The Don’s Unwanted Bride

The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of the taxi wasn’t the scent of home—it was fear.

Our gate was wide open, the kind of open that meant someone didn’t care about rules anymore. My family’s black Mercedes was parked crooked in the driveway, doors flung wide, and there were men in dark suits scattered across the front yard. Their presence was wrong—too silent, too sharp, like shadows waiting to strike.

My heart kicked hard in my chest as I pulled my suitcase closer. I’d only been gone two years. Two years studying in London, dreaming about surprising my family, hugging my mother, showing my father my diploma. I imagined laughter, warmth, maybe my twin sister’s jealous eye roll. But now, that image cracked apart.

“Excuse me,” I called, approaching the gate. “What’s going on here?”

A man in black turned his head. His eyes swept over me like I was something to be assessed, not greeted. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said in a deep voice, stepping forward.

“I live here,” I snapped, though my throat was dry. “Who are you people?”

Before he could answer, I heard my father’s voice from inside—hoarse, desperate. “Please, Don Alessandro, just a little more time. I’ll get your money, I swear!”

Don.

The word hit like thunder. I froze on the path, fingers tightening around my suitcase handle. Everyone in the city knew that name. Alessandro Romano. The Don who ruled half the town’s underworld with charm and cruelty, the man people whispered about but never dared to face.

What the hell was he doing in our house?

I shoved past the suited man, ignoring his warning shout. My heels clicked across the marble as I stepped into the foyer—and froze.

My father was on his knees. My mother was crying silently beside him, her face pale. Two men in black stood behind them, and in the center of the room stood a man in a tailored black suit, his back turned to me. Broad shoulders, calm posture, the kind of stillness that screamed danger. Even from behind, the air around him felt colder.

And then I saw her—my twin sister, Lila.

She was standing near the stairs, still in her silk robe, trembling.

“What is going on here?” I demanded, voice shaking.

All heads turned toward me. My father’s face drained of color.

“Sweetheart, what are you doing here?” he asked, voice trembling.

“I live here, last I checked,” I said. “Why are there men in suits in our house? Who are these people?”

The man in the black suit turned slowly. And for a second, my lungs forgot how to work.

He was beautiful in a cruel way. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that looked like they’d seen too much, slicked-back hair, the faint shadow of stubble on his chin. His suit fit him perfectly, but it wasn’t the clothes that made him terrifying—it was his silence. His presence felt heavy, commanding.

“So,” he said quietly. “You have another