Kidnapped by The Mafia Prince

→New Update Rewrite. For all the readers of this book— A reminder that you are the prize. Never shrink into the shadow of the world. Take up space, own your power, and embrace the story that is yours to write. Ivy ~ Don’t be fooled—he may look like your typical selfish, backstabbing, slut-faced ho-bag, but in reality, he’s so much worse than that. And no, I’m not talking about my husband. I’m talking about Caleb De Luca, the man whose bed or gambling table I stumbled out of last night. The ferry rocked gently beneath me as Palermo shrank into the distance, its terracotta rooftops and glittering coastline dissolving into the misty blue of the horizon. It was supposed to feel freeing, this escape. But instead, all I could do was clutch the railing and hope the cold sea air might somehow chase away the suffocating heat of last night’s mistakes. The garnet necklace clung to my throat like a confession I couldn’t bear to take off. The weight of it was heavy, intimate, as if Caleb’s hands were still there, fastening it around my neck in that maddeningly deliberate way of his. I looked down at my trembling fingers, the faint scent of whiskey and regret still clinging to my skin. Why couldn’t I be more like him? Untouched, unbothered, unapologetic. Nathaniel would be furious when he realized I’m gone. But could I blame him? After all, I’d become exactly what I hated—someone who cheats, someone who escapes, someone who breaks promises. The difference was, he’d turned me into this. He’d taken the girl who used to laugh at Christmas markets and love painting in the Tuscan sun and crushed her under his polished, controlling heel. I couldn’t face him. Not after what I’d done. Not after the way Caleb had unraveled me like a thread. My hands tightened on the railing as a wave of nausea hit—not from the ferry but from the realization that for one night, I’d felt alive. And now I was running. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. Flashes of the night before barreled through me like waves crashing against the shore. The way he looked at me, like I was more than a ghost of a woman clinging to a failing marriage. The way Nathaniel humiliated me in front of everyone. The way Caleb stopped him, stepping in as though it was his right, his duty. The way he pulled me close during the waltz, whispering words that cut and soothed in equal measure. Truth or dare, Ivy? The way I answered dare. The way I gambled everything. And lost. The ferry jolted slightly, pulling me back to the present. I straightened, my grip tightening on the railing as the distant silhouette of an island came into view. Isola del Rame. A name whispered to me in passing by Dante, the only person who didn’t look at me like I was breaking apart. Dante. My escape. My ally in a moment of desperation. He’d met me at the docks that morning, his face a mask of quiet understanding as I stumbled toward him, drunk and terrified. “No one will know,” he promised, his voice low and steady. “I won’t tell him.” Him. Nathaniel. The man who’d promised to love me, who’d caged me instead. I swallowed hard, the nausea rising again as I thought of Nathaniel. Would he notice I was gone? Would he care? Or would he still be drunk on the lips of the French woman he kissed in the corner of the ballroom while I stood there in that red dress, desperate to breathe? I stumbled to the small cabin below deck, desperate to escape the biting wind and my own thoughts. The mirror above the sink reflected a woman I barely recognized— My amber eyes, usually sharp and defiant, were rimmed with smudged mascara. My light brown ash hair tangled wildly, sticking in awkward directions like a forgotten bird’s nest. Lips swollen and bitten, swollen and bitten, whispered secrets I hadn’t dared admit to myself. The red scarf was still draped around my neck, its vibrant color striking against the crimson dress clinging to my body like a second skin. Both were wrinkled now, their once-smooth elegance a mocking reminder of last night’s disaster. My fingers brushed against the scarf absently, trailing to the faint outline of the necklace hidden beneath its folds. The scarf. The dress. The necklace. It all came flooding back ~~~~ 24 hours ago~~~~~~ Palermo, last city. 24 hours for this business trip of hell to end. Nathaniel Graves doesn’t just break promises; he annihilates them. Eight years ago, I thought he was my savior. Now, I know he was just another cage disguised as an escape. Eight years of marriage. Seven of them tolerable. One of them spent drowning in humiliation. It’s not just the infidelity that guts you—it’s the aftermath. The glances, the condescension, the endless “you need to move on,” “I’ll be better,” “I’ll learn from my mistakes”, “It meant nothing” speeches. As if I’m the one who broke our vows in front of the f*****g Christmas tree. Every time I look at him, I see it. His hands gripping her hips. Her legs wrapped around him. The way their moans filled the room while Mariah Carey crooned softly in the background. It’s burned into my memory, seared into my skin like a brand. