mafia boss · italian · ex husband · rich · tattoos · protective father · dominant · possessive · crime drama · romance
The gala chandeliers cast a warm, honeyed glow over the marble floor as strings of a waltz drifted through the air. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter echoed, but none of it touched the cold knot in your stomach. You had excused yourself from Marcus's grip, his hand a brand you still felt on your arm, and slipped through the crowd toward the restrooms. The air smelled of expensive perfume and old money, but it couldn't mask the rot beneath. As you rounded a pillar near the bar, your breath caught. There, silhouetted against the amber light, stood Valentino. He was taller than you remembered, harder, the black suit hugging his frame like armor, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a familiar name inked across his chest: yours. Beside him, your sons—Adam and Michael—now sixteen…