A contract of power.
A marriage of enemies.
A love written
in blood, bound by desire.
The Enforcer’s
Possession
Ruthless Alliances #1
by Harley Wylde
Genre: Dark Mafia Romantic Suspense
A contract of power. A marriage
of enemies. A love written in blood, bound by desire.
Caterina: My father thinks he
owns me. A spoiled mafia princess, good for one thing -- marriage to strengthen
his empire. But I refuse to be sold to a cruel man. If he wants an alliance,
I’ll give him one -- on my terms. So I go to Dante De Luca,
the De Luca family’s most dangerous enforcer. Cold. Controlled. Lethal. Our
contract marriage is supposed to be business, not desire. Then he touches me,
and everything I thought I knew about power and control shatters.
Dante: Caterina Lombardi
doesn’t know what she’s started. She wants protection. I want her. She thinks
she can use me to defy her father, but once she’s mine, she stays mine. She’s
fire wrapped in silk -- reckless, beautiful, and born to test every rule I’ve
ever followed. But in our world, rebellion comes with blood, and enemies are
closing in. I’ll burn everything to protect her… even if it means becoming the
monster she fears.
A dark mafia romance filled
with obsession, betrayal, and dangerous passion. For readers who love
possessive alpha heroes, spoiled princess heroines, enemies-to-lovers heat, and
contracts written in blood.
WARNING: Intended for readers
18+ The Enforcer’s Possession includes dark and possessive elements, emotional
intensity, and morally gray behavior.
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Caterina
I sprawled across the velvet chaise near my
bedroom windows, one leg dangling over the armrest, my phone pressed to my ear
while Adriana went on about some party at the Castellano estate. I wasn’t
really listening. Instead, I picked at the silk blouse I’d tossed aside an hour
ago -- Valentino, bought last week, already boring -- and let my gaze drift
across the disaster zone my room had become.
Designer clothes lay scattered across the marble
floors like expensive casualties. A Gucci dress hung half-off my bed frame.
Three pairs of Louboutins created a hazardous path to my bathroom. My jewelry
cases sat open on every available surface, catching the afternoon light and
throwing rainbow refractions across the walls.
“Cat? Are you even listening to me?”
“Hmm?” I shifted, letting the blouse fall to the
floor. “Sorry, what?”
“I said Marco asked about you. Again.” Adriana’s
voice held that knowing tone that made me want to reach through the phone and
smack her. “He wants to know if you’ll be at --”
“Tell Marco to go fuck himself.” I sat up,
reaching for my discarded iced coffee on the side table. Watered down.
Disgusting. I set it back without drinking. “I’m not interested in whatever
trust fund baby wants to play gangster this week.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He wore a fedora to Lucia’s birthday party. A
fedora, Adi.”
She laughed, and I felt myself smile despite my
mood. That was the thing about Adriana -- she got it. She understood what it
was like to live in this world, to be decorative and controlled and expected to
smile through it all.
“Fair point,” she said. “So what’s got you in such
a charming mood today? And don’t say nothing, because I can hear it in your
voice.”
I stood, pacing toward my walk-in closet. The
motion felt good, gave me something to do with the restless energy crawling
under my skin. “My father. What else?”
“What did Giuseppe do now?”
“He’s acting like I’m some prized mare to be
traded off to the highest bidder.” I stepped into the closet, running my hand
along the row of couture gowns that lined one wall. Versace, Dolce &
Gabbana, Armani -- thousands of dollars of fabric I was expected to wear while
playing the dutiful daughter. “Apparently, he’s been having meetings. About my
future.”
“Meetings.” Adriana’s voice went flat. She knew
what that meant. We all did.
“With families. Old families. Traditional families
who think women should be seen and not heard.” I grabbed a dress at random --
something in emerald green I’d worn once to a charity gala -- and pulled it off
its hanger. Held it up. Put it back. Wrong. All wrong. “He actually told me
yesterday that it was time I started thinking about settling down. Settling
down. I’m twenty-one, not forty.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him I’d rather die.”
Adriana sucked in a breath. “Cat. You didn’t.”
“I did.” I moved to my vanity table, surveying the
collection of high-end makeup and perfumes arranged across its surface. My
reflection stared back at me from the mirror -- dark hair falling in waves past
my shoulders, green eyes sharp with anger I couldn’t quite bank. I looked like
my mother had at my age, according to the photos. Before Papa had worn her down
into the perfect Mafia wife. “He didn’t appreciate it.”
“I’m shocked.”
“The thing is, he doesn’t even see it. Doesn’t see
how fucking archaic it all is.” I picked up a lipstick, twisted it open, then
put on a little across my lips. “We all know he’s doing this for himself or the
family, but I’m sure part of him also thinks he’s protecting me. Providing for
me. Making sure I’m taken care of.”
“By selling you off to some capo’s son?”
