Mafia Shade ’s Reluctant Bride (Bloodbound Bride #2)

CHAPTER ONE

MARIA

“I knew I was doomed from the beginning,” I wailed, my hands shivering as I slowly lowered my head, “but not this doomed.”

The two pink lines stared back at me, bold and unmistakable.

Positive.

“I was fucked. Really, really fucked.”

My hands trembled as I set the pregnancy test down on the sink. The bathroom light flickered slightly, like it was, too, judging my life choices. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it was trying to break free from my chest.

I closed my eyes, but that was a mistake because the moment I did, I was back there, back to that night.

The club had been electric, pulsing with the kind of energy that made you feel alive. The underground party was invite-only, the type of place you got into if you knew the right people or had the right amount of money. Being there was an act of rebellion after having a heated argument with my father, who was trying to marry me off to some Arabian prince. My father had called me stubborn. But does wanting to marry for love equate to stubbornness?

Going here felt right. At least, it did then.

It was a place where identities blurred, and rules were damned, drowned beneath the sound of music and the burn of alcohol. It was reckless and addictive. A place where people came to lose themselves.

I had lost myself because the moment I saw him, everything else ceased to exist. He was impossible to ignore.

The neon lights hovered over his frame, but I still saw him—broad shoulders, a strong jawline barely visible beneath the black mask covering half his face. He leaned against the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass of dark liquor, the picture of effortless confidence.

And he was watching me in an intoxicating, enthralling, spellbinding, and arousing manner. I had never been stared at like that in my entire life, and I even had on a mask. He wasn’t just gazing. He was studying, savoring, and taking me in with every breath that escaped his lungs. It was riveting to say the least.

Heat curled in my stomach, not subtle or hesitant, but possessive.

The space between us shrunk. Something unseen pulled us closer before we even moved. My pulse thrummed in a way that had nothing to do with the bass vibrating beneath my feet.

I tilted my head and held his gaze. He held mine, too, in an unyielding, silent challenge.

His lips quirked into a smirk.

Cocky.

Of course, he was. He was the kind of man women lost themselves to—the kind I had promised myself I’d never fall for. He was the kind my mom had warned me against about a decade ago before she died. He was the kind I had once had an enormous crush on, but he only saw me as his best friend’s sister.

Yet, when he took a slow sip of his drink, watching me over the rim, my mouth went dry.

I should have turned away. Instead, I lifted my own drink to my lips and took a sip, letting my tongue flick over the rim of my glass. His piercing gray eyes darkened, almost like I had stirred up a fire inside of him. He pushed off the bar.

I stopped breathing.

He closed the distance. The scent of whiskey, spice, and something distinctly masculine surrounded me before he even spoke.

“You don’t look like you belong here.” His deep, smooth voice cut through me, hitting me like a tidal wave threatening to ground me in its wake.

I arched my brow. “What does someone who belongs here look like?” My voice sounded more composed and confident than I felt.

A low chuckle, rich and knowing, slipped past his lips. I hated how much I liked the sound. His gaze flicked down briefly before meeting mine again, an almost imperceptible glance—so quick and smooth I wouldn’t have caught it if I weren’t already hyper-aware of him.

He was looking at my mouth.

I took another sip of my drink, forcing myself to appear unaffected. “Who is your mask inspiration?” I asked, staring at his dark mask. It seemed a bit familiar, but it was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

“You are the inspiration,” he responded, almost sounding rehearsed. “Your mask feels so random, like you didn’t plan to be here, and coming was almost a spur-in-the-moment kind of decision.”

The ice in my glass shifted as I swirled my drink lazily. He was right, but I wasn’t about to admit it. “Doesn’t change the fact that you’re staring.”

“Neither does the fact that you haven’t looked away.”

My lips parted slightly, a sharp retort dancing on my tongue, but before I could speak, his fingers brushed against my wrist.

It was barely a touch, a ghost of contact. Yet, it sent a jolt through me like he had just traced fire along my skin.

“Do you always stare at strangers across the room?” His voice was softer now and lower as if the words were meant only for me.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Only when they stare first.”

His smirk deepened. “Bold. I like you,”

“I have been told.”

