THE POSSESIVE MAFIA BOSS

Chapter One: Adrian's POV The first time Dante Moretti touched me, I promised myself I would kill him. The second time, I promised myself I would never let him touch me again. Unfortunately, three months later, I would be the one begging him not to walk away. But that was before I discovered what kind of monster he really was—and before I learned that monsters could have beautiful eyes. Rain hammered against the windshield of my old Honda as I stared at the enormous mansion before me. Black gates, armed guards, security cameras, and expensive cars lined a driveway that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. I looked down at the photograph in my hand. Dante Moretti. Thirty-two years old. Billionaire businessman, according to the internet; head of the Moretti crime family, according to everyone who valued their life. And the last person who had spoken to my father before he disappeared. My phone vibrated. An unknown number had sent me a message: You have ten minutes to retrieve the file. After that, leave. I stared at the screen before looking back at the mansion. "Brilliant, Adrian," I muttered. "Breaking into a mafia boss's house. Absolutely brilliant." But my father had been missing for eleven days, and the police had stopped returning my calls. I had nothing left to lose—or so I thought. I slipped through a side entrance and entered a dimly lit corridor. The house was breathtaking, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and paintings that probably belonged in museums. The faint scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne lingered in the air. I hated every inch of it. Rich men like Dante Moretti could buy anything they wanted: houses, cars, loyalty. Apparently, they could even make people disappear. I found the study at the end of the corridor, where a black folder sat on the desk with my father's name written across the front. I grabbed it. "Looking for something, sweetheart?" I froze. The deep, smooth voice came from behind me. Turning slowly, I found Dante Moretti standing in the doorway. He wore a black shirt beneath a charcoal suit, the collar open at his throat. His dark hair was neatly styled, and a silver watch rested against his wrist. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome, but his eyes were cold enough to ruin the effect. His gaze moved from my face to the folder in my hand before he smiled. "Well," he said, "this is interesting." "I'm looking for the bathroom," I replied, tightening my grip on the folder. His gaze swept over me. "Inside my locked private study?" "I have a very complicated digestive system." For a moment, he simply stared at me before laughing quietly. I immediately decided I hated that laugh. "What's your name?" he asked. "None of your business." He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "You're standing in my house, holding a confidential file, after trespassing through a restricted entrance. I would say your name is very much my business." I lifted my chin. "Then call the police." His smile disappeared. "Interesting suggestion." He reached into his jacket, and I panicked. "Wait! I didn't mean it!" He paused. "Didn't mean what?" "Anything. I meant absolutely nothing. I was never here." He slowly withdrew his hand, revealing a glass of water instead of a gun. I stared at it, then at him. He took a sip. "Finished?" I wanted the floor to swallow me. "Yes." He set the glass down. "Good. Now tell me your name." I hesitated before answering. "Adrian Hayes." Something changed in his expression. The amusement disappeared from his eyes, replaced by a cold intensity. "Hayes?" he repeated. "My father is Thomas Hayes. If that's why you're suddenly looking at me like that, congratulations. You've identified a surname." Dante placed his glass on the desk. "Where is your father?" I laughed bitterly. "That's an interesting question coming from the man whose house I'm breaking into because nobody seems to know where he is." He moved closer, studying my face as though he could see every lie I'd ever told. "Your father stole something from me." I scoffed. "Then sue him." "This isn't a civil disagreement." "Then perhaps you should develop a healthier hobby." His jaw tightened, but I couldn't stop myself from pushing my luck. "Do you always talk this much when you're frightened?" he asked. "I'm not frightened." He glanced at my trembling fingers. "Of course not." I shoved the folder against his chest. "Take your stupid file." He caught it without looking away from me. