AUCTIONED TO HER DAD’S MAFIA ENEMIES: A MAFIA AGE-GAP REVERSE HAREM ROMANCE (AUCTIONED SERIES Book 4)

MY FIRST MISTAKE

Tonight, I serve wine and champagne to mafia devils and pretend the air is scented with roses and jasmine, not blood and death, the real perfume this life is built upon.

I keep my expression neutral as I survey the sprawling estate, but my fingers tighten around the silver tray I’m balancing, knuckles whitening under the weight of both glass and expectation.

Marble pillars rise to meet a high vaulted ceiling, their sheer enormity designed to impress. Chandeliers spill light like liquid gold, setting the room aglow, and a string quartet plays a melody so sweet it makes my chest ache.

It’s a world of power, indulgence, and ruthlessness, and I don’t belong.

I shift my shoulders, adjusting the thin black straps of my waitress uniform as they dig into my skin. The dress code is supposed to make us blend in—simple, black, professional—but in a room of haute couture gowns and tuxedos tailored with lethal precision, I might as well be wearing a neon sign that says, Less Than.

My heart races as I weave through the crowd. Guests lounge around circular tables draped in ivory linens and festooned with flowers, their laughter too loud, their gestures exaggerated, and their conversations laced with an effortless arrogance.

“Table five, girl. Move it,” barks my supervisor, a wiry man with a permanent scowl.

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, my cheeks heating as I hoist the tray higher, the weight of my low-paying gig settling over me like a lead blanket.

Smile. Serve. Disappear. That’s the unspoken rule. And yet, in a room full of power players, I feel the weight of too many eyes, some indifferent, some appraising.

And one pair, weightier than the rest, watches too closely.

This is the wedding reception of Rosita Venturi, the beloved daughter of one of the city’s most powerful mafia families. It’s a spectacle of wealth, of power, of untouchable luxury, a demonstration of prowess.

The bride glows in custom lace, laughter spilling from her lips as she twirls with her handsome groom. We played together when I was five and she was six, but she won’t remember me. My father was wrapped up in this world before he disappeared, and we moved away. A shiver skitters over my skin, raising the hair on my arms. Are the memories of the past rising to the surface like oil on water, or is it fear?

There used to be four Venturi brothers. Now there are three, and they seem to be everywhere. Tall, imposing, sinfully handsome, with power emanating from them like a drugging scent.

One twirls his mother around the dance floor, his dark curls tumbling over his forehead, hazel eyes animated, and full lips smiling like it’s what they were created for. He’s discarded his jacket and tie and rolled the cuffs of his white shirt, revealing brightly colored flame tattoos that lick up his ropey forearms: the youngest, Alexis.

Another prowls the room’s edges, his steel gray eyes suspiciously trailing over everyone, talking to brutish men stationed around the perimeter like sentries. His dark hair is cropped shorter, practical, and his black suit and shirt fit his muscular, looming frame like a second skin. He moves with panther-like grace and a fixed, almost mean stare: the middle brother, Antonio.

But only one has noticed me.

Luca Venturi. The current boss of this family. His presence commands attention like a silent storm, powerful and dark. Well over six feet and broad-shouldered, he’s a man built for war but draped in the elegance of a black suit so precisely tailored it looks like it was made to worship his body. The crisp fabric contrasts with the pale of his shirt, the sharp angles of his jaw, and the dark gleam of his slicked-back hair.

But it’s not just his appearance that unsettles me.

It’s his vivid blue, cold, piercing, unrelenting eyes that strip away pretense and hold a weight I don’t understand but can feel pressing through my flesh and into my bones.

Tonight, they’re locked on me.

Does he recognize me? I don’t think so. The last time he saw me, I had chubby cheeks and was wearing a party dress that was so pink and fluffy that it resembled cotton candy. I’d fallen in the sprawling Venturi gardens, cutting my chin, and he’d scooped me up and pressed his shirt to my face to stem the bleeding. I was crying, but his unemotional demeanor quieted my childish sorrow. I still remember how it felt to be carried high against his chest, the sharp, clean smell of his shirt, and the command in his voice as he told me I’d be okay, like he could make it so just with his words.

A slow, deliberate awareness prickles down my spine. I try to ignore it, brush it off like an itch I refuse to scratch, but each time I pass his table, his stare lingers. Heavy. Intrusive. As if he owns me and is keeping track of his possession.

I shouldn’t look at him.

I do, anyway.

For the fifth time that evening, our gazes collide and the air between us shifts and thickens. My pulse jumps, betraying me, and I force myself to look away, shoving the feeling down. Luca’s a guest at a wedding—more than that, the host—and I’m a waitress. He’s a mafia prince turned boss, a man who’s nearly double my age, and I’m nothing but a glorified kid with baggage I can barely carry. Our worlds don’t touch.

But my skin still burns from his gaze.

I shouldn’t have come. It was a reckless, impulsive decision. When Mama asked me about tonight’s job, I lied. I told her it was a wedding, but not whose, knowing she’d warn me against stepping too close to the fire again. She’d remind me that this dark underworld has already burned us once with its glittering surface excess and shady, ruthless players.

But the pull was too strong. After what happened before we left home, the need to see these people, the ghosts of my past, the remnants of a life that once belonged to me, was impossible to resist. Even from the fringes, watching from the outside, I felt something I haven’t in years: a tether to something real.

