Taming the Mafia Beast

POV Esther

His hands are everywhere at once. Claiming territories on my skin that no one has ever dared to touch.

The marble of the bathroom counter is cold against my back—a delicious contrast to the heat of him as he presses between my thighs. His hands burning into my skin with possession that makes my whole body sing, every nerve ending alive and aching for more.

"My princess…" he growls against my throat, the vibration sending electricity straight to my core. "You were made for me. Only me."

The possessiveness in his words should terrify me, but instead it unleashes something wild. I arch beneath him, shameless in my need, my nails raking down his tattooed back as I pull him closer, desperate to eliminate any space between us.

His mouth travels along my jaw, teeth grazing my pulse point, and I'm drowning in sensation. The scent of him—leather and whiskey and something darker—fills my lungs. This is wrong, forbidden, everything I've been taught to resist.

And yet it feels more right than anything in my carefully constructed life.

"Mark me," I beg, arching into him as if trying to get under his skin. "Make me yours. Make them all know I belong to—"

"Miss Esther!” Hannah's voice shatters everything.

I gasp awake in my bedroom, my body still burning, silk sheets twisted around my damp skin. My heart pounds against my ribs hard enough to bruise.

For a disorienting moment, I can't remember where I am or why the cold light of morning feels like such a betrayal.

"Miss Esther, you'll be late for the final preparations!" My maid bustles around my room, throwing open curtains with cheerful violence. "The florists are already here, and your stepmother is having conniptions about the champagne delivery!"

Right. The wedding. My wedding.

I press my palms against my eyes, trying to hold onto the dream, but his face is already fading like smoke in morning light. All that remains is the ghost of his touch and the taste of bourbon and lust on my lips.

"Your engagement party," Hannah continues, oblivious to my internal crisis, "is the event of the decade! Over three hundred guests confirmed now, representatives from every major family. The Morettis, the Salvatores, even the Greyhavens are sending someone."

The guilt crashes over me in waves. I touch the three-carat diamond Aaron gave me on my eighteenth birthday, its weight familiar as breathing.

Four years of wearing it. Four years of being his.

"I'll be down in twenty," I manage, voice rough with sleep and shame.

Hannah pauses at the door. "Your father wants you in the ballroom by noon."

I drag myself from bed, skin still hypersensitive, every brush of fabric against my body an echo of dream-hands that felt more real than anything in my waking life.

The shower doesn't help. Hot water just makes me think of his breath on my neck, steam just reminds me of the heat between us. These dreams have plagued me for months now, growing more intense, more real.

What kind of woman dreams about another man on the day of her engagement party?

The kind whose fiancé has been in Miami for three months handling family business, my traitorous mind supplies. The kind whose last kiss was a perfunctory peck at the airport.

I slip into a cream Roland Mouret dress, professional enough for overseeing preparations, elegant enough for when Aaron arrives. My hands shake slightly as I apply lipstick. Tom Ford's Scarlet Rouge—Aaron's favorite.

The Castellano mansion's ballroom is organized chaos.

Twenty-foot tables groan under the weight of white orchids and roses, crystal chandeliers have been polished until they could blind someone, and the twelve-piece orchestra is running through Vivaldi for the hundredth time.

"The Baccarat flutes go on the main bar only," I instruct the head caterer, my perfectionist eye catching every misplaced detail. "The Waterford set is for the auxiliary bars."

"Yes, Miss Castellano."

I move through the space like a general surveying troops, adjusting centerpieces, tasting canapés, ensuring everything is flawless. This is what I'm good at—control, precision, making things beautiful.

It's easier than thinking about why I wake up burning for a man whose face I can't even remember.

"The ice sculptures are melting unevenly," I tell the delivery team. "The left swan looks like it's having a stroke."

My stepmother Patricia appears at my elbow, her Botox preventing any actual expression of displeasure. "Must you be so crude, Esther? Ladies don't discuss strokes."

"Ladies also don't serve warm champagne, but here we are."

She purses her lips—or tries to. "Your father wants to review the seating chart. The Torrisi family has beef with the Morettis that goes back three generations."

"Then they should have thought of that before confirming." I'm already moving to the next crisis, something about the wrong shade of ivory for the napkins.

The afternoon dissolves in a blur of decisions and demands.

I lose myself in the work, in the blessed numbness of logistics. It's only when security announces Aaron's arrival that my stomach clenches. I drop everything and race to the entrance, my Louboutins clicking against marble.

Three months. Three months of video calls and texts and telling myself that distance is normal in our world, that business comes first.

He's standing in the foyer when I round the corner, and my breath catches.

Aaron looks devastating in his custom Brioni suit, all sharp angles and dark eyes. For a moment, when he sees me, his face softens into something that reminds me why I fell in love with him at fifteen.

"Bunny," he breathes, using my pet name, and then I'm in his arms. He lifts me off my feet in a spinning embrace, burying his face in my neck. "Christ, I missed you."

His cologne is different—something sharper, more aggressive than his usual Creed. But his arms are so familiar, so strong, so safe.

This is real, I tell myself. Not the dreams, this.