Mafia's desire

1

ROSALIA

"You could still go for a less risky job, you know. Corporate consulting pays well. Less chance of getting shot on a Tuesday."

Adrian didn't even look over from the steering wheel of the sleek black Alfa Romeo, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He navigated the winding, sun-drenched coastal roads with the kind of casual ease that only came from a lifetime of wealth and absolute confidence.

"Ti preoccupi troppo, raggio di sole. Inoltre, ho te a proteggermi," he murmured, his deep voice carrying that smooth, melodic cadence that always sounded entirely too dangerous when he wanted it to.

I let out a soft laugh, shifting in the leather passenger seat and turning my head to look at him. "You seem to be forgetting that I understand Italian, Adrian."

Adrian’s smirk widened into a full, devastating grin. He flashed his dark eyes toward me for a split second, his tone dropping into a low, effortless purr. "Oh, I didn't forget, bellissima. I just like hearing how my language sounds on your lips. Besides, if you're protecting me, I might just have to marry you instead of letting my mother arrange it."

"Keep dreaming, mafia prince," I rolled my eyes, though a small smile tugged at my lips. "I picked up the language in college to make sure you weren't talking smack about me on the phone with your cousins."

"A beautiful woman who is also a spy. You're just making yourself sound like the perfect mafia wife," he teased, winking as he shifted gears, the sports car roaring as we climbed higher into the hills.

I laughed it off, turning my gaze back out the window to look at the landscape. But as the laughter died in my throat, a familiar, heavy tightness squeezed my chest.

Italy.

I hadn’t breathed this air in thirteen years.

The moment the plane had touched down on the tarmac, the scent of the sea mixed with the sharp, earthy heat of the soil had hit me like a physical blow. It was terrifying how a place could feel so violently familiar and yet entirely foreign all at once. The terracotta rooftops, the way the sunlight bled a warm gold across the ancient stone walls, the distant tolling of a cathedral bell—it triggered an overwhelming wave of nostalgia that threatened to pull me under.

Thirteen years ago, a childless woman going through a brutal divorce had found me broken on the side of a dark road, far away from the smoking ruins of a house I used to call home. She had taken me in, healed me, adopted me, and brought me across the ocean to America to give me a new life. I had buried my past. I had buried the name Rosalia, choosing to live simply as Rosa.

I had spent over a decade running from the smoke and the shadows of my childhood, completely oblivious to the fact that my college best friend belonged to the exact same world I had left behind in ashes.

Now, I was back. Not for a vacation, but because Adrian had practically begged me to fly out from America to stand by his side for his sister's massive, high-profile wedding.

"Hey," Adrian’s voice softened, breaking through the fog of my thoughts. He reached over, briefly pressing his warm hand over mine on the armrest. "You okay? You look like you're a million miles away."

"I'm fine," I lied smoothly, forcing a reassuring smile as the car finally rolled up to a massive, iron-gated driveway. "Just a little jet-lagged. It's beautiful here."

"It's just a house, sunshine," Adrian said, killing the engine as we came to a stop in front of a sprawling, stone estate. "But the wedding rehearsal is tonight, and if we're late, my mother will make me clean the wine cellar in my dress shoes. Ready?"

I smiled, pushing open my door and stepping out into the crisp afternoon air, trying to shake the ghostly feeling crawling along my skin. I was just here for a wedding. I would keep my head down, support my best friend, and get back on a plane to America.

The heavy oak doors of the Marchetti estate swung open, and the sheer scale of the wedding chaos hit us immediately. Florists were rushing past with towering arrangements of white orchids, caterers were arguing in sharp, rapid Italian near the dining hall, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous tension.

"Adrian! Thank God you're finally here."

A swirl of silk and white lace moved down the grand marble staircase. Elena Marchetti looked every bit the mafia princess she was born to be, her dark hair pinned up perfectly, though her eyes were wide with pre-wedding panic. She didn't look like a girl about to marry the most feared man in the country; she looked like a bride drowning in logistics.

"Calm down, sorellina," Adrian chuckled, stepping forward to catch his sister in a brief, one-armed hug. "I told you I’d make it. And I brought backup."

Elena pulled back, her gaze shifting past Adrian’s shoulder until it landed on me. I offered a polite, quiet smile, suddenly feeling very underdressed in my travel clothes.

"Elena, this is Rosa," Adrian introduced, his hand settling comfortably on the small of my back, a protective gesture that felt completely natural to him. "My best friend from the States. Rosa, this is the bride-to-be, the tyrant of the family."

"Ignore him, he’s an i***t," Elena said, a genuine smile breaking through her stressed expression as she stepped forward to press a polite kiss to both of my cheeks. "Adrian talks about you constantly, Rosa. I feel like I already know you. Thank you so much for flying all this way."

"Thank you for having me," I said, my voice steady, though my heart gave a strange, nostalgic thud as I looked at her.

"You must be exhausted from the flight," Elena said, turning to lead us through the grand foyer. "I'll have the maids take your bags up. But you have to get ready quickly—the rehearsal dinner starts in two hours, and my father's guests are already arriving. It’s going to be a madhouse."

"Is the groom already here?" Adrian asked, his tone shifting into something a bit sharper, the casual brotherly warmth instantly hardening into the demeanor of a man who dealt in syndicates and bloodlines.

"Giovanni?" Elena sighed, waving a hand dismissively as she checked a seating chart held by an assistant. "No, he’s running late. Some business meeting in the city. He’ll meet us directly at the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner."

The name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

Giovanni.

The floor beneath my feet suddenly felt unstable. My breath hitched in my throat, a suffocating heat rising beneath the collar of my shirt, right where the old, faint burn scars traced across my collarbone.

No. It’s a common name. It’s Italy. Half the men in this country are named Giovanni.

"Hey," Adrian’s voice dropped low, his hand sliding down to squeeze my wrist gently. He leaned in, his cologne washing over me as he whispered against my ear, "You're doing that thing again where you look like you're seeing ghosts, sunshine. If you're that tired, you can skip the dinner and rest."

I forced a laugh, shaking my head to clear the sudden paranoia. "No, no. I'm fine, Adrian. Just... jet lag. Lead the way."