Married to the Mobster by MISTAKE

Chapter 2

Knock. Knock.

“Mrs. Bellini. Open the door.”

I backed up until my thighs hit the bed.

The ring on my finger suddenly felt like a tracking device. A curse. A goddamn target.

“This is fine,” I whispered. “Totally fine. Just a completely normal morning after a mafia wedding.”

The knocking got louder. Harder.

“We don’t want trouble. Just a few questions.”

“That’s what murderers say before they wrap you in a rug,” I muttered, scanning the room for something—anything—I could use.

The champagne bottle? Still by the door. Useless now.

Luca’s jacket was draped over the chair.

I grabbed it.

Inside: his wallet, a switchblade, and something else.

A black business card with gold embossed letters.

Bellini & Sons | Discreet Solutions for Permanent Problems.

“Oh great,” I muttered. “My husband runs a murder startup.”

“Last warning, Mrs. Bellini.”

I grabbed the blade, flipped it open like I’d done it a thousand times. My hand shook like hell.

Then I did the stupidest thing possible.

I opened the door.

There were two of them.

One bald. Built like a truck with a neck tattoo that read Gloria a Dio. The other thinner, wearing gloves like he didn’t want to leave prints.

“You Ava?” Neck Tattoo asked.

“Depends,” I said. “You selling Girl Scout cookies?”

“Where is your husband?” Gloves added.

“Probably out banging the bridesmaids.”

Neck Tattoo stepped forward. I didn’t move.

“This suite is Bellini property. That makes you Bellini property.”

“Wanna say that again without the caveman accent?”

He smirked.

Then he reached—fast—for my wrist.

The one with the ring.

I moved faster.

Blade. Wrist. Twist.

He yanked back with a grunt as I slashed across his forearm. Not deep—but enough to piss him off.

Gloves lunged.

I tried to run.

He caught me around the waist, dragging me back inside. I kicked, screamed, bit—full feral.

“Let me go, you f*****g—”

“That’s enough,” a voice snapped.

Everything stopped.

Neck Tattoo froze mid-step. Gloves let go like I’d turned radioactive.

And standing in the doorway—cold, calm, furious—was Luca.

His gun was already out.

Pointed straight at the space between Tattoo’s eyes.

“Touch my wife again,” he said, voice like a blade, “and I’ll repaint this suite with your skull.”

Luca stepped fully into the suite, the door clicking shut behind him like a vault sealing.

Neck Tattoo didn’t move. Just stared at the gun.

Luca didn’t lower it.

“You enter my suite,” he said, calm and terrifying. “You grab my wife. Bleed on my f*****g carpet.”

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to signal danger.

“So which one of you should I shoot first?”

Gloves raised both hands, slow like he was trying not to breathe wrong. “It was just recon, Luca. The Old Man wanted to know—”

“You could’ve called.” Luca’s voice dropped. “You don’t touch her.”

“We didn’t know she was—”

“What? Armed?” His eyes flicked to the blood on Tattoo’s arm. Then to the blade still in my hand.

“She does that,” Luca said, almost proud.

“I just stabbed a man in your living room,” I said, breathless.

“And I’m hard as hell about it.”

He turned the gun on its side, flipped the safety on, and tucked it into the back of his pants like we hadn’t just been on the verge of a homicide.

“Out. Both of you.”

Gloves didn’t argue. Tattoo gave me one last dirty look before spitting on the floor and stomping out.

The door shut behind them.

Silence.

Then Luca turned to me.

“Are you hurt?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Did they see the ring?”

“Yeah. Tried to take it.”

His jaw clenched. “Then they’re dead men. Just don’t know it yet.”

I stared at him.

“You said a week. I didn’t sign up for armed visitors and death threats.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Oh good. So I’m not officially mob property yet?”

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate. “You’re not property.”

I didn’t move.

“You’re my wife.”

He said it like it meant something.

He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers over my wrist, where the blade still trembled.

He took it gently from my grip and set it on the bed.

