Trapped BY My Reckless Mafia Lord

I should have known something was wrong the moment Ryan stopped answering my calls. Three days. Three whole days of silence from the man who promised to marry me in two months. The man who used to text me good morning before his eyes were even fully open. But I made excuses for him. I always did. "He's busy with work," I told myself as I stared at my phone screen for the hundredth time. "He's stressed about the wedding planning." Stupid. So incredibly stupid. I pressed my forehead against the cold window of the taxi, watching the city lights blur past like streaks of melted gold. My boss had sent me to handle a business emergency in the next city over. Three days of back to back meetings, terrible hotel coffee, and a phone that refused to ring. Now I was finally going home. Back to Ryan. Back to the apartment we shared. Back to the life I thought I understood. "Miss, we're here," the taxi driver announced. I paid him quickly and stepped out into the cool night air. Our apartment building stood tall against the dark sky, and I counted the floors until my eyes landed on our window. The lights were on. My heart lifted slightly. He was home. Maybe he had just lost his phone. Maybe there was a simple explanation for everything. I practically ran to the elevator, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The ride up felt endless. When the doors finally opened, I fumbled with my keys, my hands trembling with a mixture of excitement and nerves. "Ryan?" I called out as I pushed open the door. "Baby, I'm home early. I wanted to surprise..." The words died in my throat. The apartment was dim, lit only by candles scattered across every surface. Rose petals formed a path from the entrance toward the bedroom. Soft music played from somewhere deeper inside. This was the kind of romantic setup Ryan used to create for me during our first year together. Before the excuses. Before the distance. Before the silence. My heart squeezed painfully. Maybe I had been wrong about everything. Maybe he was planning something special for me all along. "Ryan?" I whispered, following the trail of petals. The bedroom door was slightly open. Candlelight flickered through the gap, casting dancing shadows on the hallway wall. I pushed the door open with a smile already forming on my lips. And then my world collapsed. Ryan was there. In our bed. The bed where he had first told me he loved me. The bed where he had proposed to me six months ago with tears in his eyes. But he wasn't alone. A woman was beneath him, her legs wrapped around his waist, her nails dragging down his back. Her moans filled the room like poison, mixing with his heavy breathing. For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't process what my eyes were showing me. Then she turned her head, and our eyes met. Valentina. My cousin. My blood. The girl I had grown up with. The girl who had cried on my shoulder when her father died. The girl I had trusted with every secret I ever had. She smiled at me. Actually smiled. Like she had been waiting for this moment. "Kisarel," she purred, not even bothering to cover herself. "You're home early." Ryan scrambled off her like he had been burned, his face cycling through shock, guilt, and something that looked disgustingly like annoyance. "Kisarel, wait..." he started. "How long?" My voice came out steady, which surprised me. Inside, I was screaming. Inside, I was dying. But outside, I was stone. "How long has this been going on?" Valentina stretched lazily on the sheets, making no effort to cover her naked body. "Does it really matter, cousin?" "Eight months," Ryan said quietly, and I watched his shoulders slump like he was relieved to finally confess. "It started eight months ago." Eight months. Our engagement was six months ago. He had proposed to me while sleeping with my cousin. He had slipped that ring on my finger while her lipstick was probably still fresh on his skin. I looked down at my hand. The diamond glittered mockingly in the candlelight. "Kisarel, please," Ryan stepped toward me, reaching for my arm. "Let me explain..." "Don't touch me." I jerked away from him like his fingers were made of fire. "Don't you ever touch me again." "You're overreacting," Valentina said, sitting up and pulling the sheet loosely around her chest. "It's not like you were satisfying him anyway. I was doing you a favor." The ring slid off my finger so easily. Like it had never belonged there in the first place. I threw it at Ryan's face. It bounced off his cheek and disappeared somewhere in the rose petals. How fitting. "We're done," I said. "Keep the apartment. Keep each other. I hope you make each other miserable." I turned and walked out before either of them could respond. My legs carried me down the hallway, into the elevator, through the lobby, and out into the night. Only when the cold air hit my face did I realize I was crying. I walked without direction. Without purpose. My heels dug into the pavement with each step until my feet ached and my tears dried into salt tracks on my cheeks. I ended up at a bar. Not one of the upscale places Ryan liked to show off at, but a dark little establishment with dim lighting and quiet corners. I ordered whiskey. Then another. Then another. The alcohol burned down my throat, but it wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to erase the image of them together. Nothing could silence Valentina's mocking smile or Ryan's pathetic excuses. My phone buzzed. I looked down and saw a text from an unknown number. *Don't forget. Business dinner tomorrow night. 8 PM. Mr. Stark expects you to represent the company well.* Mr. Stark. My boss. The man whose name alone made grown men nervous. The billionaire who controlled half the city's underground economy while wearing perfectly tailored suits. The man my cousin Valentina was engaged to marry. I laughed bitterly. The universe had a sick sense of humor. Tomorrow I would have to sit across from the man my cousin was supposed to wed, pretending my life wasn't falling apart. But tonight... I raised my glass to the bartender for another refill. Tonight, I was going to drink until I forgot my own name. The whiskey had just touched my lips when a deep voice spoke from somewhere behind me. "Drinking alone is dangerous for a woman like you." I spun around on my barstool, ready to tell whoever it was to mind their own business. But the words caught in my throat. Because standing there, watching me with eyes darker than midnight, w as the one man I should have run from. Dante Stark. My boss. My cousin's fiancé. And the most dangerous man I had ever seen.