The Mafia King's Deadly Wife

The limousine ride back from the gala felt shorter than it should have.

Raven sat with her back against the cool leather, the crimson gown pooled around her legs like spilled blood. The high slit had shifted during the confrontation, exposing the pale skin of her thigh and the empty sheath where her stiletto had been. Adrenaline still hummed in her veins, sharp and electric.

Vincent sat beside her, one arm draped along the back of the seat, fingers occasionally brushing the bare skin of her shoulder. The partition was up. The air inside the car crackled with the same dangerous tension that had followed every public display of power.

He hadn’t spoken since they left the Eclipse Tower. He simply watched her — dark eyes tracing the line of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers kept flexing as if longing for a blade.

Raven finally broke the silence. "You’re quiet."

"I’m thinking." His voice was low and smooth. "About how you looked tonight. Crimson silk. Blood on your hands. A room full of predators watching you neutralize a threat like it was nothing." His fingers trailed down her arm. "And about how Nico Moretti looked at you while you danced."

Raven turned her head to meet his gaze. "It was one dance. Political."

"One dance where he kissed your hand and offered you a place in his family." Vincent’s tone remained calm, but the possessiveness underneath was unmistakable. "He wants what’s mine."

The word mine sent a spark straight through her. Last night was still close to the surface — not as soreness now, but as a kind of cellular memory she couldn’t reason away, a knowledge her body carried that her mind hadn’t finished arguing with.

"I’m not a possession," she said, though her voice lacked its usual ice.

Vincent’s hand slid to her thigh, slipping through the high slit of the gown. His palm was warm against her skin as he pushed the fabric higher. "You wear my ring. You sleep in my bed. You come apart under me every time you try to kill me. Tell me again that you’re not mine."

Her breath went shallow when his fingers brushed the edge of her lace underwear. She caught his wrist, but didn’t push him away. "This jealousy is beneath you, De Luca."

"It’s not jealousy." His voice dropped. "It’s certainty. You belong to the most dangerous man alive. And I don’t like other men imagining they could take you from me."

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Especially not when you’re still feeling me from last night."

Warmth crawled up her throat. The memory of the knife at his throat, the way he had flipped her and taken control, flashed behind her eyes. She had come hard enough to see stars, crying out his name despite herself.

Vincent’s fingers slipped beneath the lace, finding her already slick. He circled her clit with slow, deliberate pressure. Raven bit her lip to stifle a moan as he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them against that sensitive spot. The lingering tenderness made every stroke sharper. She rocked against his hand despite herself, the crimson gown bunching around her hips.

"You’re insufferable," she gasped.

"And you’re mine." He nipped at her earlobe, adding a third finger. He increased the pace, thumb working her clit in tight circles while his fingers drove deeper.

The orgasm crashed over her without warning. She came with a broken cry, clenching around his fingers, thighs trembling. Vincent didn’t stop until she was shaking and gasping for breath.

Only then did he withdraw his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking them clean while holding her gaze.

The limousine pulled into the mansion garage just as her breathing began to steady.

Vincent helped her out, one arm wrapped around her waist. They moved through the corridors in charged silence. The moment the door to his private quarters closed behind them, he spun her around and pressed her back against it.

His mouth crashed down on hers — hard, demanding, claiming. Raven kissed him back with equal fury, fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping his scalp. The tuxedo jacket hit the floor. Her gown was shoved up around her waist.

Vincent dropped to his knees, pushing her thighs apart. "I’ve been thinking about this since you drew blood in that ballroom," he growled.

He buried his face between her legs. Raven’s head fell back against the door with a thud, a moan tearing from her throat. He devoured her until she came again, hard and fast, fingers gripping his hair.

Only then did he rise, freeing himself from his pants. He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the door, and thrust into her in one powerful stroke.

Raven cried out at the stretch, the sharp flare of sensation blooming into pleasure before she could brace against it. Vincent fucked her hard — deep, relentless strokes that drove her up the door with every thrust. The crimson gown bunched between them.

"You’re mine," he snarled against her mouth.

Raven’s nails dug into his shoulders. She didn’t answer with words. She answered with her body — clenching around him, meeting every thrust with her own.

He changed the angle, hitting that spot inside her with every drive while his hand slipped between them to rub her clit. The third orgasm ripped through her, vision whiting out as she clenched around him, sobbing his name.

Vincent followed with a guttural groan, burying himself deep.

They stayed locked together against the door for long moments, breathing ragged.

Vincent finally lowered her to her feet, but kept her close, forehead resting against hers. His voice was rough, but softer now. "You handled the gala perfectly. The probe. The poison. Nico’s flirtation. You’re becoming more dangerous every day, my queen."

Raven closed her eyes, the aftershocks still trembling through her body.

The jealousy, the possession, the raw claiming — it should have terrified her. Instead, it felt like another layer of the web tightening around her. Some part of her she couldn’t name was starting to wake up for him instead of against him.

She pushed at his chest weakly. "This changes nothing. I still —"

"You still want me dead?" Vincent finished with a dark chuckle. He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Keep telling yourself that, wife. We both know the truth is getting harder to deny."

A sharp knock interrupted them.

Dante’s voice carried through the door, amused but urgent. "Boss. Caruso just released a new statement. They’re calling her ’the De Luca whore’ again — and doubling the bounty. They’re planning something bigger."

Vincent didn’t answer right away. He stood still for a moment, gaze still on Raven’s face — and she caught it, the flicker of something that wasn’t calculation. Then it closed over, the king reassembling around the man. He pressed one last kiss to her temple before stepping back to adjust his clothes.

As he moved toward the door, Raven watched him, the crimson gown rumpled and stained. A deep, private pulse still moved through her — not pain now, just the undeniable fact of him, written into her in a language she didn’t have words for yet.

She touched the ring on her finger, cold and heavy.

Vincent De Luca didn’t just want her body.

He wanted all of her — heart, blade, and soul.

And some fractured piece of her was no longer sure she wanted to stop him.

Raven picked up the discarded stiletto from the floor and sheathed it against her thigh.

The game wasn’t over.

It had only just begun to change.