Pampered Darling of the Mafia Godfather​

At my ex-boyfriend's wedding, the bridesmaids cornered me, insisting I play a round of Truth or Dare.

I was about to refuse, but the bride, Isabella Davis, immediately jumped in, clapping her hands in approval.

Her voice dripped with saccharine malice. "Eleanor, it's my wedding day. You're my favorite sister. Shouldn't you be celebrating with us?"

After she finished speaking, she took hold of the strong arm of my ex-boyfriend, the groom Theodore, and said with a wronged look, "Theodore, could it be that Eleanor is still upset about our marriage?"

Theodore Johnson stroked her hair with a sickeningly fond look. "Of course not. As the eldest daughter of the Vance family, if she couldn't handle this much, she'd be a laughingstock. Right, Eleanor?"

His eyes shot me a warning look.

I lowered my head, my hands clenching into fists as a sharp, familiar pain lanced through my chest.

Before Isabella came into our lives, Theodore had been my world, showering me with affection. Now, he was publicly humiliating me for her amusement.

I could feel everyone's expectant gazes on me, and my eyes began to sting with unshed tears.

I was supposed to be the only daughter of the Vance family. I was the one who was Theodore's childhood sweetheart.

If my father, Aiden Vance, hadn't brought Isabella home, claiming she was the orphaned daughter of the man who saved his life, everything she had now—everything—should have been mine.

I'd treated her like a sister, given her the best of everything. In return, my parents and even Theodore had transferred all their affection to her.

The unfairness of it all was a bitter pill to swallow.

But the more I fought, the more I was painted as the one making a scene.

Just like now. I didn't understand how things had spiraled so completely out of my control, but it felt like the only way to appease everyone was to swallow my pride and submit.

"Fine," I managed, the word a dry rasp from my throat.

Isabella's face lit up as she grabbed my hand. "Eleanor, I knew you were the best!"

It was like I'd passed some sort of twisted obedience test. The group erupted in cheers, and the game began.

Theodore gave a nod of satisfaction, as if in his eyes, this was the magnanimity a Vance was supposed to display.

Isabella placed a wine bottle on the table, and we all gathered around. She gave it a spin. After two rotations, the neck of the bottle came to a stop, pointing directly at Theodore.

The crowd went wild. "Dare, Theodore! You have to pick a dare! A five-minute French kiss with either Eleanor or Isabella!"

Theodore shot a furtive glance in my direction, his expression turning awkward for a split second before he cleared his throat. "I choose truth."

A collective sigh of disappointment rippled through the group, but no one pressed the issue.

Isabella was the first to speak, her question sharp and pointed. "Darling, who do you love more? Me or Eleanor?"

The question hung in the air, electric. Everyone leaned in, eager for the drama. They all knew he'd once been my fiancé, and they were dying to see me squirm.

Isabella snuggled deeper into his arms, casting a pitiful glance my way. "Eleanor, it's just a silly question. You don't mind, do you?"

'Mind?' Who wouldn't mind a question like that? It was a blatant, calculated jab.

Before I could form a response, Theodore leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You, of course. I've only ever seen Eleanor as a sister."

His words were met with a chorus of envious sighs.

"Oh, darling, I knew it!" Isabella hugged him tight, a triumphant smile on her face as the others hooted and cheered.

I was forgotten in the corner, my heart feeling like it was being shredded, piece by painful piece.

'A sister?'

Theodore had conveniently forgotten the time I was ten, when he'd beaten up a boy for teasing me and declared to everyone, "Eleanor is my future bride. None of you is allowed to bully her!"

Those promises were like dust in the wind, scattered and gone.

I reached for a glass of whiskey on the table and threw it back. The fiery liquid burned a path down my throat, so harsh it forced tears from the corners of my eyes.

One glass followed another.

My consciousness began to blur, a dull hum filling my ears, muffling the boisterous noise around me.

"Eleanor, you lose!" Someone's loud announcement pierced through the fog, yanking me back to reality.

I leaned against the cold wall, my body feeling boneless as I stared at a sea of faces twisted with manic excitement.

"Dare! It has to be a dare!"

Someone chimed in with a suggestion. "See that guy in the corner? The one sitting alone, without a date."

I followed their pointing finger, my vision swimming.

In the quietest, most shadowed part of the ballroom, near the floor-to-ceiling windows, sat a man. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit, his silent presence as imposing as a mountain, yet utterly magnetic.

The sliver of bronze skin and the hint of a tattoo peeking from his shirt collar set him apart from the other guests. He held a cocktail glass, swirling the contents with a casual, almost bored air.

Even from this distance, through the haze of alcohol, I could feel an intimidating, unapproachable aura radiating from him. If it weren't for the jeering crowd, I might even have found him dangerously sexy.

"Eleanor, go hit on him! Ask for his name and get his number!" The suggestions flew thick and fast.

Isabella made a show of intervening. "Oh, let's not. Eleanor doesn't look like she wants to. I don't want to make her unhappy."

"Isabella, you're just too nice," someone else retorted indignantly. "A bet's a bet. Since Eleanor agreed to play, she has to face the consequences."

A wave of agreement washed over the group. Even Theodore, his arm wrapped possessively around Isabella's waist, watched me with cold indifference.

In that moment, a tidal wave of anger and humiliation crashed over me.

'You want to play games? Fine. Let's play.'

I shoved away the hands that tried to steady me and stumbled toward that dark corner.

When I finally stood before him, I could see his face clearly. It was all sharp angles and stark planes, made more profound by the shadows. He had a high-bridged nose and a thin, severe line for a mouth.

But it was his eyes—amber, like a deep, bottomless pool of ice—that held me captive.

His gaze drifted down, noting the empty glass in my hand, and the sheer force of his presence was so overwhelming it was hard to breathe.

The alcohol's buzz had faded, leaving me half-sober and completely out of my depth. But there was no turning back now.

I took a deep breath, plastered a sultry smile on my face, "All alone, handsome?"

He didn't speak. He just watched me, his expression a complete blank. The silence was more humiliating than any sarcastic rebuff.

I swallowed hard and took another step forward.

Fueled by liquid courage, I feigned a stumble, letting myself fall against his shoulder and wrapping my arms around his neck for balance.

As cheers erupted from behind me, I lowered my voice to a near-desperate whisper.

"Please, can you get me out of here?"