(Ruthless Alliances #1)
Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: November 28, 2025
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.
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.”
About the Author
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 upcoming events, and don't forget to sign up for her newsletter to receive exclusive discounts and other exciting perks.
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