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then his hand closed around my wrist. My breath caught, and I hated myself for noticing how warm his fingers were. "Listen carefully, Adrian. Your father has enemies. Dangerous ones. And because you share his name, they may already know who you are." I pulled against his hand. "Let go." He released me immediately. The unexpected obedience unsettled me more than his grip had. I rubbed my wrist. "What do you want from me?" "The truth." "I don't have it." "Then we have a problem." He walked behind his desk, pressed a button, and spoke into an intercom. "Marco, come in." A few seconds later, a broad man in a dark suit entered. Dante handed him the folder. "Find out who sent him." I protested, "I'm not working for anyone!" Neither man looked convinced. Dante turned to me. "Then explain why you came here." I swallowed. "My father disappeared. I found your name among his papers. I thought you might know something." He stared at me. "And you decided breaking into my house was the best way to ask?" I shrugged. "I was going to knock, but your gate looked emotionally unavailable." Marco coughed, apparently hiding a laugh. Dante merely stared at me before the corner of his mouth lifted. "You have a remarkable talent for irritating people." "Thank you. I've worked hard on it." "Unfortunately for you, I find it entertaining." I hated the way he said it, as though my existence amused him. He walked toward me again. "Here's what will happen. You'll stay here tonight. My men will investigate your father's disappearance, and tomorrow we'll discuss your options." I stared at him. "Absolutely not." "That wasn't a question." "And I'm not one of your employees." His gaze remained steady. "No. Employees are paid." I gaped at him. "You arrogant, overgrown, emotionally constipated criminal!" Marco suddenly became fascinated by the ceiling. Dante studied me for a moment before saying, "I'm beginning to like you." "Get professional help." He laughed, and I hated that, for one brief second, he looked less like a monster and more like a man. A dangerously handsome man. I immediately pushed the thought away. I wasn't attracted to Dante Moretti. I was sleep-deprived, frightened, and in desperate need of a shower. That was all. Then he told me my apartment had been searched forty minutes earlier. My blood ran cold. "What?" I demanded. "Your front door was forced open. Your belongings were scattered across the floor. Whoever did it was looking for something." I stared at him. "How do you know that?" "Because I have people watching your building." I could barely believe what I was hearing. "You've been watching me?" "Since you entered my property." I wanted to throw something at him. Instead, I asked whether he'd sent the men to my apartment. He answered no, but I wasn't sure I believed him. Dante Moretti was a man who could make the truth sound like a threat. Finally, I agreed to stay for one night. "And I want my own room," I said. "You'll have one." "Nobody enters without knocking." "Agreed." I narrowed my eyes. "Why are you being so reasonable?" His expression turned almost pleasant. "Because, Adrian, you haven't discovered the truly unreasonable part yet." Before I could ask what he meant, he turned to Marco. "Take him upstairs." I followed Marco into the corridor, promising myself that I would find my father, never trust Dante, and never let him get close enough to break my heart. I was still making those promises when I reached my bedroom and noticed a black envelope on the pillow. My name was written across it in elegant handwriting. Inside was a photograph of my father standing beside Dante Moretti outside a hospital. They looked younger, perhaps ten years younger, and between them stood a woman I recognized immediately: my mother, the woman I'd buried ten years ago. My fingers went numb as I turned the photograph over. Four words had been written on the back: ASK HIM WHO KILLED HER. A floorboard creaked behind me. I spun around to find Dante standing in the doorway. His eyes moved to the photograph, and for the first time since I'd met him, the mafia boss looked genuinely afraid. "Where did you get that?" he demanded. I held it up. "Tell me the truth." He said nothing. "Tell me what happened to my mother!" His expression hardened. "Your mother didn't die in a car accident, Adrian." My entire world stopped. He stepped into the room and shut the door. "She was murdered." I struggled to breathe. "By whom?" He hesitated, and that tiny hesitation was enough. I stumbled backward. "You did it." "Adrian—" "GET OUT!" I grabbed a glass vase and held it up with shaking hands. "Get out of my room!" Dante looked at the vase, then at me. "If I had killed your mother, you would already be dead." He walked toward the door before pausing. "There is something else you need to know." He placed another photograph on the table. It showed a hospital room, my mother lying pale and unconscious in a bed, Dante standing beside her, and my father holding a newborn baby. I stared at the picture, unable to understand what I was seeing. My mother had died when I was fourteen. The dates didn't make sense. Nothing made sense. Dante looked directly into my eyes. "Your father didn't give birth to a son, Adrian. He stole one." Then he walked out, leaving me alone with a photograph that proved my entire life had been built on a lie. END OF CHAPTER ONE