THE MAFIA'S FORCED BRIDE
- Genre: Romance
- Author: Katherine Obasi
- Chapters: 28
- Status: Ongoing
- Age Rating: 18+
- 👁 29
- ⭐ 7.5
- 💬 196
Annotation
He was covered in blood when she found him. She should’ve walked away. Now she’s the reason a ruthless mafia king is willing to burn the city just to keep her. Some call it obsession. He calls it love. And Aria Bennett is about to learn—you don’t save the devil and walk away unscarred.
Chapter 1
Chapter One – Blood in the Rain
Luca
The night was too quiet before the chaos began.
That’s always how it happens—peace stretching thin like glass before it shatters.
The warehouse sat on the edge of the East River, black water rippling beneath the moonlight. My men were scattered, shadows behind crates and steel beams, waiting for the signal. I could smell the river, the gun oil, the tension.
Vercetti’s crew was late. Never a good sign.
“Boss,” Matteo’s voice cracked through my earpiece, low and steady. “Two SUVs, west entrance. He brought muscle.”
Of course he did.
I adjusted my grip on the pistol, feeling the cold weight against my palm. My heartbeat was calm. Always calm before the blood. “Hold position. Wait for my move.”
The headlights cut through the fog, blinding white against the dark. I stepped out from the shadows, coat whipping in the wind, the river’s chill sinking into my skin.
Vercetti’s second-in-command, Carlo, climbed out first. Smug. Arrogant. Wearing the same smirk that had haunted too many of my men’s graves.
“Moretti,” he called, spreading his hands. “Didn’t think you’d show your face after what happened in Queens.”
I smiled. “You should know by now, I always show up for the kill.”
The words hung in the air for a heartbeat.
Then the first shot cracked.
The world exploded in sound—gunfire, shouting, gl*ss shattering. Bullets whizzed past, biting into metal, into flesh. My men moved with brutal precision. We’d done this a hundred times, and still, the rush hit me like a drug.
Carlo ducked behind a crate. I fired twice. Missed the first. The second took his shoulder, sent him sprawling.
“Push forward!” Matteo yelled.
I moved, fast, firing as I went, a shadow in a storm of violence. The smell of gunpowder clung to everything, sharp and familiar. A bullet grazed my arm—pain hot and quick—but I didn’t slow.
Then I saw Vercetti himself, standing near the exit, his own gun raised. For a second, everything narrowed to that one man.
“Luca!” Matteo shouted.
I fired. So did he.
His bullet hit first.
It tore through my side, just below the ribs. I staggered back, choking on the copper taste of blood. My shot went wide, shattering a pipe behind him. Steam hissed into the air, blurring his shape. He disappeared into the smoke, running.
Matteo caught my arm. “You’re hit.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, pressing a hand to the wound. “Get the rest. Make sure none of them follow.”
“Boss—”
“Do it!”
He hesitated, then nodded, barking orders into the dark as I stumbled away through the back exit. My vision tilted. The cold night hit me like a wall, the rain starting to fall in thin, silver streaks.
I didn’t know where I was going. Just away.
Away from the blood, away from the noise, into the sleeping city.
Every step was fire in my ribs. Every breath hurt. But something inside me refused to stop.
Maybe I’d die on a quiet street tonight. Maybe that was how monsters went out—alone, nameless, bleeding under the same sky they once ruled.
But fate had other plans.
Aria
It was supposed to be an ordinary night.
My shift had run late at the hospital—two emergency surgeries, a car accident, and a gunshot wound that barely made it through the doors alive. The city was still wet from the earlier storm, the streets glistening under the glow of streetlights.
I pulled my coat tighter around me and adjusted the strap of my bag. My feet ached, my mind numb with exhaustion. I just wanted to get home, shower, and forget the sound of the monitors flatlining.
Brooklyn was quiet. Too quiet.
Then I heard it—a groan, low and rough, from the alley ahead.
I froze. “Hello?”
No answer.
I should’ve kept walking. Every instinct said so. It was New York; people got into trouble all the time. But something about that sound—it wasn’t drunk or angry. It was pain. Real pain.
I stepped closer.
A man lay half-collapsed against a wall, rain pooling beneath him. His shirt was soaked dark—blood. So much blood. His head was bowed, his breath shallow.
