(Ruthless Alliances #1)
Mafia Romance, Age Gap, Suspense
Date Published: November 28, 2025
A contract of power. A marriage of enemies. A love written in blood,
bound by desire.
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.
EXCERPT
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.
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