​The Mafia CEO's Contract Wife

​The Chicago rain felt colder than usual tonight. It soaked through Clara Rossi’s thin coat, chilling her to the bone as she trudged toward her apartment building. ​Her feet ached. After an eight-hour shift at the diner followed by four hours shelving books at the library, she felt like her body was made of lead. But she smiled, her hand brushing against the pocket of her jeans. It was payday. Six hundred dollars in cash. ​It wasn't a fortune—to the people in the skyscrapers downtown, it was probably a bar tab but to Clara, it was everything. It was rent. It was insulin for her father. It was survival for one more month. ​She turned the corner, looking for the warm glow of her apartment window. Instead, she saw darkness. ​A knot of dread tightened in her stomach. Clara quickened her pace, splashing through puddles. When she reached her front door on the third floor, her heart stopped. The lock hadn’t just been picked; it had been drilled out. ​"Papa?" she whispered, pushing the door open. ​The apartment was a wreck. The sofa cushions were slashed, white stuffing bleeding onto the floor. The drawers were pulled out, their contents scattered. But it was the smell that terrified her most—the scent of expensive leather, sandalwood, and gun oil. ​"Marco isn't here, Signorina Rossi." ​Clara spun around. ​Sitting in her father’s favorite armchair was a man she didn't know. He was massive, wearing a black suit that cost more than her entire life's earnings. He wasn't alone. Two other men stood in the shadows of the kitchen, their hands folded, their expressions dead. ​"Where is he?" Clara demanded, her voice shaking. "If you hurt him—" ​"He is safe. For the moment," the man in the chair said, bored. He stood up, towering over her. "Your father borrowed three hundred thousand dollars from a loan shark in our territory. He tried to double it at the tracks today. He lost everything." ​Clara felt the blood drain from her face. Three hundred thousand. She gripped the six hundred dollars in her pocket, the cash suddenly feeling pathetic. ​"I... I can’t pay that," she whispered. "I don't have that kind of money." ​"We know," the man said. He checked his watch. "But the debt has been purchased. By Lucian Blackwood." ​The air left the room. ​Blackwood. The name was a legend in Chicago. They owned the shipping docks, the casinos, and half the politicians. They were the royalty of the underworld. And Lucian Blackwood—the Heir, the CEO of Obsidian Corp—was the king. They called him the "Prince of Darkness." He was known for being ruthless, brilliant, and terrifyingly cold. ​"Why would Lucian Blackwood care about my father?" Clara asked, confused. ​The man gestured to the door. "He doesn't. He cares about you." ​The drive to the city center was silent. Clara sat in the back of a black SUV with tinted windows, watching her neighborhood fade away, replaced by the glittering lights of downtown. ​They pulled up to the Obsidian Tower, a monolith of black glass that pierced the clouds. Clara was escorted through a private entrance, bypassing security, and shoved into an elevator that had no buttons—only a thumbprint scanner. ​The elevator shot up to the top floor in seconds. When the doors slid open, Clara stepped into a palace. ​The penthouse was an expanse of black marble and floor-to-ceiling glass. The storm raged outside, lightning illuminating the stark, modern furniture. In the center of the room, behind a massive mahogany desk, stood a man looking out at the rain. ​"Leave us," a deep voice commanded. ​The guards vanished instantly. ​Clara stood alone with the monster. She hugged her cheap, wet coat tighter around herself. "Mr. Blackwood?" ​He turned. And for a second, Clara forgot how to breathe. ​The tabloids didn't do him justice. Lucian Blackwood was devastatingly handsome. He was tall, over six feet of lean muscle encased in a charcoal suit. His hair was jet black, swept back from a face that looked like it was carved from marble—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, and lips pressed into a cruel line. ​But his eyes were the most terrifying part. They were grey—cold, metallic, and utterly void of warmth. ​"Clara Rossi," he said, walking around the desk with the grace of a predator. "Twenty-three. Clean record. Desperate." ​He stopped three feet away from her. The scent of him—power and rain—was overwhelming. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her wet shoes with distaste. ​"You'll do," he muttered. ​"Do for what?" Clara snapped. Her fear was quickly turning into anger. "Where is my father?" ​Lucian leaned against his desk, crossing his arms. "Your father is currently tied to a chair in a warehouse. Whether he leaves that warehouse alive depends entirely on the next five minutes." ​"You can't do that," Clara hissed. "I'll go to the police." ​Lucian laughed. It was a dark, humorless sound. "I own the police, Clara. Now, listen closely. My grandfather’s will has a clause. To inherit the Blackwood Empire, I must be married by my thirty-third birthday. That is this Saturday." ​Clara blinked. "You... you want to marry me?" ​"I want to hire you," he corrected coldly. "I don't have time for dating. I don't want a real wife. I want a signature on a license and a woman who looks good in photos. You fit the profile. Nobody knows who you are, which means nobody will ask questions." ​He picked up a document from the desk and tossed it toward her. "One year. You wear my ring. You live in my house. You pretend to be hopelessly in love with me. In exchange, your father’s debt is wiped clean, and I send him to the best rehab facility in the country." ​Clara stared at the contract. It was insanity. "And if I say no?" ​Lucian didn't speak. He simply picked up a remote and clicked a button. A large screen on the wall flickered to life. ​It was a live feed. Her father, Marco, was slumped in a chair, bruised and terrified. A man stood behind him, holding a heavy pair of industrial pliers near Marco's hand. ​"Papa!" Clara screamed, lunging toward the screen. ​Lucian caught her arm. His grip was iron, stopping her in her tracks. He pulled her close, forcing her to look at him. ​"Sign the papers, Clara," he whispered, his voice dark and dangerous. "Or they start removing his fingers. One by one." ​Clara sobbed, looking from the screen to the man holding her. He was a devil. A beautiful, heartless devil. ​"You're a monster," she spat. ​"I am a King," Lucian replied smoothly. "And Kings do what is necessary. Clause One: Obey me in public. Clause Two: Never ask about my business. Clause Three: Do not fall in love with me. Do we have a deal?" ​Clara looked at her father’s terrified face. She knew she had no choice. She had never had a choice. ​"Fine," she whispered, defeated. "I'll do it." ​She walked to the desk, her hand trembling as she picked up the heavy gold fountain pen. She signed her name on the dotted line, the ink sealing her fate. ​Clara Rossi. ​"Smart girl," Lucian murmured. ​He took the contract, satisfied. Then, he reached out. His thumb brushed a stray tear from her cheek. The touch was electric, shocking them both. Lucian froze, his eyes darkening as he felt the spark. His gaze dropped to her neck, landing on the small, star-shaped birthmark below her ear. ​For a split second, the cold mask slipped, replaced by something hotter. Something possessive. ​"Welcome to the family, Mrs. Blackwood," he said softly. ​Clara shivered. She had saved her father, but as she looked into Lucian’s eyes, she realized she had just walked willingly into the lion's den. And the lion was hungry.