“Basically.” I walked back to the windows, looking
out over the Lombardi estate gardens. Perfectly manicured hedges, marble
fountains, rose bushes that cost more to maintain than most people made in a
year. Beautiful. Like a gilded cage. “He keeps talking about duty and family
and legacy. As if I’m just another asset to be leveraged. At the same time, I
know he feels women are inferior. I’m sure he doesn’t believe I could ever take
care of myself.”
“You are, though. To him.” Adriana’s voice was
gentle, which somehow made it worse. “In his world, that’s what daughters are
for.”
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. “I
know. That’s what makes it so Goddamn frustrating. He genuinely believes he’s
doing right by me. That finding me a wealthy, connected husband is the best
thing he can offer.”
“What about what you want?”
“What I want doesn’t factor into the equation.” I
turned away from the window, surveying my room again. The luxury that
surrounded me suddenly felt suffocating rather than comfortable. “I’m a
Lombardi. I’m supposed to want what’s best for the family.”
“And what do you want?”
The question hung in the air. I didn’t have a good
answer. I wanted freedom, but freedom to do what? I’d never had to think about
it before. My life had always been mapped out -- private schools, designer
clothes, carefully curated social events, and eventually a marriage that would
strengthen family alliances.
“I want to choose,” I said finally. “I want to
choose who I fuck, who I marry if I marry, what I do with my life. Is that too
much to ask?”
“For Giuseppe? Probably.”
I laughed, but it came out bitter. Moving back to
the chaise, I dropped onto it dramatically, throwing one arm over my eyes.
“He’s been worse lately. More controlling. Like he knows something I don’t.”
“Maybe he does.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” I let my arm fall,
staring at the ceiling. The fresco up there -- some Renaissance reproduction
that had cost a fortune -- suddenly seemed ridiculous. Everything in this room
was ridiculous. Beautiful and expensive and utterly meaningless. “I can feel
it, Adi. Something’s coming. Some decision he’s already made that’s going to
change everything.”
“Have you tried talking to him? Actually talking,
not just fighting?”
“You can’t talk to Papa. You can plead your case
and then watch him do whatever he was going to do anyway.” I sat up, running my
fingers through my hair. My diamond bracelet caught on a strand and I yanked it
free with more force than necessary. “He pretends to listen, nods in all the
right places, and then completely ignores everything you’ve said.”
“What about Sofia?”
“Mama?” I snorted. “She’s worse. At least Papa is
honest about being a controlling bastard. Mama just smiles and suggests I try
being more accommodating. More understanding of the family’s needs.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” I stood again, unable to stay still. The
restless energy was back, stronger now. I moved to one of my jewelry cases,
running my fingers over the pieces inside. Tiffany, Cartier, Bulgari -- gifts
from my father, purchased with blood money and given with the expectation of
gratitude. “She’s been doing this so long she doesn’t even see it anymore. The
way she swallows her opinions, plays the perfect hostess, pretends not to
notice when Papa comes home with blood on his cuffs.”
“Is that what you’re afraid of? Turning into her?”
The question hit too close to home. I closed the
jewelry case with a sharp snap. “I’d rather die,” I said again, and this time I
meant it with everything in me.
“Well, don’t do that. Your funeral would be boring
and I’d have to wear black, which washes me out.”
Despite everything, I smiled. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best and you know it.” I could hear her
moving around on her end, probably getting ready for whatever evening plans she
had. “Look, I know you don’t want advice --”
“Then don’t give it.”
“-- but maybe pick your battles. Giuseppe’s old
school. You’re not going to change his mind by going head-to-head with him
every time.”
“So what, I should just roll over and accept
whatever he decides?”
“No. I’m saying be smart about it. You’re clever,
Cat. Probably the smartest person I know, even if you are a spoiled brat.”
“Fuck you.”
“Love you too. My point is, if you’re going to
fight him, make it count. Don’t waste your energy on every little thing.”
I wanted to argue, but she wasn’t wrong. Papa
responded to strength, to strategy. Throwing tantrums -- no matter how
justified -- just made him dismiss me as a child. “Fine. I’ll be strategic.”
“Liar. You’re going to do something dramatic and
probably get yourself grounded, aren’t you?”
“Probably.” I glanced at my closet, an idea
already forming. “There’s a family dinner tonight. Something important, based
on how tense everyone’s been.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“Caterina Lombardi, whatever you’re planning --”
“Gotta go, my warden’s here.” I’d heard the
footsteps in the hall, recognized my mother’s measured pace. “I’ll call you
later.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves me a lot of options.” I ended
the call, dropping my phone onto the chaise just as my bedroom door opened.
Mama swept into my room like she was entering a
ballroom, her posture so perfect it made my spine hurt just looking at her. She
wore a cream-colored Chanel suit that probably cost more than a compact car,
paired with pearls that had been in the family for three generations. Every
dark hair sat exactly where it was supposed to. Not a wrinkle in sight. She
looked like the poster child for “Mafia wife perfection,” and it made me want
to scream.
