The Mafia Don’s Forced Bride (Crowned in Sin #1)

Chapter 1

SOPHIA

The autumn air bites at my cheeks as I hurry across campus, my psychology textbook clutched against my chest like a shield.

It’s nearly eight p.m., and the October darkness has already swallowed most of the quad.

I should have left the library earlier, but I got lost in my research paper about trauma and memory—ironic, considering my family is a lesson in both.

My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket. I fish it out, expecting a text from Melinda asking about our study session tomorrow. Instead, it’s an unknown number.

Your father sends his regards.

Ice floods my veins. I stop walking, my sneakers scuffing against the concrete path.

My father?

I haven’t heard from that bastard in three months, not since he called asking for money I didn’t have.

Before I can block the number, I hear footsteps behind me—too close, too fast.

I spin around just as a hand clamps over my mouth.

My scream dies against a leather glove. The textbook tumbles from my grip, pages fluttering like broken wings as it hits the ground.

Strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet.

I thrash wildly, my elbow connecting with something solid, but my attacker doesn’t even grunt.

“Stop fighting,” a rough voice growls in my ear. “Makes it easier.”

Like hell it does.

I bite down hard on the gloved hand, tasting leather and salt. The man curses, but his grip doesn’t loosen. Another figure materializes from the shadows—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black ski mask. He moves with military precision, grabbing my legs before I can kick.

“Get her in the vehicle. Now.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as they carry me toward a black SUV idling at the curb, its windows tinted so dark they look like pools of oil.

I try to scream again, but the hand over my mouth presses harder, cutting off my air. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision.

This can’t be happening. Not here. Not on my campus where I’m supposed to be safe.

They throw me into the back seat like a bag of garbage. My shoulder slams against the leather interior, pain radiating down my arm.

Before I can scramble for the opposite door, one of the masked men slides in beside me, his bulk blocking any escape route.

Another slides in on my other side, pinning me.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice cracking. “Please, I don’t have any money. My wallet’s in my backpack, you can have it—”

“Shut up.” The man beside me doesn’t even look at me. He pulls out a zip tie, and my stomach drops.

“No, no, please—” I try to pull away, but he’s too fast. The plastic bites into my wrists, tight enough to make my fingers tingle. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. I won’t cry. I won’t give them that.

The SUV lurches forward, tires squealing.

Through the window, I watch my campus disappear—the library where I spent countless hours, the coffee shop where Melinda and I laughed over terrible lattes, the life I knew vanishing into the night.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “What do you want?”

Silence.

The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror—cold, empty, professional.

These aren’t random criminals.

They’re too organized, too calm.

This was planned.

The text message flashes through my mind. Your father sends his regards.

“This is about my father, isn’t it?” I lean forward as much as the zip tie allows. “Whatever he did, whatever he owes, I’m not involved. I haven’t seen him in months—”

“I said shut up.” The man beside me finally turns to look at me, and even through the ski mask, I can feel the weight of his stare. “You’ll get your answers soon enough.”

The drive feels endless. We leave the well-lit streets of the college district, heading into industrial areas I’ve never seen before.

Abandoned factories loom like skeletal giants against the night sky.

Graffiti covers every surface, and broken glass glitters on the cracked pavement like scattered diamonds.

Finally, the SUV pulls into a warehouse complex.

The building looks like it’s been dead for decades—windows boarded up, walls crumbling, weeds pushing through the concrete.

The perfect place to make someone disappear.

Terror claws at my throat, but I force it down. I need to stay calm. I need to think.

The men drag me out of the vehicle. My legs nearly buckle, but I lock my knees, refusing to show weakness.

They march me toward a rusted metal door, one on each side of me like prison guards.

The door screeches open, revealing darkness so complete it feels solid.

Inside, the warehouse smells of decay and motor oil. My footsteps echo off unseen walls.

Somewhere in the distance, water drips with metronomic precision.

One of the men flicks on a battery-powered lantern, and weak yellow light spills across the concrete floor.

That’s when I see him.

He’s standing in the center of the space, hands clasped behind his back, perfectly still.

Even in the dim light, he’s striking—tall and powerfully built, with short blond hair styled with casual precision.

He wears an expensive charcoal suit that probably costs more than my entire semester’s tuition, the fabric molded to his broad shoulders and trim waist. But it’s his face that steals my breath.

He’s older, maybe in his forties, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble.

His features are almost aristocratic—the kind of face you’d see in old paintings of Russian nobility.

But his eyes… God, his eyes.

They’re the coldest shade of green I’ve ever seen, like ice over deep water, and they’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

He’s beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—elegant, dangerous, designed to cut.

“Sophia Moretti.” His voice is deep and smooth, with the barest hint of an accent I can’t quite place. Russian, maybe? “Do you know who I am?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice.

“My name is Mikhail Artyomov.” He takes a step closer, and I instinctively step back. The men behind me block my retreat. “Your father and I have…unfinished business.”

“I don’t know where he is.” The words tumble out in a rush. “I swear, I haven’t talked to him in months. He doesn’t tell me anything about his business—”

“I know.” Mikhail’s lips curve into something that might be a smile on anyone else, but on him it looks predatory. “Your father is very good at disappearing when debts come due. He owes me three million dollars, Miss Moretti. And he’s left you to pay his tab.”

Three million? My father gambled and drank, but three million dollars? That’s impossible. That’s…

“I don’t have that kind of money,” I whisper. “I’m a college student. I work part-time at a bookstore. I can barely afford ramen—”

“I’m not interested in your money.” Mikhail moves closer, circling me like a shark. I force myself to stand still, to meet his gaze even though every instinct screams at me to run. “Your father took something far more valuable from me than money. Something that can never be replaced.”

There’s something in his voice now—a razor edge of pain beneath the cold control.

It makes him more terrifying, not less. A man driven by pure vengeance is unpredictable, dangerous.

“I’m sorry for whatever he did,” I say, and I mean it. My father destroyed everything he touched. “But punishing me won’t bring back whatever you lost.”

“No.” Mikhail stops directly in front of me, so close I can smell his cologne—something expensive and woodsy that doesn’t belong in this rotting warehouse. “But it will make me feel better.”

He nods to one of his men, who produces a length of chain from somewhere in the shadows. My heart kicks into overdrive.

“Please.” I hate the pleading note in my voice, but I can’t stop it. “Please don’t do this. I’m not my father. I’m not—”

“You’re his daughter.” Mikhail’s green eyes bore into mine. “That makes you his legacy. His responsibility. His debt.”

The man cuts the zip tie from my wrists. For one wild second, I consider running. But there’s nowhere to go. Three men block the exit, and Mikhail stands between me and any hope of escape.

Cold metal encircles my wrist—a shackle attached to the chain. They drag me to a thick pipe running along the wall and secure the other end. I pull against it uselessly, the chain rattling with each futile tug.

Mikhail watches with detached interest, like I’m a specimen under glass.

When I finally stop struggling, breathing hard, he crouches down to my eye level.

This close, I can see flecks of gold in his green eyes, can count the faint lines at their corners that suggest he’s closer to mid-forties than I initially thought.

He’s even more devastating up close, and I hate myself for noticing.

“Your father took everything from me,” he says softly, each word precisely enunciated. “Now I’m going to take everything from you, starting with your freedom.”