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. Whatever was left of me evaporated the moment I saw him with her. And yet, here I am, sitting next to him in this sleek conference room, his navy suit perfect, his blonde hair styled impeccably. He commands the room like a maestro, weaving his monologue with precision, while I sit silent, invisible. Every nod from the European clients feels like a dagger to my sanity. He always thrives under the spotlight, his charisma blinding enough to keep everyone from seeing the cracks. Except Dante. Seated across the table, Dante leans back in his chair, looking every bit the laid-back Italian charmer. His chestnut eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting moment, there’s a glimmer of mischief. He leans forward, his pen scratching against the edge of his notepad. When he slides it toward me, I glance down to see a stick figure hanging from a noose labeled “This Meeting.” I bite back a laugh, pressing my lips together. My chest tightens with suppressed amusement, the first real crack in my carefully constructed facade. Dante winks, his grin widening just enough to feel like a small rebellion. As we step out of the conference room, Nathaniel is already scrolling through his phone. “We’re meeting the De Lucas tonight. It’s the engagement announcement.” “Engagement?” I echo, the word catching in my throat. “Elena DiMarco and one of the De Luca brothers,” he replies flatly. “It’s important for the firm. Strengthens alliances.” He glances at me briefly, his gaze sharp. “Make sure you’re presentable. Something elegant, appropriate.” “Presentable?” The word feels like a slap. “Yes, Ivy. Pick something from the boutique down the street. Don’t take too long.” And just like that, I’m dismissed. I pause on the sidewalk, staring at the mannequins draped in silk and sequins. I should go in. Pick out something beautiful, something that would make him smile his perfect, practiced smile. But my feet don’t move. I can’t. I need air. And wine. Lots of wine. The tightness in my chest eases as I step away from the boutique, the crisp December air filling my lungs. Garlands on every lamppost, cheerful music playing from hidden speakers, and kids giggling while holding candy canes that looked bigger than their heads. It was enough to make anyone sick. Well, anyone like me. The market is a whirlwind of colors and scents: the sharp tang of mulled wine, the sugary sweetness of roasted chestnuts, the earthy aroma of fresh pine wreaths. Vendors call out cheerfully, offering handmade ornaments and local delicacies. I stop at a mulled wine stall, letting the warmth of the spiced drink settle into me. One sip turns into four, and the weight on my chest begins to ease, dulled by the wine’s comforting embrace. Clutching the glass, I wander deeper into the market, my steps slow and aimless. The chestnut cart caught my attention next, the rich aroma of roasted nuts wafting toward me. The vendor, an older man with kind eyes, smiled as I approached. “Just a small bag, please,” I said, holding up my fingers to indicate the size. He nods eagerly and begins scooping chestnuts into a bag. Except it isn’t small. It’s massive. “No, no, too much,” I tried to explain, using both hands to signal smaller. I pressed my open palms downward, motioning for less. Before I can stop him, the bag tips, and chestnuts scatter across the cobblestones. Panic rises in my chest as I fumble to fix the mess. In my haste, I jostle the cart, sloshing mulled wine onto the coals—and my dress. The vendor’s shouts rise, and my heart pounds in my chest. “Scusi! Mi dispiace!” I stammer, my words clumsy and useless. And then I feel it. A hand—strong, firm—grips my arm, steadying me before I can lose my balance completely. The warmth of it is startling, a grounding presence amidst the chaos. I freeze, my breath hitching as the vendor’s shouts fade into the background. Slowly, I look up. For a moment, I forgot how to breath. I’m convinced I’m staring at a god—powerful, untouchable, and impossibly magnetic. Tall and broad-shouldered, he towers over me, his presence both magnetic and overwhelming. His hair, dark as midnight, falls in tousled waves across his forehead, like he’s just run his fingers through it. The soft glow of the market lights catches the sharp angles of his face—a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and a mouth that’s both cruel and captivating. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive. His stormy gray eyes meet mine, sharp and piercing, filled with something that makes my chest tighten—a mix of amusement, curiosity, and danger. He’s wrapped in a black coat that clings to his broad frame, the collar slightly askew like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. A scarlet scarf hangs loosely around his neck, the vibrant color contrasting sharply with the darkness that seems to radiate from him. “Should I step in now, or would you like another minute to terrorize the poor man?” he says, his voice smooth and cutting, like he already knows exactly how to unravel me.