Mafia Heir’s Broken Vows (Rosewood Hall Broken Vows)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

SERAFINA

B efore the Masks Come On

The gilded chandeliers of Rosewood Hall catch the morning light, casting prisms of gold across the polished marble floors. Workers bustle around me, but their voices are a distant hum. My clipboard hangs limp in my hand as my thoughts drift—uncontrollable, relentless.

It's been six years since I last saw Alessandro D'Angelo. Six years, and yet the memory of him has a chokehold on me, as sharp and vivid as if he'd just left the room.

I still remember the first time he touched me—the night I gave myself to him without hesitation. That memory doesn't fade; it claws its way back to me, no matter how hard I fight to keep it buried.

He was a force of nature, raw and unapologetically intense. The second I stepped into his penthouse, he owned me. His large, calloused hands wrapped around my waist, and he pressed me against the door like he couldn't stand the thought of a single inch between us. His lips crashed into mine, demanding, devouring.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me, Serafina?" His voice was low, rough—his words more of a growl than a question.

I could barely breathe, let alone respond, as his mouth moved down my neck, his teeth grazing my skin, igniting every nerve in my body. His scent—a mix of cedar and danger—consumed me, leaving me dizzy, helpless, desperate.

He didn't just kiss me; he claimed me. His tongue teased mine with a precision that had my knees threatening to buckle. I clung to his broad shoulders, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath.

"Mine," he rasped against my lips, his hands gripping my thighs as he hoisted me up. My legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, and I felt his hard cock against me, thick and unrelenting.

In the present, my fingers tighten around the clipboard as the memory pulls me deeper. My eyes close, and I'm back in his arms, tasting his lips, feeling his hands as they roamed over me, hungry and relentless.

He carried me to his bedroom, a dark, intimate space that felt as dangerous as the man himself. He laid me on the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his body hard and unyielding above me.

"Serafina," he whispered, his lips brushing against my ear as he unbuttoned my blouse, his fingers rough but reverent. "You're going to remember this. Every second. Every touch."

And I did. His hands were everywhere—tracing the curve of my hips, sliding beneath my bra to cup my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples until I was writhing beneath him. His tattoos, black and intricate, shifted as his muscles tensed, a testament to his raw power.

When his mouth replaced his hands, teasing and tasting, I thought I'd lose my mind. He took his time, savoring every inch of me, his lips and tongue driving me to the edge again and again.

"Miss Caruso?" a voice snaps me back to reality. I blink, realizing one of the florists is staring at me, waiting for a response. My cheeks burn, and I clear my throat, nodding absently as I refocus on the setup.

But the memory lingers, curling in the corners of my mind, refusing to leave. I remember the way Alessandro's breath hitched when I whispered his name, the way his body trembled as he drove into me, slow and unrelenting, filling me completely.

"You feel so fucking perfect," he groaned, his hands gripping my hips as he thrust into me, deeper and harder until I couldn't tell where the pleasure ended, and the pain began.

"Say my name, Serafina. Let me hear you."

"Alessandro," I cried, the sound torn from my lips as my body arched against him.

The intensity of it was overwhelming, and consuming.

He was everywhere—his hands, his lips, his cock—like he was determined to leave no part of me untouched, unclaimed.

"Miss Caruso?" another voice pulls me back, more insistent this time. I turn to see Marco Romano's assistant glaring at me, clipboard in hand, irritation written all over his face.

"Apologies," I murmur, forcing a professional smile. But my heart is racing, my body betraying me as the ghost of Alessandro's touch lingers.

I glance toward the grand entrance, a chill running down my spine. The D'Angelos wouldn't dare show up at this event. Would they?

If Alessandro is here tonight, I don't know if I'll survive it.

Because even after everything—even after he disappeared without a word—he still owns me.