He tilted his head, considering. “That wasn’t your voice earlier.”

I blinked. “What?”

“When you first walked in. You spoke to the bartender. Your voice was different.” He had been watching me from the moment I walked in about an hour ago,

I felt my stomach tighten. “Maybe I just changed my mind on how I want to sound tonight.”

A pause. His head dipped slightly, his breath just barely fanning against my skin as he lowered his voice even more.

“Maybe I did too.”

I exhaled sharply. Damn him. Damn this.

I had never believed in love at first sight. Or first words. Or first touch. But whatever this was—it had taken me prisoner. The worst part was I didn’t want to be free.

His fingers brushed my wrist again, barely skimming the sensitive skin before pulling away as if testing how much I could take.

I already knew the answer.

Too much. Not enough.

His thumb traced the rim of his glass, watching me like he was giving me a chance to walk away and like he already knew I wouldn’t.

“You still haven’t told me your name,” he murmured with a voice that was a smooth, rolling drawl that curled around my senses like smoke.

I hesitated. The whole point of a masked party was anonymity. No names. No identities. Just the night. But there was something about the way he carried himself and the way I felt the urge to surrender myself to this 6-foot-tall man whose broad shoulders looked like they could lift me effortlessly and whose eyes pierced through his mask and stripped my soul, leaving me bare at its wake.

“Rose.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. My mother used to call me Rose because she thought the name Maria didn’t reflect my true essence.

His lips curved as if he knew and saw straight through the mask I wore—not the one covering my face, but the one I had perfected over the years.

“Nice to meet you, Rose.”

He let my name roll off his tongue like a promise. I should have been scared. I should have cared that I knew nothing about him.

Instead, I stepped closer.

Not enough to touch, but enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him and enough that my next breath tasted like whiskey and temptation.

The music shifted, slow and sultry, wrapping around us like a sinful desire.

I wanted to ask for his name, but he spoke first.

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request or a command. It was something else. A pull. A force of gravity I wasn’t strong enough to resist.

My body obeyed before my brain could argue.

His hands found my waist, firm but unhurried. His touch wasn’t hesitant, nor was it demanding—it was deliberate and calculated like he had every right to hold me, like he already knew exactly how I’d fit against him.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, melting into his touch as we moved to the slow rhythm.

The contact sent heat licking up my spine. He smelled like cedar and champagne, something expensive, dark, and intoxicating.

My hands rested on his shoulders, the crisp fabric of his shirt warm beneath my fingertips.

This was a mistake.

“This is a bad idea,” I murmured, more to myself than him.

His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against my waist, setting my skin ablaze. My breath hitched.

“Then, why do you feel so good in my arms?”

The way he said it—so confident, so sure—sent a wave of heat down my spine.

I let out a breathy laugh, trying to shake off the intensity of his gaze. “You don’t even know me.”

“But I want to.”

His voice was velvet and sin, dark and smooth, slipping beneath my skin and sinking into my bones.

I should have pulled away. I should have said something sharp reminded him that this wasn’t real, that this was only for tonight.

But I didn’t.

Because the way he looked at me…it felt right. Not in the obvious sense but in the way a fire draws you closer even when you know you might burn.

His mask covered the upper half of his face, but it didn’t hide the intensity of his gaze.

Sharp. Penetrating. Calculating.

There was a stillness about him, an effortless control that made it clear he was used to power and to people listening when he spoke. His slow, purposeful movements gave him away.

Then, there was the tension, the kind of aura that had nothing to do with what he was saying and everything to do with what he wasn’t.

That should have been my first clue that he was the kind of trouble I wasn’t prepared for.

His lips brushed my ear, just barely. A whisper of warmth.

“I want to know you,” he murmured again, his voice deep and rich, each word wrapping around me like a slow caress, “to master you, touch you, and master every nape and curve of you.”

A shudder ran through me so violently that I had to grip his shoulders to steady myself.

I forced a smirk, ignoring the way my body betrayed me. “Isn’t that a little much for someone you just met?”

His hand slid up my back, fingers barely ghosting over my spine, sending electricity straight to my core.

