Married to the Mobster by MISTAKE

Ava's POV My mouth tasted like regret and raspberry vodka. The sheets were too soft. The air smelled expensive. My skull throbbed like it owed someone money. Then I felt the arm—heavy, warm, draped across my waist like a goddamn claim tag. I opened one eye. Tan skin. A tattoo I didn’t recognize. A chest that clearly belonged to someone who worked out for fun, which meant he was probably untrustworthy. A slow, deep breath rose and fell against my back. Then I saw it—on his finger. A ring. My ring. I shot up so fast I nearly dislocated something. “No. No-no-no-no-no.” My voice was a husk of sandpaper and horror. I looked down. I was wearing a silk robe. Not mine. Slipped halfway off one shoulder, revealing bite marks on my collarbone. I looked at him again. He blinked slowly. Brown eyes. Sharp jaw. Black hair. Unbothered. Too calm. He was hot in that he knows it way. “Morning, Mrs. Bellini,” he said. My stomach dropped through the floor. “I’m sorry—what?” He sat up, the sheets falling to his hips and revealing an absolutely unacceptable V-line. “We said 'I do.' Twice. Once naked. Once in front of Elvis.” I blinked. My head was full of confetti and screams. “Did we—did we have s*x?” “Three times. First against the bathroom counter. You moaned when I bit your shoulder, said, ‘This is so f*****g irresponsible.’ Then you rode me on the chair. Then—” “Stop. Oh my God.” I scrambled for my phone. Dead. Of course. I glanced around. Champagne bottles. A lacy bra hanging from a lamp. A marriage certificate on the side table. He stretched, slow and infuriating. “Technically, the paperwork is still pending. But legally? Yeah. You're mine.” “I don’t even know you.” He tilted his head. “Sure you do. You called me your husband at least twelve times last night. One was right before you said—‘f**k me like you paid for the suite.’” I pressed both palms to my face. “This is not happening.” “It is. And you can annul it. If you want.” My heart stopped. “You want to stay married?” He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at me like he was waiting for me to catch up. Then, softly, like he was letting me in on a joke only he understood, he said, “You said I made you feel safe. That’s not something you fake.” I stared at him, stunned. Then I noticed it. My panties were on his wrist. Like a f*****g bracelet. “I need coffee, a priest, and maybe an MRI,” I muttered. “You want help washing that pretty mouth of yours?” he asked, voice low and way too pleased with himself. “You did not just say that.” He gave me a lazy half-smile. That smirk that knew exactly what it did to a girl’s spine. “You liked it last night.” I tried to stand. My knees buckled. He was off the bed and at my side in two steps, hands catching my hips like they’d done it before. Like they belonged there. His hands were big. Warm. Steady. Too familiar. My pulse spiked. He was shirtless. I was braless. The robe wasn’t doing s**t. I stepped back. He didn’t follow. Just leaned against the dresser like he had all the time in the world. “Tell me everything,” I said. “No jokes. No flirting. No dirty talk.” “You sure?” I gave him a look. He held up one hand, like he was swearing into court. “You were at the blackjack table. Winning. Loudly. You told the dealer his haircut looked like a tax audit.” “Okay, that... tracks.” “You sat next to me. Stole my whiskey. Told me I looked like a Roman problem.” “I what?” “Then you asked if I was packing.” “Please say you meant gun.” “I did. You didn’t.” I groaned. He stepped closer. “I said yes. You said, and I quote, ‘Well, I’m a mouthy b***h with bad taste. Wanna ruin my life?’” I laughed despite myself. That did sound like me. “And the wedding?” “You dared me. Said I wouldn’t. I said I would. You dragged me to the chapel and made Elvis your flower girl.” I looked around. My dress was crumpled near the minibar. A sparkly white number with suspicious stains. “And the s*x?” I asked. He stepped closer again. Too close. My breath caught. “You were loud. Bossy. Wild. You told me no man had ever made you come twice before. Then you begged for a third.” My thighs clenched on instinct. f**k. He saw it. “Still want that annulment?” “Yes,” I said, but my voice wobbled. “Liar.” He pressed one hand to the doorframe, boxing me in without touching me. “You kissed me like you meant it. You still do.” I swallowed. “This was supposed to be a one-night mistake.” “Then let me keep being your mistake.” He leaned down, his breath brushing my lips. “Or you can run. But if you stay, I’m going to f**k you like a husband should.” My knees nearly gave out. I ducked under his arm and marched straight for the bathroom like I wasn’t seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “This is insane. You’re insane. I’m brushing my teeth