The life I’ve lived for over a decade has never fit quite right. It’s like wearing a borrowed coat, too big in some places, too tight in others, and constantly uncomfortable, no matter how much I try to adjust. But here, even in the shadows, I feel less like an imposter. Less like a woman pretending to be someone else.

Here, I remember who I was.

Aemelia Lambretti. Mafia princess. Daughter of a powerful man with enough wealth and power to keep us comfortable.

Nothing like the girl I am now.

And even though Luca’s gaze is as heavy as his palm on my skin, it’s nothing compared to the fear I felt back in Maryland when I was being watched.

I exhale a shaky breath, pushing away those memories and shifting my focus to the guests. A polished woman in her forties gestures sharply at her empty flute, her red lipstick smeared just enough to make her look like she’s baring her teeth. I lower my tray so she can grab a fresh glass, her bony fingers flashing with rings.

I reach for the empty glass, my hands trembling as I place it on the tray, desperately trying not to overturn the whole thing. I keep my face neutral, but inside, I think: Seriously? I’m doing my best here. It’s not like your glass is going to die of thirst.

And yet, even as I move away, the heat of Luca’s stare never wavers.

I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me. I feel a slow burn spreading across my skin like fingers tracing my flesh. Three Venturi brothers exist in this world, each one striking in their own right. But Luca? He stands apart in his intensity.

The scar bisecting his cheek is legendary; a sharp, deliberate cut that slices through his left brow and traces a line down his face, just above his jawline. It should make him ugly. It doesn’t. He wears it like women wear diamonds. Not a flaw, but an enhancement. A badge of deadly intent. A mark of survival.

I force myself to move, ignoring how he makes me feel like a moon caught in his gravitational pull. I have bills to pay. Responsibilities. A life that has nothing to do with Luca Venturi or the shadows that follow his family.

Yet my traitorous body betrays me once more because when our eyes meet again—when that sharp, unreadable stare pins me in place—my stomach flips.

I look away.

I keep serving.

I tell myself it means nothing.

He doesn’t recognize me. It’s impossible. And if he did, he’d remember the silly little girl whose pigtails he used to pull and whose snotty nose he once wiped with his pristine white monogrammed handkerchief. Nothing more.

It’s hard to determine if the awareness I’m feeling is fear or arousal. My responses to both are the same. I know fear well, but arousal, not so much.

My pulse quickens as I hurry back to the kitchen. The clatter of pans and the chefs’ sharp voices offer a strange relief, grounding me in the grind and chaos of my everyday world. I lean against the counter to catch my breath.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Tania, one of the other waitresses, says. She’s scraping the remnants of a chocolate soufflé into the trash, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

“I think a ghost would be less intimidating,” I mutter, trying to laugh it off.

Tania raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. Tall, dark, and broody? There’s a Roman legion of them out there, so you’ll have to narrow it down.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, feeling my cheeks heat.

Tania smirked. “Suit yourself. But if one of those Venturi guys has his sights set on you, I’d run. Or… don’t.” She winks and saunters off, leaving me flustered. Before I’m shouted at again, I refill my tray and head back into the ballroom.

Distracted by my thoughts, I don’t notice the napkin on the floor, which disturbs my balance. A champagne flute teeters on my tray, the golden liquid sloshing dangerously close to the edge. My breath catches. No, no, no—

The glass falls.

It shatters against the marble floor, the sound too loud, too sharp, drawing too much attention.

A ripple of silence spreads through the nearest tables. Murmurs. Gasps. My stomach turns to stone.

“Careful, darling,” comes a sharp voice. Table five again. The woman’s tone is dripping with condescension, her lips curling with barely contained amusement. “That flute cost more than your rent.”

Heat rushes up my neck, humiliation licking my skin. I drop to my knees, hands shaking as I reach for the broken shards.noveldrama

And then—

“Apologize.”

The word isn’t loud. It isn’t sharp.

It’s a commandthat brooks no argument.

The air shifts thickens and cracks like a storm waiting to break.

Slowly, I look up.

Luca stands a few feet away, his gaze locked on the woman, his expression unreadable. But the ice in his voice? The weight of it? That is unmistakable.

The woman stiffens. “I—”

“Apologize.” His tone doesn’t waver.

Her lips part, outrage flickering in her expression, but she knows who he is and what he’s capable of. She swallows. Her spine stiffens.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters.

My breath hitches.

Luca Venturi made a woman who could buy my entire existence apologize to me.

He turns to me next, and something unreadable flickers across his face.

“Leave it,” he says, nodding to the mess. “Someone else will take care of it.”

“I—I can’t just—”

“You can,” he interrupts smoothly, extending a hand.

I hesitate.

But then, against all better judgment, I take it.

His fingers curl around mine, warm, strong, steady. When he pulls me to my feet, a strange sense of security washes over me, like I’m back in his father’s garden, wrapped up in his protective embrace.

Safe.

“Thank you,” I whisper, unsure why my voice barely makes a sound.

His lips curve, the faintest ghost of a smile, then he glances down at where we’re still joined, at my wrist, which is turned up to face him, my heart birthmark on display, and that ghost of a smile is replaced by the darkest expression I’ve ever seen.