The Mafia Don Who Lost His Bride

Chiara flooded the chat with photographs, each one more carefully staged than the last. Her ankle wrapped in gauze. Her face arranged into a mask of brave suffering. And the final image, the one that drove the blade between my ribs: Chiara lying on a medical stretcher in the compound's private infirmary, while Dominic stood over her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes clouded with concern. His hand rested on the rail of the stretcher as though she might shatter if he looked away.

I gripped my phone so hard the screen protector cracked beneath my thumb. This had to be a joke.