“I didn’t want it to go like this.”

“Then how did you want it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached up, curled his hand into my hair, and kissed me.

Not greedy.

Not rough.

Just certain.

When he pulled back, his mouth brushed mine.

“I’m going to f**k you now.”

“What?”

“Because I nearly died tonight. And because you were brave. And because you’re mine. And because I can’t stop thinking about how you sounded when I had my tongue in your pussy.”

My knees wobbled.

“You think you can say s**t like that and I’ll just—”

I didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he was already pulling me against him.

His mouth was on mine, hard and claiming, his hands sliding down my back like he owned the shape of me. He kissed like he fought—without hesitation. And I let him.

No, I matched him.

I shoved his jacket off his shoulders. He let it fall. His hands were under my shirt, gripping my waist like he could feel the aftershocks of the adrenaline still pulsing through my body.

“You nearly got me killed,” I breathed.

“You nearly got yourself killed,” he growled back.

His fingers slipped under the waistband of my panties. “You fought for me.”

“You left me.”

“And you’re still here,” he said, sliding his fingers lower. “Dripping.”

He pushed two fingers inside me without warning.

My back arched.

I gasped against his mouth.

“Luca—”

“Say it again.”

“You left—”

“No. My name.”

“Luca.”

He smiled against my neck, biting the skin just hard enough to make me gasp again.

I yanked at his belt. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t help either. Just watched me with hooded eyes as I worked the buckle open, shoved his pants down far enough to free him.

He was already hard. Thick. Smooth. Hot in my hand.

“I should slap you,” I said.

“You will,” he murmured. “After I ruin this pussy.”

He picked me up like I weighed nothing and tossed me onto the bed.

The moment my back hit the mattress, he was on top of me, ripping my panties down and tossing them somewhere behind him.

He didn’t tease.

He didn’t ask.

He slid in with one deep, brutal thrust.

I cried out—half from the stretch, half from the f*****g relief.

“Oh f**k—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “You take me so f*****g good.”

He started moving, slow at first, dragging his c**k almost all the way out before slamming back in, deeper each time. My legs locked around his waist. My hands gripped his arms. My nails dug into his shoulders.

“Luca—don’t stop—”

“I couldn’t if I tried.”

He kissed me again, messily this time. Desperate. Tongue and teeth and groaning into my mouth like I was the only thing holding him together.

His hips snapped faster. My breath came in gasps.

My orgasm was building, sharp and fast and unbearable.

“Come for me,” he ordered. “Come now.”

I shattered.

My body jerked, thighs squeezing around him as I screamed into his shoulder, riding the wave so hard it left me dizzy.

He didn’t stop.

“f**k—you feel so good when you come,” he groaned, hips stuttering.

He drove in one last time, deep, grinding into me as he spilled inside.

We lay there in a tangle of sweat and breathless limbs.

I couldn’t move.

I didn’t want to move.

Until—

BANG.

A single gunshot cracked from just outside the suite.

Then shouting.

“Down the hall! She’s in there!”

Luca grabbed the gun off the nightstand.

“You brought a gun to bed?” I said, still breathless.

He didn’t even look back.

“Of course I did.”

Luca didn’t flinch.

Still naked. Still glowing with sweat. Still calm in that terrifying, unreadable way.

He moved fast.

Gun in hand, he slid off the bed and crouched beside the dresser like he’d done it a hundred times. Like this wasn’t a surprise. Like this was routine.

My pulse hadn’t caught up yet.

We’d just had s*x.

Again.

And now we were under fire.

I sat up slowly, pulling the sheets over my chest. The ring on my finger felt heavier than it had earlier.

“Luca?”

He didn’t look at me.

“Get off the bed. Now.”

“I don’t have pants.”

“You don’t need pants,” he snapped. “You need to move.”

I scrambled off the mattress, grabbing his discarded shirt and shoving my arms through the sleeves. It hung past my thighs, covering the evidence of everything we’d just done—but barely.

The door rattled.