and getting the hell out of here.” “You’re not going anywhere until you talk to me,” he called after me. “Watch me.” I slammed the bathroom door and locked it. The mirror hated me. Mascara smudged, lipstick like a crime scene, hair like a wind-f****d bird’s nest. And the hickey on my neck? Jesus. He hadn’t lied. My body looked ruined in the best way. My thighs ached. I was sore in places I didn’t even know had nerve endings. I braced my hands on the sink, breathing hard. My heart was doing something between panic and... anticipation. “Okay, Ava. You got drunk. You got married. You got wrecked by a hot mobster. No big deal. Just annul it. Easy.” Behind the door, I heard him. “Your panties are still on my wrist. Just saying.” “Go away!” “I will. After you agree.” I cracked the door just enough to glare at him. “Agree to what?” “Stay married. One week.” I opened the door wider. “One week? For what? A honeymoon gangbang? A contract hit-and-f**k deal?” He didn’t flinch. “One week. No strings. I take care of everything. You eat, sleep, and come like a queen. Then you walk away.” I stared at him. “Why?” “Because last night, you made me laugh. You made me forget s**t I haven’t forgotten in years. And you came like you wanted me buried inside you forever.” Silence. “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “But you’re considering it.” “No I’m not.” “Then say no.” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. He smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “One week, Ava. What’s the worst that could happen?” Before I could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked it. His whole expression changed. Serious. Tight. “Stay here. Don’t open the door for anyone but me.” “Wait—what’s going on?” He was already grabbing pants, a gun holstered under the jacket on the chair. “Trouble. Don’t move.” “What kind of trouble—?” But he was already gone. The door slammed. And I realized something as silence dropped over the suite. My wedding ring was gone. The door slammed behind him like a full-stop on a sentence I hadn’t meant to write. I stared at the space he’d just been. At the silence that followed. No footsteps. No yelling. Just stillness. “This is fine. Totally fine. Just a completely normal morning after a totally normal mafia wedding.” I checked the door—locked. Then ran back to the nightstand, throwing champagne flutes and half-empty bottles aside. Nothing. I pulled open every drawer. Checked under the bed. Dug through my crumpled white dress. No ring. I checked my purse, the floor, under the table, the shower. Still nothing. And then I noticed something worse. My clutch was open. And my wallet? Gone. “No. No f*****g way.” I’d had it last night. I remembered paying the Elvis impersonator. It had my license. My credit cards. My phone was already dead. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me,” he’d said. I looked at the lock. Right. Because nothing says safe marriage like immediate theft and paranoia. I went back to the bed and collapsed onto it, face buried in the pillow he’d slept on. It smelled like expensive soap and male entitlement. Then I heard it. The sharp click of a lock turning. I sat up. “Luca?” No answer. The door creaked open. “Luca, is that you?” Still nothing. And then— A shadow crossed the floor. I reached for the nearest object I could throw. It was the champagne bottle. The door creaked wider. And a voice—deep, unfamiliar—called out, “Mrs. Bellini?” I gripped the champagne bottle like a baseball bat. “Who the hell are you?” The man stepped into view—tall, lean, and dressed in a gray suit that screamed accountant, but his eyes said assassin. He didn’t flinch at the bottle in my hand. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said. “You think that’s reassuring? Because you’re not doing great.” He stepped farther into the room, holding something in his hand. A velvet box. “Mr. Bellini asked me to bring this to you.” “He couldn’t text? Call? Send a pigeon?” “His phone was compromised.” My stomach dropped. “Compromised how?” He didn’t answer. Just held the box out. “Put it down,” I said. “Back up.” He did. I snatched it fast, flipped it open. Inside was the ring. And a note. Stay in the room. If anyone asks, you haven’t seen me since last night. Wear the ring. Don’t take it off. —L “What the f**k is going on?” “I can’t say,” the man replied. “But Luca will contact you soon.” “Is he in danger?” He hesitated. “He’s a Bellini. Danger is the family crest.” Before I could ask anything else, he slipped out the door. It clicked shut behind him. I stared at the ring. Heavy. Gold. Still warm. I slipped it on without thinking. It fit perfectly. Then I heard it—again. A knock. Sharp. Demanding. And a voice I didn’t recognize—deep and pissed. “Open up. We know she’s in there.”