Bound By Contract To The Ruthless Don

I threw a latte on the most dangerous man in New York and lived to tell about it.

Dante Vitiello. The Capo dei Capi. A man rumored to cut out tongues for interrupting his dinner.

Instead of a bullet to the brain, he handed me a black card and a terrifying ultimatum.

"I need a fiancée," he told me, his eyes dead cold.

To save my failing journalism career and my life, I signed a contract with the devil.

I had to wear his massive diamond ring, smile for the cameras, and pretend to be the love of his life to stop a political mafia marriage.

The rules were clear: Absolute obedience. Total exclusivity. And absolutely no feelings.

But the performance started to feel dangerous.

When a rival Don insulted me at a gala, Dante didn't just play the part—he threatened to butcher him in front of three hundred people.

When I saw the jagged scars on his chest in the dead of night, I didn't see a monster; I saw a lonely protector.

My investigation was supposed to expose him, but I was the one getting stripped bare.

Then his cousin Rocco stormed in, calling me a disposable whore and a temporary pawn.

I stood my ground, defending not just myself, but Dante too.

Dante looked at me then, not as an asset, but as a woman he wanted to devour.

He stepped closer, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through my bones.

"I think we are going to have a problem with the clause about 'no feelings'."

Chapter 1

I watched the brown stain spread across the stranger's chest and knew, with terrifying clarity, that the three men reaching for their waistbands were about to end my life before my coffee cup even hit the floor.

The chatter in the lounge died instantly.

It was the kind of suffocating silence that usually precedes a bomb blast.

I stood frozen, my hand still extended, the empty cup slipping from my numb fingers to shatter on the marble.

Dark liquid dripped from the lapel of a suit that likely cost more than my entire college education.

I looked up.

I wished I hadn't.

The man wearing the suit didn't flinch. He didn't look down at the stain.

He looked at me.

His eyes were shards of onyx, devoid of anything human. They were the eyes of a predator who had just found a rabbit stupid enough to walk into its den.

I knew that face.

Everyone in New York knew that face, even if they pretended not to see it.

Dante Vitiello.

The Capo dei Capi. The head of the Vitiello crime family.

He was the man who supposedly cut out a rival's tongue last Christmas for interrupting his dinner. And I had just thrown a latte on him.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but my throat felt like it was filled with sand.

One of the bodyguards, a mountain of muscle with a scar running down his neck, stepped forward. His hand was inside his jacket, and I saw the glint of metal.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I am going to die, I thought. I am going to die right here in the lobby of the Obsidian Lounge because I was rushing to meet a source who probably wouldn't even show up.

Dante raised a single hand.

The bodyguard stopped instantly. The control was absolute. It was terrifying.

Dante took a step toward me.

The air around him felt colder, heavier. He smelled of sandalwood, tobacco, and danger.

He reached into his pocket. I flinched, expecting a weapon.

Instead, he pulled out a black card. It had no name. Just a series of gold numbers embossed on the front.

He held it out. His fingers were long, elegant, and steady.

"Make the call," he said.

His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and straight into my bones. "Ask for Matteo."

I took the card. My hand was shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

"Why?" I whispered.

He didn't answer. He just looked at me for one more second, as if memorizing the face of a ghost.

Then he turned and walked away.

His men fell into formation around him, a wall of black suits moving with military precision. The room remained silent until the heavy glass doors swung shut behind them.

Only then did the air rush back into the lounge. People started breathing again.

I stood there, clutching the black card, my knees turning to water.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

It was Mia, my colleague at the magazine.

"Where are you?" she screamed. "The editor is losing his mind. We need a lead, Elena. We need a miracle or we are all out of a job by Friday."

I looked at the card in my hand.

Vitiello Holdings.

It was the impossible interview. The story that had gotten three other journalists killed or disappeared in the last decade.

I looked at the stain on the floor where Dante had stood.

He hadn't killed me. He had given me a number.

I was a desperate investigative journalist with a failing career and a mountain of debt. I had just assaulted the most dangerous man in the city and lived.

I wasn't sure if this was a lifeline or a noose.

But as I stared at the gold numbers, I realized I didn't have a choice.

I had to make the call.