“This might sound like a cliché…” he paused as if measuring his words and then exhaled, “but you feel familiar. Like I’ve known you my whole life.”

A chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. “That does sound like a cliché.”

But he didn’t laugh.

His gaze bore into me—deep and searching, as if peeling away every layer and every mask until there was nothing left between us but raw, unfiltered truth.

My smirk faded.

He reached for my hand, slow and steady, bringing it to his chest, pressing my palm flat against the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt.

“What do you hear?”

My lips parted. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but—

I smiled. “Your heartbeat.”

His thumb stroked the inside of my wrist. “And what do you feel?”

I swallowed, suddenly aware of how fast my own heart was racing and how my breath had turned shallow and uneven.

I couldn’t answer because the truth was suffocating.

I wanted him.

Not just for the night. Not just for the illusion of it. I wanted to know who he was beneath the mask.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing against my temple. “You feel the synchrony, don’t you?”

A statement, not a question.

His grip on my waist tightened, pulling me flush against him.

“You fit perfectly with me.”

A sharp inhale.

I felt lightheaded and weightless—like gravity had ceased to exist, and the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground was him.

I shivered.

Every nerve in my body screamed at me to say no.

But the words never came.

Instead, I let him take my hand and lead me through the crowd, past the pulsing lights, and down a hallway lined with private rooms.

My pulse roared in my ears.

This was reckless.

This was stupid.

But when he turned to look at me and when his grip tightened just enough to keep me close—I knew I was already lost.

This was the best or worst decision I was ever going to make. Leading me through the crowd, his fingers gently guided my hand.

The room he took me to was a bit dark. The scent of leather and something faintly spicy lingered. There was a couch, a sleek bar, and a bed in the corner. My heart pounded.

“Are you sure?” His voice was a low, seductive rumble, his eyes hidden behind the mask as he studied my reaction.

I should have said no. I should have walked away. Instead, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him to me.

I could taste the hint of whiskey on his tongue and feel the stubble on his jaw. It drove me wild.

Our mouths parted, breathless, as his fingers traced the curve of my waist and hips, and then he dared to venture lower. He slid his hand up my thigh, his touch electric against my bare skin. I wore no underwear, a decision I also made earlier in a moment of rebellion, and now I reveled in the sensation of his fingers teasing my sensitive flesh.

“Fuck, Rose,” he growled, his voice hoarse with desire. His fingers delved deeper, finding my wetness, and he groaned in approval.

His mask stayed on. So did mine.

The anonymity and the recklessness made everything hotter. He pinned me against the wall, hands on my hips, lips ghosting over my neck before moving lower. He kissed every part of me with reckless abandon.

His hands cupped my breasts through the thin fabric of my dress, thumbs brushing over my hardened nipples. I arched into his touch, my head falling back, exposing the graceful line of my throat. He took advantage, raining kisses down my neck, his teeth nipping gently, eliciting a soft moan.

He kissed my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin, before pulling the dress down, revealing my breasts. My nipples peaked in the cool air, begging for attention. He obliged, lowering his head to take one taut peak into his mouth, sucking gently.

“Oh God,” I moaned, my head thrown back, my body trembling.

His mouth trailed kisses down my stomach, his hands gripping my thighs, spreading my legs wider. He knelt before me, his breath hot against my core, and my eyes fluttered shut, surrendering to the pleasure. His tongue teased my clit, circling, flicking, driving me wild. My hands tangled in his hair, urging him closer as his mouth and fingers worked in perfect harmony.

“Please…” My voice was a desperate plea, my body on the brink of losing any inch of control it had left.

After dwelling in between my legs for what felt like an eternity, he stood, his cock straining against his pants, and my eyes widened at the sight of his desire for me. With swift movements, he pulled off his clothes, revealing a body honed by discipline and desire. His erection jutted proudly, thick and veined, and my mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.

“ I need to be inside you,” he growled against my mouth.

I nodded, my body already craving the completion only he could provide. He lifted me, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and guided his throbbing cock to my entrance. With one smooth thrust, he filled me, our bodies becoming one.

