Married to the ruthless Billionaire Mafia

The car moved through the dark road, its tinted windows hiding Rose Blake from the city she was leaving behind. She sat still in the back seat, arms wrapped around herself, eyes burning with tears she refused to let fall. Boston’s lights had already faded, but her father’s voice stayed with her.

Rosie, I never meant for this. I only wanted to keep you safe. To give you a chance.

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, breathing in shallow, uneven breaths. The ache in her chest felt sharp enough to split her open. He had meant every word. That was the cruelest part.

Her father had worked himself raw since her mother left. One job became two. Then three. Long nights. Missed meals. Promises whispered over cheap takeout and exhaustion. When hope failed him, he turned to alcohol. When alcohol stopped working, he turned to risks he didn’t understand.

He gambled and borrowed for her tuition and roof over her head. And now the debt collectors had come. Not with threats shouted across phones or letters slipped under doors—but with calm voices, tailored suits, and guns they didn’t need to point.

If you don’t comply, Rosie, they won’t just kill me, he’d said, his voice shaking. They’ll kill you too.

Her throat tightened at the memory.

She had screamed at him. Begged him to let her quit law school, to let her work full-time, to let her fix it. She would have cleaned floors. Worked nights. Done anything. But he had only cried, shaking his head, repeating the same broken words.

It was too late

This was his fault. And she was the payment.

Her gaze dropped to her left hand. The ring caught the faint glow of a passing streetlamp; a flawless diamond set into a band of gold so polished it looked unreal. Cold. Heavy.

To the world, it meant wealth. Security. Power.

To her, it was a chain.

She curled her fingers into a fist until the metal dug into her skin, grounding her in the pain. She welcomed it. Pain meant she was still here. Still herself.

The car slowed.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires, the sound loud in the silence. The driver muttered something in Italian, and Rose’s chest tightened as the door opened. Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, carrying the unmistakable smell of jet fuel.

A man stepped forward from the shadows, dressed in a dark coat. His voice was smooth, professional. “Signorina.”

He gestured ahead.

Rose stepped out of the car, the chill cutting straight through her thin blouse. Her heels sank slightly into damp stone as she moved forward, each step heavier than the last. Ahead, under harsh white lights, a sleek private jet waited, engines humming low and steady.

It didn’t look like a plane. It looked like a sentence.

Men in black stood on either side of the tarmac, silent and unmoving. Their coats shifted with the wind. Hands clasped in front of them. Watching.

The air smelled of rain and fuel. The ground vibrated faintly beneath her feet.

Her wedding dress felt heavier with every step she took. White silk. Perfectly tailored. Trailing behind her like something meant to follow her into a grave. She hated it. The way it clung to her. The way it marked her.

She lifted her chin, forcing herself to stand tall even as her stomach twisted painfully. Weakness would only entertain them.

When she reached the stairs and stepped inside the jet, warmth closed in around her. Polished leather. Mahogany finishes. 

And then she saw him.

Dante Moretti sat at the far end of the cabin, one leg crossed, posture relaxed in a way that suggested complete control. His suit was dark, his presence heavier than the air itself. Storm-grey eyes lifted the moment she entered.

Her breath caught. She looked away too quickly, heart hammering.

This wasn’t the first time she’d seen him.

Two days ago, she’d rushed home after her father’s urgent call. The next night, he’d taken her to a casino, saying it was business. The glitter and music had faded the deeper they went, until marble turned to concrete and smiles turned to steel.

Men with guns stood at the walls.

And at the center of it all sat Dante Moretti—the billionaire her professor praised in lectures. The future of European finance.

But billionaires didn’t run underground casinos guarded by armed soldiers.

Unless…

“She will be the debt payment.” Being shocked was an understatement to how she felt. Her father had handed her over. A wife in exchange for his life… their lives.

  The second time had been colder. In a courtroom, her signature shook as it went beside Dante’s steady one. He hadn’t stayed a moment longer after signing the papers. He’d left, as if nothing had happened.

  And now, here she was, the third time, on this jet. Married, dressed in white, bound to him in name and law.

  She moved further into the cabin, and only then did she notice she wasn’t alone with him.

Across from Dante sat another man. The resemblance was unsettling—same build, same sharp features, the same storm-grey eyes.

He smiled, smooth and practiced. “Benvenuta,” he said, then switched to English. “I’m Luca. Welcome to the family, Rose.”

Her stomach turned at the way he said her name.

She sat opposite Dante, her dress whispering against the seat. The hum of the engines filled the silence.

Dante didn’t speak. His gaze flicked over her—head to toe—as if cataloguing her very existence, and it was enough to make her fingers curl into her lap. She stared at her hands, at the hateful ring, willing her heartbeat to slow.

  Luca leaned closer, resting an elbow on the armrest, his voice soft but edged. “You look frightened. Don’t be. This is a good arrangement. For everyone.”

  Rose pressed her lips together, refusing to answer. Any word she gave him would only feed his amusement.

  The jet door sealed with a metallic thud, the pressure changing as they prepared for takeoff. Dante adjusted his cufflink, then leaned back as though the entire cabin bent to him. He hadn’t spoken a word, but she could feel his command in the air, heavier than the dress suffocating her skin.

  Her chest tightened. She wanted to scream, to rip the ring from her finger, to tear the silk off her body. But when her eyes flicked up by accident and collided with his again, the storm-grey held her in place like chains.

  She looked down immediately, her throat raw.

  The jet lifted, the ground falling away beneath them. Rose gripped the armrest, as the last piece of her old life vanished into the dark.

  And still, Dante Moretti had not spoken a single word.

The jet touched down in Naples just before dawn, the horizon streaked in pale gray. The cabin lights glowed warm, but Rose felt cold as the engines whined down. When the door opened, the air that rushed in was heavier, thick with salt and the faint tang of smoke from the city beyond.

Two black cars waited on the tarmac. Men in suits stood at attention, their faces impassive. Among them, a woman stepped forward, elegant in black, bowing her head slightly.

Dante didn’t look at Rose as he spoke, it was the first words she had ever truly heard from him.

“Vestitela,” he told the woman. Dress her.

Rose’s stomach tightened, but the woman inclined her head in silence and gestured for Rose to follow. Without a word, Rose was guided down the stairs, her dress dragging across the steps as Luca’s eyes lingered on her. He didn’t look away until she disappeared into the waiting car.

When the door shut behind he