Not Yours To Claim, My Mafia Ex

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This story contains dark romance themes intended for mature readers (18+). © Page Slayer. All rights reserved. All scenes, dialogues, and characters are protected under copyright law. Stealing or plagiarizing this story will not be tolerated. Legal action will be taken against anyone attempting to reproduce this work without permission.

In the dark hotel room, two bodies were tangled in the haze of desire, skin on skin, breath against breath. The air was permeated with the scent of sex and passion. A soft moan escaped the woman’s lips—barely audible, yet familiar enough to slice through Luciano’s intoxicated fog.

His brows furrowed.

No.

He knew that voice.

In a swift, almost panicked movement, his hand shot toward the lamp on the nightstand. But before he could flick the switch, whispered through the darkness.

"Ah—no, don’t turn on the light," a delicate voice whispered, and Luciano frowned.

 "You," he snarled, jaw tightening as his gaze locked onto the familiar face beneath him—while he was still buried deep inside her.

His hand snapped up to her chin, gripping it roughly. Pain flared beneath his touch, but the woman only smiled—slow, sultry, and unbothered.

“Do you not want me, Mr. Mancini?”

Arching her back, she rolled her hips deliberately, and he hissed as her tight heat clung to him like a vice. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to stop—but he couldn’t. His fury was tangled with desire, and the combination made his blood boil.

His gaze burned with rage, but lust roared louder in his veins.

“You’re going to regret this, Rosie,” he bit out, voice low and dark.

Without warning, he shoved her legs over his shoulders and slammed into her—hard, relentless, punishing. The bed creaked beneath their force. Moans filled the room, hers laced with pleasure and seduction, his with a mixture of anger and need.

He didn’t stop. Not when she cried out. Not when her nails raked down his back. Not even when her body finally gave out beneath him, trembling and exhausted after countless rounds of rough, relentless sex. She slipped into unconsciousness with a soft sigh, her body limp in his grasp.

But Luciano kept moving.

Only when he spilled himself inside her with a guttural groan did he finally collapse beside her.

The next morning, Rosa found herself in Luciano’s strong arms. She bit her lip, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face. Luciano Mancini—the enigmatic underworld don and…

…her ex-husband.

Even in sleep, he looked effortlessly powerful, dangerously handsome. There was something about him—his quiet dominance, the mystery in his eyes—that drew women to him like moths to a flame. Any woman would have killed to be in his bed.

She still remembered the day she first saw him; she was twelve years old, visiting her grandfather’s childhood friend, who was also his boss at the time. When her eyes landed on an eighteen-year-old Luciano Mancini, she couldn’t get them off him; he looked like