My Ex's Mafia Dad: A Dark Romance

The suburbs of London had a way of pretending everything was fine. Tree-lined streets. Perfect hedges. Houses that looked like they belonged in glossy magazines. You could almost believe nothing ugly ever touched places like this. Amira knew better. She tightened her coat as the evening chill crept in, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. The Giuliano estate loomed at the end of the street, just as imposing as she remembered. Black iron gates. Stone walls. A house that didn’t belong in a quiet neighborhood—it dominated it. She hadn’t been back since the breakup. Since Alfred. Her chest tightened at the thought, but she pushed it down. She refused to let him occupy space in her mind tonight. Not when she had a reason to be here—closure, she told herself. Or maybe curiosity. Or maybe something far more dangerous. The gates were already open. That unsettled her more than if they’d been locked. Amira stepped through slowly, her pulse quickening as she walked up the long driveway. The house lights glowed warmly against the darkening sky, but there was nothing comforting about it. It felt like stepping into something she didn’t fully understand—something she might not walk away from the same. The front door opened before she could knock. And there he was. Salvatore Giuliano. He filled the doorway without trying—tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looked like it had never known a wrinkle. His presence wasn’t loud, but it was absolute. Like gravity. Like something that didn’t need to prove its power because it simply existed. His gaze dropped to her, slow and deliberate. “Amira.” Her name sounded different in his voice. Lower. Heavier. She swallowed. “Mr. Giuliano.” A flicker of something—amusement, maybe—crossed his face. “You’ve been here enough times to call me Salvatore.” “That was before.” Before everything. Before Alfred. Before she realized the Giuliano world wasn’t just wealth and influence—it was control, secrets, and something darker that clung to every corner of this house. Salvatore studied her like he could see every thought she was trying to hide. It made her skin prickle. “And yet,” he said quietly, stepping aside, “you came back.” It wasn’t a question. Amira hesitated for only a second before stepping inside. The air was warmer, richer—laced with something expensive and faintly dangerous. The kind of scent you couldn’t place but couldn’t forget either. She remembered it now. It had always been there, lingering in the background whenever she visited Alfred. Only now she realized it wasn’t the house. It was him. “I’m not here for long,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “I just… I left some things.” A lie. She hadn’t left anything behind. Salvatore closed the door behind her with a soft click that sounded far too final. “Of course you did.” The way he said it made her breath hitch. Like he knew. Like he understood exactly why she was really here—and was choosing to play along. Silence stretched between them, thick and charged. Amira forced herself to move, slipping past him into the hallway. But as she did, she became acutely aware of how close he was. The heat of him. The quiet intensity that followed her like a shadow. This was wrong. So wrong. And yet… “You ended things with Alfred,” Salvatore said behind her, his tone conversational, but edged with something sharper. “Unexpected.” Amira stopped walking. “You knew it wouldn’t last,” she replied, turning to face him. “You always did.” His lips curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “I know many things.” Her heart pounded harder. “Then you know why.” A pause. Salvatore stepped closer. Not enough to touch—but enough that the space between them felt intentional. “Say it,” he murmured. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t. Not here. Not with him looking at her like that—like he wanted the truth, like he could pull it out of her if she stayed too long. “I didn’t come to talk about Alfred.” “No,” he said softly. “You didn’t.” The way he said it sent a shiver down her spine. Because he was right. And that was the most dangerous part. Amira should leave. She should walk out that door, forget this house, forget this man, forget the pull she didn’t understand. But her feet didn’t move. Salvatore’s gaze dropped briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes, slow and deliberate enough that it made her breath catch. “Do you know,” he said quietly, “how long I’ve been waiting for you to come back?”