🐺 The Forbidden Bed That Made Her the Mafia Boss’s Fiancée

Chapter 01 - 🐺 The Forbidden Bed That Made Her the Mafia Boss’s Fiancée

## chapter 01 - The Woman in the Forbidden Room

I woke to the smell of cedar, rain, and a man I did not know well enough to be lying beside.

For three stunned seconds, I did not move. My cheek rested against cool white linen. My hand was tucked beneath a pillow so soft it felt indecent. Somewhere beyond the windows, Boston traffic hissed under late autumn rain, faint and far below.

Then I felt the weight across my waist.

A man’s arm.

Scarred. Heavy. Warm.

My eyes opened all the way.

The first thing I saw was black ink: a wolf tattoo stretched across the bare upper body beside me, its eyes drawn with such savage detail that it seemed to be watching me breathe. Then came the scars, pale lines crossing olive skin. Then the hand resting at my hip, the steel watch on his wrist worth more than my car, and the slow rise and fall of a chest that belonged to the last man in Boston any sane woman should wake up beside.

Adrian Moretti.

I swallowed so hard it hurt.

I had met him only twice before that night, both times across rooms filled with flowers, wineglasses, and people pretending they were not terrified of him. He had hired my small event-planning company to handle his grandmother’s charity gala. He had spoken little, watched everything, and signed checks without blinking.

Last night, after eighteen hours of work, I had come upstairs looking for the linen closet.

I remembered a headache. A tray of seating cards in my arms. One of his men telling me the west corridor was off-limits, and me nodding like I had understood which side was west in a mansion that had more hallways than some hotels.

I remembered opening a door, seeing a quiet room, and thinking I would sit for two minutes.

Apparently, I had chosen Adrian Moretti’s bedroom.

Worse, I had chosen his bed.

And sometime during the night, he had gotten into it.

I began lifting his arm one inch at a time, praying he was the kind of dangerous man who slept deeply. He was not.

His fingers tightened once at my waist.

“Elena,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

The sound of my name in that room felt like a match struck in a church.

“I can explain,” I whispered.

His eyes opened.

Dark. Steady. Completely awake.

For a moment, neither of us moved. His gaze dropped from my face to my blouse, which was still buttoned but wrinkled beneath the bedsheet, then back to my eyes.

“You fell asleep,” he said.

“Yes.”

“In my room.”

“Yes.”

“In my bed.”

“I am painfully aware of that detail.”

Something almost changed in his mouth. It was not a smile. Men like Adrian did not smile over misunderstandings that could get people killed. But the corner of his lips softened for half a second before iron returned.

Then the double doors opened.

I sat up so fast the room tilted.

A woman stood in the doorway wearing deep purple silk and pearls, one hand resting on an ornate cane. She was small, elegant, and terrifying in the way old queens are terrifying—because everyone knows the kingdom belonged to them first.

Behind her stood two guards.

Her sharp eyes moved from Adrian’s bare shoulders to my tangled hair and the bedsheet I had clutched against my chest.

“Adrian?”

“Oh my God,” I breathed.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I said quickly, though I had no idea what it looked like from the doorway except exactly what it was not.

Adrian sat up beside me with infuriating calm.

“Elena,” he said.

The warning in his voice was soft, but it stopped me mid-sentence.

His grandmother lifted her chin.

“I see.”

“No,” I said. “You absolutely do not see.”

Before anyone could answer, another guard appeared behind her, breath uneven, his hand close to his jacket.

“Boss.”

Adrian’s expression changed so quickly I forgot to be embarrassed.

“They know she’s here.”

The air left the room.

I looked from the guard to Adrian. “Who knows?”

Adrian was already moving. He got out of bed with the composure of a man who could be discovered half-naked in a room full of armed people and still be the most dangerous thing in it. He pulled on a white shirt, left it open, then reached for my hand.

I tried to pull back.

“Adrian, what’s happening?”

His fingers closed around mine—not bruising, not gentle either. Certain.

“You’re in danger.”

I laughed once because the alternative was screaming. “From your grandmother?”

His grandmother tapped her cane once against the floor. “Not from me, child.”

Adrian looked toward the guards.

“Tell everyone Elena Brooks is my fiancée.”

I went completely still.

“Your what?”

His eyes stayed on mine, deadly serious now.