“Hey—hey!” I dropped to my knees beside him. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes opened—steel gray, sharp even through the haze. They met mine, and for a second, the world tilted. He wasn’t just anyone. There was danger in those eyes. Control.
But there was also…something else. A flicker of humanity, buried deep.
“Don’t,” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Don’t call anyone.”
“You’re bleeding out,” I said sharply, already pulling my scarf off to press against his side. “You need a hospital.”
“No hospital.” His hand caught my wrist. Strong, even now. “Please.”
That one word stopped me.
Please.
I hesitated, then tore the hem of my coat and pressed it against the wound anyway. “You’re lucky I don’t listen to bad decisions.”
He gave a faint, pained smirk. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when my patient’s being stubborn.”
The rain fell harder, washing streaks of blood down the pavement. I leaned closer, checking his breathing, his pulse. Too fast. His skin cold.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Luca.”
“Okay, Luca.” I swallowed hard. “You’re going to live, but you need a doctor. A real one.”
He stared at me, eyes narrowing as if memorizing every inch of my face. “You’re a doctor.”
I froze. “How—?”
“Hands,” he muttered faintly. “You move like one.”
He was right. I’d treated enough dying men to know what he saw in me—calm, clinical, desperate to save what was left.
I tied off the makeshift bandage, pressing hard. His breath hitched.
“Stay awake,” I said. “You’ll go into shock if you—”
“Why are you helping me?” he interrupted, his voice barely above a whisper.
I blinked. “Because you’re hurt.”
“People don’t help men like me.”
“Well,” I said quietly, “maybe they should.”
He studied me for a long second—then laughed, a dry, broken sound. “You’re either brave or stupid.”
“I get that a lot.”
His head fell back against the wall, breath trembling. “You should go before—”
“Before what?” I asked.
His gaze met mine, and something dark flickered there—warning, or maybe prophecy. “Before you regret this.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but his eyes fluttered shut, his body going limp.
“Hey—Luca! Stay with me!” I pressed my fingers to his throat. The pulse was faint but there. Relief flooded through me.
I couldn’t leave him. Not like this.
I looked around. No one. Just the rain and the distant hum of traffic. I sighed and stood, flagging down the nearest cab. When the driver cursed about blood on his seats, I threw a handful of bills at him.
“Just drive,” I said.
By the time we reached my apartment, Luca was barely conscious. I half-dragged, half-carried him up the stairs, my heart pounding with fear—and something I couldn’t name.
When I laid him on my couch, he groaned softly, eyes opening for a moment. “What do you want from me?” I whispered, half to myself, half to him.
His lips curved faintly, even as he drifted into unconsciousness.
“Everything.”
Luca
I woke to pain and the faint scent of antiseptic.
For a second, I thought I was dead.
Then I saw her.
The woman from the alley—brown eyes, tired but fierce—moving around the small apartment, cleaning my wound, her hands steady. The world felt softer here. Quieter.
It had been a long time since I’d seen softness.
“Don’t move,” she said without looking up. “You’ll reopen the stitches.”
“You stitched me up,” I murmured, voice hoarse.
“Someone had to.”
“You’re not afraid of me.”
She looked at me then, her eyes sharp. “Should I be?”
I almost smiled. “Yes.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The rain had stopped outside, leaving only the sound of the city breathing through the open window.
She turned back to her work, pretending not to notice the way I was watching her. She didn’t know who I was. Not yet.
But she would.
And when she did, it would be too late.
Chapter 2
Aria
Morning light spilled through my apartment windows, slicing across the floorboards like a silent accusation. I hadn’t slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw blood—his blood—pooling on my hands.
The stranger lay stretched across my couch, his chest rising and falling beneath the clean bandages I’d wrapped only hours ago. He looked less like a dying man now and more like something carved from danger itself. Even unconscious, he radiated control, the kind of quiet dominance that didn’t belong in a room this small or this safe.
I moved quietly around him, tidying the mess—bloody towels, torn fabric, scattered medical supplies. My heart still hadn’t slowed. I’d smuggled a gunshot victim into my home. I could lose my license. Worse, I could lose my freedom.
“Brilliant, Aria,” I muttered under my breath. “Bring home the man with a bullet hole. Great ide
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