Sinful Pleasure (Sinful #1)

CHAPTER 1

C HAPTER 1

ALLYN

“I don’t need a fucking bodyguard.”

I glare at my mother from across the dining table in our home.

The house is enormous, too big, really—but for the two of us, it feels suffocating empty.

She remains unfazed, gracefully slicing into her steak, her deliberate calmness fueling my frustration.

“It doesn’t matter what you want, Allyn.’’ She said. ‘’Sir Angelo has sent one of his most trusted men to look after you. We expect him to arrive tomorrow at the latest.”

Her tone is clipped and final. Each word lands like a blade, carving into the raw reminder that I have no control over my life—not even over the people forced into it. Heat floods my cheeks.

“I don’t care what he says!” My voice rises, drawing the attention of the maids who have just poured our wine.

Without a word, my mother shoots them a sharp glance, and they quickly retreat. She’s terrifyingly efficient at ensuring no one dares cross her.

My mother’s eyes narrow, her cold gaze locking onto mine— the same glare that makes even our most experienced staff cower. But unlike them, I’m not afraid.

She can try to silence me with her icy stare all she wants. I won’t stop fighting for what little freedom I have left.

“Sir Angelo is your future husband, and you will speak of him with respect.”

She rises from her seat with the lethal grace she always carries, every movement is deliberate and precise. Stopping next to my chair, she looms over me. Her face is void of emotion, her cold demeanor as if she’s addressing a stranger rather than her own daughter.

“Did I make myself clear, Allyn?”

“I don’t want to marry him,” I say, my voice trembling as I plead with my eyes.

Somewhere deep inside, I hope the last remnants of her humanity will see reason and end this madness. But my hope is fleeting I don’t want this. I don’t want to marry this man. The very thought churns my stomach with nausea. I can’t understand how my mother could so easily toss me into the arms of a man society paints as an arrogant prick.

Angelo King. I’ve seen him only a few times when we were kids, but that was more than enough to know I want him as far away from me as possible.

The King family is infamous in our world, a dynasty cloaked in shadows. They rule this city from behind the scenes, and the stories—the legends— I’ve heard about them are anything but comforting. All of them are terrifying. Terrifying enough to send shivers of dread through even the bravest hearts.

Wasn’t losing my father enough of a punishment for me? Why do I now have to endure the nightmare of marrying this man?

“I know, sweetheart—”

Her hand brushed against my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t even noticed slipping down. Her touch was cold and mechanical, just like the grimace she wore in place of compassion.

“But you have to do this. For the good of our family.”

“For your good, not for our family,” I shot back, the words spilling out before I had a chance to think.

I regretted them instantly.

Her expression shifted as if something dark and unrecognizable had overtaken her. The slap came out of nowhere, sharp and stinging, leaving a burning imprint on my cheek. Tears streamed down my face, one after another, no longer unnoticed.

“You were promised to Sir Angelo King before you turned eighteen,” she said, her voice calm but edged with menace. “You are twenty now. Learn to embrace the opportunities this marriage will bring you.”

I slowly turned to face her, my cheek throbbing from the slap.

Her features betrayed no trace of remorse, no acknowledgment of what she had just done. It was as if the slap hadn’t happened at all.

“If you want to be angry, direct it at your father,” she continued coldly. “He’s the one who signed the contract.”

The room fell silent.

We stared at each other, mother and daughter, yet it felt like I was looking at a stranger. Someone I didn’t recognize.

“Please, stop this marriage,” I cried, my voice breaking under the weight of desperation.

That’s what a mother is supposed to do, right?

But she only shook her head, her indifference tearing through me like glass.

“I fear I cannot,” she replied, her voice devoid of any warmth.

Her cold hand reached out, brushing against the same cheek she had just slapped. The caress was empty as if she thought it could erase the mark she had left. She pulled away, her hand falling to her side like the conversation was already over.

With the same unshakable grace, she returned to her seat. Settling back into her chair, she looked at me and smiled as though nothing had happened.

“Now, let’s finish our dinner in peace, yeah?”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order.

I stayed silent for the rest of the dinner, absently pushing my food around my plate. I wasn’t hungry.

Starving seemed preferable. My life already felt like Hell—what difference would it make?

Everything fell apart the day my father died.

It happened three years ago, but I still remember the moment I got the news like it was yesterday. The world shattered beneath me when they told me he was gone. God had taken away the one person I loved most, the one person who had always stood by me.

My father had raised me. My mother was rarely home when I was growing up, and honestly, I never missed her absence.

Dad was all I needed.

I remember how he used to play with me, braid my hair, sing to me until I fell asleep, and sit through hours of my clumsy dancing without complaint.

He cared for me when I was sick, cheered me on through every little accomplishment, and held me close when the world seemed too big.

I’ll never forget the day I heard about his death.

It was late October, and rain pounded against the windows like the sky was mourning with me.

They said he died in his sleep. Even now, three years later, we still don’t know what caused it.

The doctors had no answers—only apologies.

I cried endlessly that day.

And then I cried every day after that, standing by his grave.

I still do.

After he was gone, it was just me and my mother. Alone in this vast, empty house. But she wasn’t the same woman she had been before. His death changed her. I rarely see her smile anymore. And when she does, it feels hollow, like it doesn’t belong to her. Like she’s wearing it for someone else’s benefit.

She became colder. Harder. Callous.

As if to end me completely, on my eighteenth birthday, she handed me a white folder.

Inside was a contract.

A cold, sterile piece of paper bearing my father’s signature at the bottom— a signature that sealed my fate.

It was a formal agreement for an arranged marriage. My father had promised me to the heir of the King family—their eldest son, Angelo King.

This marriage wasn’t about love or choice.

It was a strategic alliance.

The Kings needed a clean, respectable image in society, a veneer of legitimacy to hide the illicit empire they ruled from the shadows. In return, our family was promised a life of luxury and protection under their banner.

My family is well-known and respected in society. My father had been an honorable man, admired by many. Just the kind of association the Kings needed to keep the law and prying eyes off their tracks.

And that contract, with my father’s signature, was undeniable proof of how legitimate—and binding—it was. My life was shattered that day.

I screamed, I cried—I wept like a madwoman at his grave.

How could he do this to me? His own daughter? Why?

Questions swirled in my mind, but there were no answers. Only the relentless ache of betrayal.

My father had been a close friend of Martin King, Angelo’s father. The capo. The man who ruled The King’s family with an iron fist.

I’d read about Angelo in an article once. He was said to run one of his father’s “legitimate” businesses, building his fortune and reputation in the process.

I had seen him a few more times while growing up. My father had mentioned that he had a sister and a brother, but I’d never met them.

No one seemed to know much about them at all, as if the siblings were shrouded in secrecy, hidden from the public eye.

Angelo King was the only child in his family to bask in the spotlight from an early age, and he thrived on it. He loved every second of the attention. In our society, he’s infamous—a notorious womanizer with a charming smile and an aura of untouchable power.

And as much as it pains me to admit, Angelo isn’t hard on the eyes either. He’s the kind of man sculpted for admiration: a sharp, chiseled jawline, dark brown eyes that seem to pierce right through you, and coffee-colored hair that’s almost always slicked back in perfect precision.

And now, he made sure I understood the new rules of my life even before setting foot in this house.

Angelo King now controls every aspect of it.

The first reminder? A bodyguard.

Sent to watch over me like I’m some fragile, reckless little girl.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll bow down quietly. I won’t go down without a fight.

I’m Allyn Delgado.

And it’s time someone reminded the King’s family that even the mightiest kingdoms can fall.