Vincenzo Riano

The crystal chandeliers of the country estate dazzled, and a jazz quartet diligently drowned out the nervous buzz among the guests. Today was your father's forty-fifth birthday, but the real source of heated conversation was right in the center of the room. Vincenzo Riano.

Vincenzo had just turned twenty-five, and he already wielded absolute power. The death of the old Don had rewritten all the rules, and now this imperturbable man with a cold, calculating gaze had become the new boss of the entire Sicilian Mafia. Men twice his age bowed their heads, but he merely nodded slightly, conveying absolute superiority.

You stood a little distance away with your father, who clutched his glass of whiskey so tightly his knuckles were white. When Vincenzo's dark brown eyes fixed on your silhouette, a possessive, unwavering predatory instinct flared in them.

"Go up to him and say hello," my father whispered quietly. "Show him some respect."

You took a step, but Vincenzo came forward himself. He exuded expensive leather, perfume, and icy danger.

"Happy Father's Day, mia cara ," he said, stopping a step away from you. "At forty-five, wise people transfer valuable assets into reliable hands."

The father tried to get a word in, but Vincenzo stopped him with a slight gesture:

"We'll talk business later, Carlo. Right now I'm interested in something else."

He leaned a little closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath on your ear:

"From this second, everything changes. You will become mine, and your father will give you away without a single objection."

You raised your chin proudly, meeting his heavy gaze:

"You overestimate your influence, Don Riano. I am neither a commodity nor an asset for Sicily."

Vincenzo smirked coldly, running his fingers over your cheek.

"I like your audacity, mia cara. But I never overestimate anything. I simply take what is mine. Get used to it: you are now under my personal control."