𝐈𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐧.
ꙬꙬꙬꙬ
All that Yara Morello was told all her life was that she was the shame of the family. She was a mistake that was never supposed to happen, a disgrace to be shunned and cast...
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I wasn't a good man—never tried to be, never cared to be. Even if I hadn't been born into the mafia, I would have found a way to stain my hands with the darkness that clawed inside me. Alessandro Cavalli, my father, would always brag about how I was his best creation, even though I was nothing like him. I was fucking good at what I did, no mistakes, no loose ends.
My grandfather had a famous saying: "i rimpianti sono per i morti." (Regrets are for dead men). I first heard it from him when he handed me my first gun to take out the first man I'd ever killed. Since then, staring at that limp body, eyes wide open, blood pooling around, I'd lived by that phrase.
Until her—the woman who'd ultimately be my undoing.
Regret clawed at me, a relentless beast gnawing away at my sanity. Tasting her, touching her—those were my regrets. She was a temptation I should've never indulged in. Watching her on that stage showing off her body to every bastard in the vicinity, giving them something to beat their meat to made my blood boil. I wanted to storm up there, drag her off, and teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget.
I wanted her on her knees, pinned against the wall, trapped in every way imaginable until she understood exactly who she belonged to. I wanted to hear her beg, to see her eyes plead for mercy as I pushed her beyond her limits.
I thought I could handle a wife—someone who'd share my bed, bear my children, and stay the hell out of my head. I needed a partner, not a distraction. I thought I could control this, keep things cold and calculated. But the moment I cut those flimsy excuses for clothes from her body, I knew I was fucked.
Big fucking mistake.
The darkness of the alley didn't hide a damn thing from me. Her body was burned into my brain—her breasts, perfectly shaped to fit in my hands, her nipples, a shade darker and begging to be bitten, to feel my teeth and know pain. And her ass, Christ, that ass. The fantasies flooded my mind, the things I could do, the positions I'd bend her into.
Seeing her so responsive, so desperate for my touch, it altered something in me. I wanted to take her and claim her all at once. When I tasted her, I felt myself unraveling. I was so close to losing it, to giving in entirely. So I stopped, not just to punish her but to put myself back in check.
I grabbed the strongest vodka I could find—something that could knock out a seasoned Russian into a coma. Ignoring Luca's curious looks, I poured myself a glass and threw it back in one go, welcoming the burn as it seared down my throat. It wasn't nearly enough, though. Not enough to drown the taste of her from my mouth, or to chase away the persistent, maddening thoughts of her that clawed at my mind.
I was contemplating a second round when Enzo, my idiot cousin, waltzed in like he owned the damn place. He wore that infuriating grin of his, the one that made me want to break his nose on sight.
"Oh, look who it is. Did you miss me while I was out there, risking my ass on the front lines against the Russians?" he taunted, sauntering over, voice dripping with sarcasm.
