The Mafia King’s Virgin Mistake

Amara’s hands shook violently as she stared at the paper the doctor had handed her. Her vision blurred, not from tears—though there were plenty—but from the unbearable weight of the words scrawled across the page: “Stage Four Pancreatic Cancer. Prognosis: 1–2 months.” She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She could only feel the crushing, suffocating reality of dying so young, with a life barely lived. A life where she had never kissed a boy, never felt the thrill of reckless adventure, never known the taste of passion. The thought twisted her stomach, bile rising in her throat, as she sank to the cold tile of the hospital floor. “I—I don’t want to die like this,” she whispered to herself, voice trembling. “I’ve… I’ve done nothing. I’ve… been nothing.” Her phone buzzed. A message from her best friend. “Are you okay? Call me.” Amara dialed immediately, crying as soon as she heard the familiar voice. “I—I’m dying,” she admitted, choking on the words. “I have cancer… I only have a month or two… I don’t want to die a virgin. I’ve… I’ve missed everything. Everything I was too afraid to do…” Her friend’s soft, shocked voice tried to calm her, but Amara shook her head. “No. I’m going to do it all. I’m going to taste everything I’ve missed. Kiss someone. Drink. Club. I’ll… I’ll do it all. Before it’s too late. I won’t die… scared.” Two hours later, she found herself staggering into a high-end nightclub, neon lights cutting across the dark, pulsing crowd. The music rattled her chest as she slid onto a barstool, ordering a shot of tequila and swallowing it like it was salvation. Then another. And another. Each burn down her throat chipped away at the weight of death, replacing it with reckless adrenaline. And that’s when she saw him. Dante Moretti. The name alone was whispered in fear and fascination across every major city in Europe. A mafia king, dangerous, violent, beautiful. He stood surrounded by his men, a glint of a gun at his side catching the lights, his dark hair tousled perfectly, sharp jawline illuminated by the neon. His silver-gold eyes scanned the crowd and landed on her. He wasn’t calm. He moved with controlled chaos, like a predator who enjoyed knowing everyone in the room feared him. But when his gaze fell on her, Amara felt a pull she didn’t understand. Why not? she thought, heart pounding. I’m going to die anyway. Might as well die happy. The decision was sudden, reckless, and intoxicating. She rose from her barstool, swaying slightly, and walked straight to him. Her lips trembled as she pressed a bold kiss to his cheek, letting her hands rest on his chest. She didn’t care who saw. She didn’t care about consequences. She wanted this—wanted him, wanted everything she had been too afraid to touch. Dante froze for a heartbeat, then smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that burned hotter than any drink she’d swallowed that night. The crowd disappeared. His men melted into the shadows. There was only him, only the heat of his body, only the undeniable pull that yanked at her very soul. She wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh. She wanted this to last forever, even knowing it couldn’t. The night became a blur of hands, whispers, and urgent touches. Clothes were discarded with a careless urgency, skin pressing against skin. His hands were firm, commanding, yet astonishingly gentle when it mattered. She moaned against him, taste mingling with sweat and desire, losing herself in every sensation she had denied herself for years. “You’re reckless,” Dante growled, voice low and rough, yet teasing. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” “I don’t care,” Amara gasped, arching into him. “I… I’m dying anyway. I want this.” And he gave it to her. The night spiraled into fevered chaos, a storm of heat and power and abandon. Every kiss, every touch, every whispered name against her skin became an imprint she would never forget. It was violent. It was tender. It was terrifying. And she loved every second. By dawn, the city lights spilled across their bodies as they lay tangled in the sheets of a penthouse she barely remembered entering. Her chest heaved, heart racing not from exertion alone, but from the knowledge that she had crossed a line she would never erase. When he finally left, she was left with trembling hands and a racing pulse, overwhelmed by exhilaration, shame, and the dizzying thrill of living on the edge. She cleaned herself mechanically, barely noticing the world outside the window waking up, and stepped back into the reality she had abandoned just hours ago. Two weeks later, the hospital called. Amara’s heart soared as the nurse’s voice said, “There was a mistake. Your results were misattributed. You’re perfectly healthy.” Relief hit her like a tidal wave. She was alive. She could go back to normal life. She laughed, tears streaming down her face, thinking about the reckless, beautiful night she had just survived. That night had awakened something in her—a side of herself she never wanted to let go of. But she didn’t know that destiny had already made its mark. One month later, when her period failed to arrive, a quiet panic rose in her chest. She checked the calendar again. It can’t be… it can’t be now… Her thoughts spiraled, heart hammering. The consequences of that one night with Dante were just beginning to reveal themselves. And she had no idea just how much danger, obsession, and desire were about to follow her. Because Dante Moretti didn’t make mistakes. And he never let anything—or anyone—slip away.