The mafia's arranged bride

4.Matteo

I held my breath when she finally took off the veil, the silk sliding away to reveal the impossible. I had expected anything, calculated gold, boring brunette, a face I’d seen a thousand times in my head but not red.

It wasn't just red; it was a deep, intoxicating copper that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the car. It was pinned back into a tight, severe bun, but the sheer self-control it took not to reach over, rip out the pins, and watch that fire spill across the leather seat was agonizing. I was two seconds into this, and I was already spiraling, wondering if that color was a gift from God or a bottle. Who knew I had a thing for redheads?

She turned toward the window before I could lock onto her eyes, offering me nothing but a profile that looked like it had been carved from marble. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, the skin pulled taut with a tension so thick I could taste it. Her nose is straight, uncompromising, and elegant.

A single, rebellious strand had escaped the pins, curving along the line of her jaw. Every time the car hit a bump, that strand brushed against her neck, a soft rhythm that made my palms itch.

She didn't move. She didn't care. Or maybe she was just waiting for me to break.

“Staring is rude,” she said, her voice cutting through the hum of the engine.

I chuckled softly, the sound vibrating in my chest. “They’re my eyes. I can do whatever I want with them.”

“And are you sure you can breathe?” I asked. My voice drops a provocative octave. “You know, I’m not planning to bite you.”

“You don’t need your teeth to ruin a woman’s life,” she retorted.

The words hit like a cold splash of water. Ruin. She actually thinks I’m the villain here. She thinks I chose this, as if I wasn't just as much in the dark as she was.

Suddenly, she snapped her head toward me, a look of pure, unadulterated scorn etched onto her face. But the anger only made her more magnetic. Up close, Alana was almost ethereal, pale, translucent skin that looked like it would bruise if I even thought about touching it.

And then there were her lips. Full, plum, and dangerously pink. They stood out like a stain against her paleness, a silent invitation and a challenge all at once. Looking at them, the urge shifted from curiosity to something much darker. I didn't just want to look; I wanted to mark her. I wanted to see that composure shatter. The desire to dominate that pride, to punish her into total submission until she realises we're in this together.

Alana:

The car rolled forward, tires whispering over the pale gravel, and moved towards a gigantic gate. The gates opened before I even realized we had reached them. They didn't swing or creak or hesitate; they parted silently, smoothly, like something alive recognizing its master. Of course, men like the Salvatoros didn't open doors; the world opened for them. The size of this estate, like buildings, was magnificent. Black wrought iron, taller than three men, slid into stone pillars crowned with carved lions, their marble eyes blind and watchful. The driveway curved through acres of land that left me wondering for minutes where the hell the buildings were. Cypress trees lined the path in arranged groves. The fountain also rose ahead, waters speeding down tiers of stone figures tangled in eternal embrace. Everything looked old and antique, heavy, permanent, but clean and sharp. This wasn't a house; this was a dynasty.