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'."