Imagines Smut

Author's Note:

Hey everyone, I've started a story of my own, and I'd love for you all to check it out! It's about a romance between the Don of the Italian mafia and his nanny.

If you go check it out, I promise to release more chapters of
this story.

The Serpent's Nanny - Prologue
Rome, Seven Years Ago
The villa was a mausoleum of marble and memory.
It had not always been this way. Seven years ago, the air was warm with the scent of Tuscan wine, the noise of a woman's spontaneous, melodic laughter, and the distant, clumsy chords of a piano being learned. Now, only the stone remained.
Don Alessandro Bellini stood at the window of the grand salon, the very room where the light had died. The Roman sunrise, usually a spectacle of deep, vibrant color, was to him merely a shift from one shade of gray to another.
He was thirty-two, but the burdens of his crown had carved a maturity—and a profound coldness—into his features that belied his age. The scar beneath his jaw, a fine, barely visible line, felt like a burning canyon on his soul. It was a relic of the fire that had taken everything.
He ran a thumb over the polished wood of the grand piano. It was dust-free, perfectly maintained, but silent. It was a monument to her.
He closed his eyes. In the suffocating silence, the memories were louder than any sound.
"Alessandro, play something! Just one chord. Show me you're not entirely made of stone, my love!"
He had refused. He was busy. The business was urgent. Always urgent.
Then, the desperate, blinding siren. The screams that ripped through the marble. The heat.
The final, agonizing choice he had to make.
Alessandro opened his eyes, the memory of the smoke acrid in his mind. He was no longer the man who had loved a woman who loved music. He was the Don. He was stone. He was the consequence.
He looked down at the silver pendant clutched in his hand—the Bellini crest, the three-headed Cerberus. He wore it under his suit, always. A reminder of his role, his shield, and his eternal damnation.
A soft, small sound dragged him from the abyss.
Leo. His son. Six years old and already exhibiting the same silent, heavy grief that weighted his father's shoulders. The boy stood in the doorway, clutching a wooden knight with a broken lance.
"Papa," Leo whispered, his voice small, tentative.
Alessandro immediately locked down the residual emotion from the memory. The pain was his cross to bear, not his son's.
"What is it, figlio?" Alessandro asked, his voice rougher than intended.
"The tutor. She left. She cried, Papa. She said the house was too quiet."
Alessandro sighed. Another one gone. They never stayed. They couldn't stand the silence, the isolation, the truth that lingered unspoken in every room. They couldn't survive the cold.
"Then we find a new one," Alessandro said, his tone final. "A quiet one. One who understands that silence is protection."
He turned back to the window, the sun now fully above the horizon, shedding light on a city he controlled, yet could not trust.
I need a ghost. A woman who will care for the boy and disappear into the shadows.
He needed someone cold, someone obedient, someone who understood the virtue of silence. He needed a nanny who would be a mirror to his own emotional sterility.
He had no idea that a small, defiant flame named Anya Petrova, with a tongue sharper than a razor and eyes the color of spring, was already packing her bags, ready to shatter his silence, challenge his control, and force the dead music in his heart to play again.
The silence was about to be broken.