Her gaze traveled across the disaster of my room
-- the scattered clothes, the open jewelry cases, the general chaos -- but her
expression remained serene. That was Sofia Lombardi’s superpower. Nothing
ruffled her. Ever.
“Caterina.” She said my name like it was a
complete sentence, with just enough weight to convey disappointment without
actually expressing it.
“Mama.” I stayed where I was on the chaise, not
bothering to sit up straighter or pretend I was doing anything productive. Let
her see the mess. Let her judge it. I didn’t care.
That was a lie. I cared. But I’d rather die than
admit it.
“I wanted to remind you about tonight’s dinner.”
She stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking precisely against the
marble. Even her footsteps were measured. “Your father expects everyone to be
present and properly dressed by seven.”
“Properly dressed.” I let the words hang in the
air between us, loaded with all the implications they carried. “You mean demure
and obedient? Quiet and decorative?”
“I mean appropriate for a family gathering.” Her
tone remained gentle, but I caught the steel underneath. Mama had spent
twenty-some years perfecting the art of being firm while sounding pleasant. “We
have important guests coming.”
“Of course we do.” I sat up, swinging my legs off
the chaise with deliberate carelessness. One of my discarded shoes clattered
across the floor. “Let me guess. Someone essential. Someone whose opinion
matters. Someone Papa wants to impress.”
Mama’s lips pressed together for just a moment --
the only crack in her composure. “This is vital to your father.”
“Everything is a key component to Papa. His
reputation, his alliances, his legacy.” I stood, moving to my vanity and
picking up a bottle of perfume just to have something to do with my hands. “His
ability to control every aspect of his daughter’s life.”
“Caterina.” This time my name came with a sigh,
and when I glanced at her reflection in the mirror, I saw something that might
have been weariness in her eyes. “Must you make everything a battle?”
“Must he treat me like property?” I set the
perfume down harder than necessary. The glass bottle made a sharp sound against
the marble vanity top. “I’m not a business asset, Mama. I’m a person.”
“No one said you weren’t.”
“They don’t have to say it. They just act like
it.” I turned to face her directly, crossing my arms. “Do you know what he told
me last week? That it was time I started considering my options. My options.
Like I’m shopping for a new car instead of thinking about my future.”
Mama moved to my bed, perching on the edge with
practiced grace. Even sitting casually, she looked like she was posing for a
portrait. “Your father wants what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for the family, you mean.”
“Sometimes those things align.”
“And when they don’t?” I challenged. “What happens
when what’s best for the family means sacrificing what I want? What I need?”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and
for a moment I saw something genuine beneath the polished exterior. Regret,
maybe. Or recognition. “We all make sacrifices, Caterina. That’s what it means
to be part of something larger than ourselves.”
“I didn’t ask to be part of this.” My voice came
out sharper than I intended. “I didn’t choose the Lombardi name. I didn’t
choose this life.”
“None of us do.” She stood, smoothing her skirt
even though it didn’t need smoothing. “But it’s the life we have. The question
is what we do with it.”
I wanted to argue more, to push until that perfect
composure cracked and she admitted how much she’d given up, how much she’d
swallowed to be Giuseppe Lombardi’s wife. But I also knew it was pointless.
Mama had made her peace with her choices a long time ago. She’d decided that
compliance was easier than resistance, that playing the role was safer than
fighting the script.
I’d never be able to do the same.
“Seven o’clock,” she said again, moving toward the
door. “Please don’t be late. And, Caterina?” She paused, her hand on the
doorknob. “Wear something appropriate.”
I drummed my manicured nails against the vanity
top, the sharp click-click-click filling the silence. It was a
nervous habit I’d never been able to break, and one that drove my father crazy.
Mama’s gaze flicked to my hand, but she said nothing. Just waited.
“I’ll be there,” I said finally. “Properly dressed
and everything.”
Something in my tone must have warned her, because
her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry, just… knowing. She’d raised me, after
all. She knew when I was planning something.
“Caterina --”
“I said I’ll be there.” I gave her my sweetest
smile, the one I used when I was about to do something that would make Papa’s
blood pressure spike. “You can count on me.”
Harley Wylde is an accomplished author known for
her captivating MC Romances. With an unwavering commitment to sensual
storytelling, Wylde immerses her readers in an exciting world of fierce men and
irresistible women. Her works exude passion, danger, and gritty realism, while
still managing to end on a satisfying note each time.
When not crafting her tales, Wylde spends her time
brainstorming new plotlines, indulging in a hot cup of Starbucks, or delving
into a good book. She has a particular affinity for supernatural horror
literature and movies. Visit Wylde's website to learn more about her works and
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