My Mafia bodyguard

The scent of iron hung heavy in the air, thick with the stench of gunpowder and death. Dante Moretti knelt in the dirt, his suit torn, his lip split open, but his eyes—his dark, unyielding eyes—remained steady. Blood dripped from his temple, mixing with the rain-soaked ground beneath him. Around him, the remnants of his empire lay in ruins, his most loyal men dead or dying, their bodies sprawled across the battlefield. Across from him, Vincenzo DeLuca stood tall, his black leather gloves still pristine despite the c*****e around him. A smirk played at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head, assessing his fallen enemy. “This is where it ends, Moretti,” Vincenzo said, his voice smooth but laced with cruelty. “Your kingdom is ashes. Your men? Slaughtered. You have nothing left. Dante clenched his fists. He had seen this moment coming the second his army began to fall, but the true weight of it only pressed down on him now—his wife was dead. His men were gone. And his daughter… A rustle of movement behind him made his heart clench. He didn’t turn, but he knew who it was. A small, fragile voice broke through the heavy silence. “Papà?” Alessia. Four years old, innocent, untouched by the cruelty of their world. She clutched the hem of his torn suit with trembling fingers, her dark eyes wide with confusion. She was too young to understand what was happening, too small to be standing in the middle of a battlefield where blood painted the ground like ink on parchment. Vincenzo’s gaze flickered to the child, and a twisted smile curved his lips. “Ah, the little princess. ” He took a step forward. “Pity. She won’t even remember you when she’s mine.” Dante’s body moved before his mind, shielding his daughter behind him. “You will not touch her.” Vincenzo chuckled, pulling a cigar from his pocket and lighting it casually as if they weren’t standing in the wreckage of a war. “You misunderstand me, Moretti. I don’t need to take her from you today. I don’t need to put a bullet in your skull, either. ” He inhaled deeply, the cigar's tip burning red-hot, then exhaled a cloud of smoke. “You lost,” he continued. “But I’m offering you a deal.” Dante’s blood turned to ice. A deal? There was no such thing as mercy in their world. Only power. Only debt What deal?” he ground out. Vincenzo crouched to his level, speaking slowly, like a predator to its wounded prey. “Your empire is gone. You are nothing but a dead man walking. But your daughter? She has value.” Dante’s jaw tightened. He reached back, feeling Alessia’s tiny fingers curl around his. He squeezed, his mind racing for a way out. Vincenzo smiled as if savoring the desperation in Dante’s silence. You owe me a life Moretti. And since you don’t have long left in this world, I’ll take hers.” Dante’s body tensed, his muscles coiled like a spring. “You will not—” Vincenzo raised a hand, cutting him off. “Not today. Not even tomorrow. I am offering a contract, a blood vow. When your daughter comes of age, she will belong to my son.” Dante felt his world tilt. “You want her to marry your son?” Vincenzo’s smirk deepened. “It’s poetic, isn’t it? The daughter of the man who lost everything, tied to the son of the man who took it all. She will be a DeLuca, Moretti. It’s the only way your bloodline survives.” Dante’s breath came ragged, his pulse roaring in his ears. This was worse than death. If he refused, Vincenzo would kill Alessia outright—or worse. If he accepted, he was selling her to the very family that destroyed theirs. Alessia whimpered behind him, pressing her face into his back. A father’s duty was to protect. But sometimes, protection was a choice between evils. Dante closed his eyes. The weight of the world crushed him as he whispered, “I accept.” The words tasted like blood on his tongue. Vincenzo grinned. “Good.” And just like that, Dante Moretti sealed his daughter’s fate. Twelve Years Later… The ballroom shimmered with golden light, chandeliers dripping in crystals overhead, casting fractured reflections over the sea of finely dressed criminals. Alessia Moretti had learned, over the years, how to navigate their world with grace. How to smile while surrounded by monsters. How to laugh at the right moments, to keep her voice soft when speaking to men like her father. She knew the game. But she never forgot that she was a pawn. Even now, as she stood near the balcony, a glass of untouched champagne in her hand, she could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her. She was eighteen today. She was of age. And somewhere in this very room was the man who had come to claim her. Her betrothed. A shiver ran down her spine. She had never met Luca DeLuca, but she had heard of him. Ruthless. Arrogant. A monster carved from the same stone as his father. And soon, he would own her. The thought sent nausea twisting through her stomach. She exhaled slowly, steeling herself. No. She refused to be a lamb led to slaughter. She would find a way out. She had to. Before it was too late. Across the Room… Matteo Ricci leaned against the marble pillar, a smirk playing on his lips as he observed the Moretti girl from afar. She was striking. Dark curls cascaded down her back, a black silk gown hugged her figure, and her lips were painted a shade of red so deep it looked like a warning. She was poised, elegant, but wary—like a caged bird waiting for the moment to strike. She didn’t know him. But he knew her. And she belonged to him. The world thought she was destined for Luca. But they were wrong. Because long before anyone could take her,before Luca could lay a hand on her—Matteo had already claimed her. And if anyone tried to take her from him? They’d die.