Boots pounded against marble.

Multiple pairs.

Luca crossed the suite in three long strides and shoved me into the bathroom. He turned the lights off and pressed me behind the bathtub.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “No sounds. No movement.”

“What if they have silencers?” I whispered.

“Then don’t give them a clear shot.”

And then he was gone.

I crouched behind the tub, every muscle locked, the air heavy with s*x and fear.

I heard the door crash open.

Boots.

Voices.

Three, maybe four.

“Room 614. Check every inch," a man said.

They split up.

One headed toward the kitchen.

Two toward the bedroom.

And one… straight for me.

His footsteps crept down the hall.

Slow.

Deliberate.

I tightened my grip on the switchblade Luca had left behind. I hadn’t even realized I still had it.

A shadow passed beneath the door crack.

I held my breath.

The handle turned.

I raised the blade—

Crack.

A gunshot rang out in the bedroom.

A scream.

Then a body hit the floor with a sickening thud.

More shots. Closer.

Someone yelled. Someone else cursed.

And then—

Silence.

Just boots again.

One pair.

Slow. Confident.

Luca stepped into the bathroom, still shirtless, blood spattered across his chest and forearms. Not his. His gun still smoked in his hand.

“It’s over,” he said.

“You sure?”

He nodded once.

I stared at him, half naked and shining with sweat and someone else’s blood.

“You really are the hottest f*****g bride I’ve ever had,” he said, reaching down to help me up.

I took his hand.

He pulled me to my feet like it was nothing.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen and froze.

“What is it?”

“That was my father,” he said, voice low.

I blinked.

“And?”

“He says I just started a war.”

Luca stared at the phone like it was ticking.

Then he answered.

“Yeah,” he said, voice flat.

Pause.

“I handled it.”

Another pause. His jaw tightened.

“She’s fine.”

I stood there in his shirt, barefoot, still catching my breath. Still raw and sore from what he’d just done to me minutes ago. And now he was talking to a man whose name had the kind of weight that rearranged people’s lives—or ended them.

“She killed one of them,” he said into the phone.

My stomach dropped.

He wasn’t lying.

I had. I’d slashed the guy’s arm, sure, but... had he—

I sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, trying not to think about it.

“No,” Luca said. “She’s mine.”

He said it with the same tone someone would use to confirm their blood type. Like a fact.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until he turned away from me and said quieter, “I’ll clean it. I’ll fly her out tonight if I have to.”

I stood. “Fly me out?”

He gave me a look.

The kind that said: Not now.

I folded my arms anyway.

“No, it wasn’t supposed to go public,” he continued. “No press. No photos. Just a license and a private suite.”

Silence.

He exhaled, short and hard, and hung up without another word.

Then tossed the phone onto the nightstand like it burned him.

“So,” I said. “Let me guess. Daddy’s mad his golden boy married a mouthy graphic designer with a switchblade and no filter?”

“He’s mad I killed a man in a hotel he owns.”

He stepped toward me. “And he’s mad I didn’t annul the marriage the second I sobered up.”

“Because it was a mistake.”

He looked at me hard. “You still think that?”

I met his stare. “Luca. I stabbed a guy for you. You ate me like your last meal. Then we killed three men in a penthouse suite. Of course I think this is a mistake.”

He smiled.

That real, low smile that meant something dangerous was about to happen.

“You’re gonna hate what comes next.”

“Why?”

“Because my father just gave me a choice.”

He reached out and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Either I kill you and wipe this clean…”

My blood froze.

He leaned in close.

“Or I make the marriage permanent.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Permanent? What does that even mean?”

“It means we go to New York. We face the family. We make this real.”

“And if I say no?”

He didn’t blink.

“Then you better run. Because the only thing worse than being my wife… is being the girl who said no to me after I killed for her.”

A knock sounded at the door—sharp, professional.

Then a muffled voice: “Mr. Moretti. Jet’s ready.”

Luca turned to me.

“Get dressed.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He didn’t smile.

“Home.”