The sensation was exquisite. My walls clenched around him, milking his length as he began to move, his hips snapping forward with each thrust. The room echoed with the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, our grunts and moans filling the air. His hands gripped my thighs, spreading me wider as he pounded into me, his cock hitting my sweet spot again and again.

“ Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, his breath hot against my neck.

My hands clawed at his back, my nails digging into his skin as I matched his rhythm, rising to meet each powerful thrust. As his pace quickened, I felt my orgasm building again, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to consume me. I threw back my head, my throat exposed, as I rode the wave of ecstasy. His teeth sank into the tender flesh of my neck as we both tumbled over the edge.

Our cries filled the room as our bodies convulsed in release. His cock throbbed inside me, pulsing with his own orgasm as he emptied himself, filling me with his essence.

And then—the moment was gone.

I didn’t even realize how dangerous it had been until we stepped out of the room and someone called his name.

“Shade, we have a problem with the Russos.”

My stomach plummeted. The world snapped into focus, everything too sharp, too bright.

SHADE.

I knew that name, and I knew, in that instant, that I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I ran.

.

I didn’t stop to look back. Didn’t wait to see his reaction.

I fled.

My mask shielded my tears, but it couldn’t hide the way my breath hitched, the way my chest tightened with something dangerously close to regret.

My legs trembled beneath me, weak from what we had just done, from the way he had unraveled me completely. Each step felt unsteady, like I was walking on air or maybe sinking into the floor.

I gritted my teeth, forcing one foot in front of the other.

Keep moving.

But my body wasn’t cooperating. My thighs burned, my pulse roared in my ears, and heat still lingered where his hands had been, like his touch had branded itself onto my skin.

I stumbled.

A stranger’s shoulder clipped mine, nearly knocking me off balance. My fingers grasped at empty air before I caught myself, barely managing to stay upright.

I needed to get out.

Now.

I forced my way through the crowd. Every step away from him should have felt like freedom. Like escape.

But all I felt was the weight of him still on me.

I had fucked up. Badly.

And now, three months later—the proof of that mistake was staring at me in the form of two pink lines.

“Shit.”

The pregnancy test wobbled on the sink as I grabbed it again as if looking at it for the tenth time would somehow change the result.

It didn’t.

What had I done? And, more importantly, how the fuck was I going to fix this?

But that wasn’t even the worst part of that night. The worst part came minutes after I had fled from that room, from him, still dizzy from his touch. My phone had buzzed in my purse, and when I answered, my brother’s voice nearly shattered my eardrum.

“Maria, Dad’s been shot.”

The world stopped. Air refused to enter my lungs.

“Shot?”

“Shot! By Shade!”

My stomach dropped. My legs refused to move. It couldn’t be. Shade? As in the man my father had been feuding with? As in the ghost of New York’s underworld? As in the man I had just spent the last hour tangled up with, still feeling his heat, his hands, his lips? He was the biggest kingpin in New York: weapons, drugs, and running the underground mafia world. That was Shade.

No. Impossible. I had just seen him. Touched him. There was no way he had pulled the trigger while simultaneously ruining my self-control in a darkened room.

The person who had called him said “The Russos,” there was no mistaking that. He was the one I had shared a bed with that night.

Yet, my father’s blood soaked the floors of his own estate, shot by someone who had worn Shade’s mask while doing it. I never voiced my doubts. What would I say? That while my father was being gunned down, I was busy letting my guard down for the very man responsible? That I wasn’t even sure I had spent the night with the real Shade? No. That secret had to die with me.

A week later, my father died, taking his iron will and archaic beliefs with him. But before he went, he had one last trick up his sleeve. I loved my dad, but he had always found a way to fuck up my life in the worst possible way.

The lawyer read the will with a grim expression, pausing to glance at my brother and me before continuing.

“For Luca Russo to inherit his share of the Russo estate, he must first uncover the true identity of Shade and avenge his father’s death.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence. Luca’s jaw tightened. His fingers twitched against the armrest of the chair.

“For Maria Russo to inherit her share, she must get married.”

I choked. “Excuse me?”

The lawyer didn’t even blink. “Your father was adamant that for you to receive your inheritance, you must first wed. The marriage must be proven to be real before you are granted your share.”

