed deeper into my critiques of his trial design, genuinely curious, while I pushed back on his delivery mechanisms, citing recent studies he'd somehow missed or pretended to. With every pointed question and thoughtful response, the watchful reserve in his eyes melted further, replaced by a spark of genuine fascination. It wasn't just flirtation anymore; it was intellectual foreplay, sharp and electric, making the air between us hum.

At the library doors, he handed back the books he’d carried. Our fingers brushed again, deliberate this time, lingering a fraction longer than necessary, and heat flared low in my stomach.

“You know,” he said, voice low, eyes searching my face with sudden intensity, “in daylight, without the party lights and the alcohol… you look familiar. Like someone I’ve seen before. A long time ago.”

My heart stopped. For one terrifying second, every childhood photograph my father had buried, every society-page mention of Clara Black at age twelve or fifteen, flashed through my mind. I forced a light laugh, tilting my head.

“Must be my resting approachable face. I get that a lot.”

He studied me a bit longer, something unreadable flickering behind those blue eyes. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Yeah. Probably that.”

Relief flooded me so sharply my knees felt weak. He believed me. For now.

He glanced at his watch, an expensive, understated piece that screamed old money and sighed. “I have a meeting I can’t miss. But…” He stepped closer, voice dropping to that intimate register that made my skin prickle. “Dinner. Tomorrow night. Somewhere quiet, no wine spills allowed. Just you and me. A proper date.”

My breath caught. “I’d love that.”

His smile was slow, devastating. “Good. I’ll text you the address. Seven o’clock. Wear something that makes those green eyes stand out.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from my cheek, the touch feather-light but electric, then turned and walked away. I watched until he disappeared around the corner, books clutched to my chest like armor.

Inside the library, I returned the volumes one by one, hands trembling slightly. The weight of them felt heavier now, not from the paper and binding, but from the secret pressing against my ribs. He’d almost recognized me. One slip, one unguarded moment, and everything would unravel. My father’s empire. Robins’ hidden allegiances. The fragile bridge we were building between two worlds that would happily tear each other apart.

Yet even as fear coiled cold in my stomach, something warmer, fiercer, overpowered it. I was the only one who truly knew him; knew the boy behind the brilliant researcher, the man behind the mafia whispers. For now, he saw only Angela. And God help me, I wanted him to keep seeing her. I wanted tomorrow night, and the night after, and every stolen moment we could carve out before the truth caught up.

I stepped back into the late-afternoon sun, phone buzzing in my pocket.

Blue Eyes: Counting the hours already.

I smiled, typing back as I walked toward the parking garage.

Me: Me too.

But as I reached my car, another notification flashed; unknown number, no name saved.

Blocked ID: You looked beautiful tonight, Clara. Tell your father the Double Axe owes us a conversation. Soon.

My blood turned to ice. I spun around, scanning the emptying plaza, the distant tree line, the rooftops. Nothing moved. No one watched.

Someone knew.

And they’d been close enough to see me with Robins.

I slid into the driver's seat, locking the doors with shaking fingers, my mind racing. The Double Axe; that was the old symbol of my father's empire, and I suspected it was a member of the Scorpiono mafian’s crew(Robins father’s empire) that had been chipping away at Black family territory for years. My father had dismissed their threats as posturing, but this felt personal. Too precise. They knew my real name, my alias, and exactly where I'd been. I just hoped this had nothing to do with Robins.

I started the engine, pulling out of the garage with one eye on the rearview mirror. No tails that I could spot, but paranoia gnawed at me. By the time I reached my apartment, the sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the city. I double-checked the locks, drew the curtains, and paced the living room, replaying the message.

Who could have seen us? A student? One of Robins' colleagues? Or worse someone embedded deeper, watching his every move because of his own family's ties?

My phone buzzed again. This time, it was a photo. No text, just an image loading slowly on the screen.

It was me and Robins on the plaza, his arm around my waist, my head tilted up toward him in laughter. Taken from a distance, but clear enough to capture the intimacy of the moment.

Then another message from the blocked ID: He's not who you think he is, Clara. Ask him about the night your mother died.

My stomach sank. Robins... involved in my mother's death? Impossible. Or was it?

The door buzzer sounded sharply, jolting me like a gunshot. I froze, staring at the intercom screen.

It was him. Robins, standing outside my building, looking straight into the camera with those piercing blue eyes.