BECAUSE OF HIS SIZE, THE MAFIA BOSS WAS REJECTED BY FIVE FIANCÉES WHO CALLED HIM A MONSTER — UNTIL A CLUMSY AMERICAN BAKER AGREED TO BECOME HIS BRIDE AND UNCOVERED THE DEADLIEST SECRET IN MILAN!

The Grand Sala delle Colonne in central Milan was the historic epicenter of northern Italy’s shadow government.

Towering Corinthian marble columns draped in black velvet, crystal chandeliers dripping with thousands of prisms, and sweeping balconies overlooked a ballroom filled with over four hundred of the most powerful, dangerous, and wealthy figures in Europe. Mafia dons, corrupt politicians, billionaire shipping magnates, and European aristocrats mingled over vintage champagne, their pleasant smiles hiding decades of bloody rivalries.

At precisely nine o'clock, the master of ceremonies struck his silver staff against the marble floor.

"Announcing the Don of Lombardy, Don Luca Salvatore Moretti, and Donna Sophia Moretti!"

The massive double doors swung wide.

A collective, audible gasp rippled through the grand ballroom.

Luca stepped through the archway, looking like an emperor descending from a mountain fortress. His bespoke midnight-black tuxedo, tailored with razor-sharp precision, accentuated every inch of his formidable six-foot-six frame. He moved with absolute, commanding grace, his scarred face held high, radiating pure, undisputed dominance.

And beside him, with her hand resting proudly on his broad arm, was me.

Elena had spent three hours styling me for war.

I wore a custom Italian couture gown of heavy black silk that hugged my curves and flowed into an elegant train. The neckline was sweetheart-cut, displaying the ancestral Moretti emerald and diamond necklace glittering against my skin. My brown hair was styled in an intricate, elegant chignon, and my lips were painted bold crimson.

For once in my life, I didn't stumble.

I held my head high, walking in step with my husband, matching his fierce, quiet confidence with a radiant, unshakable smile.

Every eye in the room was glued to us.

The whispers spread like wildfire among the mafia patriarchs and their wives:

"She didn't leave him?"

"Look at the way he holds her... she isn't terrified of him at all."

"She looks like a queen beside him."

"I thought Dante said the American was a clumsy peasant?"

Standing near the grand champagne fountain, surrounded by three corrupt council members, was Dante Rossi.

His face was a mask of furious, pale disbelief. His eyes bulged as he took in the sight of Luca—alive, radiant, standing tall beside a wife who looked completely untouchable. When Dante’s gaze met mine, I raised my champagne flute toward him with a slow, devastatingly mocking smile.

Luca leaned down slightly, his lips brushing against my ear, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

"Every man in this room is staring at you with envy, Sophia," his low voice rumbled with fierce pride. "And for the first time in my life, I am glad I am large enough to throw all of them off this balcony if they look too long."

I laughed softly, looking up into his stormy eyes. "Let them look, Don Moretti. But make sure they know who I'm going home with."

The orchestra began to play a slow, sweeping Italian waltz.

Luca looked at the dance floor, then looked down at me, a sudden flicker of hesitation returning to his eyes. "I am not a graceful dancer, Sophia. With my size, I might step on your dress."