Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Once a little mafia princess, Aemelia Lambretti has fallen far. The raven-haired beauty shows up unexpectedly, waitressing at our sister’s wedding. At first, we think it’s a trap—a spy sent by her family or, worse, an assassin with vengeance in her veins. But she’s clueless about the blood spilled between our families, unaware of how her father’s betrayal led to our brother’s death.
We let her go, planning to discover more about her when the wedding is over. But someone else is watching her—someone with far darker plans.
When we find out she's being auctioned by a rival mafia—her innocence for sale to the highest bidder—we don’t hesitate. We don’t save her out of mercy. We do it for revenge. Her father may be in hiding, but his sins demand justice.
Aemelia becomes a pawn in a war she doesn’t understand, and she’s about to learn what it means to be owned by the men her father betrayed.
She’s young—too young for men like us, hardened by war, betrayal, and loss. Where she sees hope, we see only darkness. But she doesn’t shrink from the shadows within us.
With his cold, calculating control, Luca wants to crush her defiance. Fueled by fire and chaos, Alexis wants to tease her to see if she bends or breaks. And me? I, Antonio Venturi, admire how she takes every punishment with her chin high and eyes blazing, daring us to push her further.
We want to make her father regret what he did, but instead, she unravels us. With every soft gasp, every whispered plea, she chips away at the walls we swore would never crumble.
But light can’t survive in the mafia underworld for long, where love is a fatal weakness, trust is a gamble, and redemption is impossible.
When our enemies close in, and Aemelia is caught in the crossfire, can we protect the woman we were never meant to want?
We might own her body, but her soul? That might be our downfall
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ITALIAN TRANSLATIONS
Gattina – kitten
Signora – Mrs.
Idiota – idiot
Traditore - traitor
Stronzo - shit
Sfigati - losers
Doppio - double
Triplo – triple
Bella – pretty
Mio bello – my dear
Posto stupido – stupid place
Il pettegolezzo – gossip
Grazie – thank you
Chiaccherone – chatterbox
Pignolata di Miele – a type of Sicilian sweet
Goomar – mistress
Piccolina – little one
Ma che vuoi – what do you want?
Dolcezza – sweetheart
Uoma di merda – shitty man
Va fan culo – fuck off
Cogllione – idiot
Il Coltello – the blade
Amuri miu – my love
Amore mio – my love
Si amore – yes love
Mi amore – my love
Ti amo – I love you
PLAYLIST
“Shut Up and Listen” by Nicholas Bonnin
“Black Sea” by Natasha Blume
“Possessive” by Chris Brown
“I Cacciaturi I Muntaltu” by El Domingo
“Speak Softly Love” by Filippo Voltaggio
“La Siminzina” by Nihan Devecioglu and Margherita Abita
“Always Been You” by Chris Grey
“Renegade” by Aaryan Shah
“Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra
“That’s Amore” by Dean Martin
1
AEMELIA
MY FIRST MISTAKE
Tonight, I serve wine and champagne to mafia devils and pretend the air is scented with roses and jasmine, not blood and death, the real perfume this life is built upon.
I keep my expression neutral as I survey the sprawling estate, but my fingers tighten around the silver tray I’m balancing, knuckles whitening under the weight of both glass and expectation.
Marble pillars rise to meet a high vaulted ceiling, their sheer enormity designed to impress. Chandeliers spill light like liquid gold, setting the room aglow, and a string quartet plays a melody so sweet it makes my chest ache.
It’s a world of power, indulgence, and ruthlessness, and I don’t belong.
I shift my shoulders, adjusting the thin black straps of my waitress uniform as they dig into my skin. The dress code is supposed to make us blend in—simple, black, professional—but in a room of haute couture gowns and tuxedos tailored with lethal precision, I might as well be wearing a neon sign that says, Less Than.
My heart races as I weave through the crowd. Guests lounge around circular tables draped in ivory linens and festooned with flowers, their laughter too loud, their gestures exaggerated, and their conversations laced with an effortless arrogance.
“Table five, girl. Move it,” barks my supervisor, a wiry man with a permanent scowl.
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, my cheeks heating as I hoist the tray higher, the weight of my low-paying gig settling over me like a lead blanket.
Smile. Serve. Disappear. That’s the unspoken rule. And yet, in a room full of power players, I feel the weight of too many eyes, some indifferent, some appraising.
And one pair, weightier than the rest, watches too closely.
This is the wedding reception of Rosita Venturi, the beloved daughter of one of the city’s most powerful mafia families. It’s a spectacle of wealth, of power, of untouchable luxury, a demonstration of prowess.
The bride glows in custom lace, laughter spilling from her lips as she twirls with her handsome groom. We played together when I was five and she was six, but she won’t remember me. My father was wrapped up in this world before he disappeared, and we moved away. A shiver skitters over my skin, raising the hair on my arms. Are the memories of the past rising to the surface like oil on water, or is it fear?
There used to be four Venturi brothers. Now there are three, and they seem to be everywhere. Tall, imposing, sinfully handsome, with power emanating from them like a drugging scent.
One twirls his mother around the dance floor, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead, hazel eyes animated, and full lips smiling like it’s what they were created for. He’s discarded his jacket and tie and rolled the cuffs of his white shirt, revealing brightly colored flame tattoos that lick up his ropey forearms: the youngest, Alexis.
Another prowls the room's edges, his steel gray eyes suspiciously trailing over everyone, talking to brutish men stationed around the perimeter like sentries. His dark hair is cropped shorter, practical, and his black suit and shirt fit his muscular, looming frame like a second skin. He moves with panther-like grace and a fixed, almost mean stare: the middle brother, Antonio.
But only one has noticed me.
Luca Venturi. The current boss of this family. His presence commands attention like a silent storm, powerful and dark. Well over six feet and broad-shouldered, he’s a man built for war but draped in the elegance of a black suit so precisely tailored it looks like it was made to worship his body. The crisp fabric contrasts with the pale of his shirt, the sharp angles of his jaw, and the dark gleam of his slicked-back hair.
But it’s not just his appearance that unsettles me.
It’s his vivid blue, cold, piercing, unrelenting eyes that strip away pretense and hold a weight I don’t understand but can feel pressing through my flesh and into my bones.
Tonight, they’re locked on me.
Does he recognize me? I don’t think so. The last time he saw me, I had chubby cheeks and was wearing a party dress that was so pink and fluffy that it resembled cotton candy. I’d fallen in the sprawling Venturi gardens, cutting my chin, and he’d scooped me up and pressed his shirt to my face to stem the bleeding. I was crying, but his unemotional demeanor quieted my childish sorrow. I still remember how it felt to be carried high against his chest, the sharp, clean smell of his shirt, and the command in his voice as he told me I’d be okay, like he could make it so just with his words.