Luca let out a short, humorless laugh. “Guess he really thought you needed a man to keep you in line.”

“Oh, fuck off, Luca.”

He smirked. “Not my words, sis. Just stating the obvious.”

Heat crawled up my neck. “So, let me get this straight,” I said, turning back to the lawyer, who, frankly, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Luca gets to go on a dramatic revenge quest like he’s starring in some mobster soap opera, and I—what? Have to start husband hunting?”

The lawyer cleared his throat. “Your father believed—”

“My father believed a lot of things,” I snapped. “Like women should be married off and tucked away like fragile little dolls.”

Luca stretched his legs out, looking far too entertained by my predicament. “Hey, at least you don’t have to go digging through the filth of New York looking for a ghost named Shade.”

Shade, that name still brought me nightmares and traumatized the hell out of me. My father’s murderer. This ridiculous clause. And worst of all—the very real, very damning double lines on that pregnancy test.

Shade had already ruined my life in ways no one knew. And now, one more truth loomed over me like a guillotine. I was carrying his child.

The irony could knock me over. My father had spent years hunting Shade down like a rabid dog, blaming him for ruining his business. And now? Shade had not only ruined my life—he had taken up permanent residency inside my uterus.

I dropped my head back against the wall and exhaled through my nose. No one could know. Not Luca. Not my uncle. Not a damn soul.

Especially not my uncle.

****

I walked into the dining room and immediately regretted it.

Uncle Enrico was already seated at the head of the table, wearing that smug look that made me want to launch a plate at his face. He was managing the estate until Luca and me fulfilled the conditions in my father’s will, and he acted like he owned the place.

“Maria,” he said, barely glancing up from his plate. “You look tired. That activist nonsense of yours must be exhausting.”

I clenched my jaw. “Good morning to you too, Uncle.”

“I see your manners are still missing in action.”

Luca groaned from the other end of the table. “Can we not do this before I’ve had my coffee?”

Uncle Enrico leaned back in his chair, looking me over like I was some disobedient child instead of a grown woman. “You know, if you spent less time pretending to be a man and more time being a proper woman, maybe you’d find a husband by now.”

I bristled. “Oh, forgive me, Uncle. I must’ve missed the era where women were supposed to sit down, look pretty, and let the men do all the work.”

He sneered. “Traditional men like traditional women. You? You’re too stubborn. Too opinionated. No man wants a woman who thinks she can run things.”

Luca kicked me under the table, a silent plea not to make this worse. But I was already leaning forward, my lips curling into a slow, venomous smile. “And yet here you are. Maybe it’s not me, Uncle.”

His face darkened, but before he could spew whatever misogynistic bullshit he had lined up next, I pushed my chair back and stood.

“I suddenly lost my appetite,” I muttered, storming out before I caved and stabbed him with a butter knife.

That night, Luca barged into my room, looking more desperate than usual. That was never a good sign.

I folded my arms. “What do you want?” I asked. He had not stood up for me earlier on when our uncle came for me. That was one thing about him. He lacked any sense of responsibility. Maybe that is why my dad gave him that baggage to bear, to finally get him to step up.

He shut the door behind him, running a hand through his hair. “I have a solution.”

I raised an eyebrow. “For what? Your lack of life skills? Your inability to take anything seriously?”

“For your inheritance.” He ignored my jab, stepping closer.

I stiffened. “Luca—”

“Just listen.” He let out a breath, his expression oddly serious. “My clause is impossible. Finding Shade? It’s like hunting a ghost. I don’t even know where to start. But you—your clause is doable.”

Dread coiled in my stomach. “What are you saying?”

“I found you a husband.”

My brain short-circuited. “You what?”

He grinned like he hadn’t just ruined my life. “It’s perfect, Maria. He’s someone we can trust. Someone who won’t actually expect a real marriage.”

Every muscle in my body tensed. “Luca. Who?”

His grin widened. “Lorenzo.”

The air vanished from my lungs.

No. No, no, no, no, no. I could barely breathe.

“You’ve lost your goddamn mind,” I choked out.