All character images used are sourced from Pinterest and are owned by their respective creators. I do not claim ownership of any photographs. Edits and aesthetic arrangements are done by me, purely for creative and fictional purposes.

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Character aesthetics

A young investigative journalist, clumsy and bubbly girl..

"In the arms of her devil, even pain tasted like poetry."

the Italian Mafia boss, intense, mature, dominant, and deeply entrenched in the mafia world.

“To the world, he was a monster. To her—he was a religion she bled for.”

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Get ready, the devil’s waiting. Let’s start the chapter...

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—Aaravi's pov—

The rain hit Mumbai like it was trying to cleanse the city of its sins—but some stains go too deep.

I gripped the edge of my umbrella tighter, weaving through the midnight chaos of Crawford Market, where neon lights flickered like lies. Each corner hummed with whispered deals and tainted currency. My heels clicked against the wet concrete, fast and focused, even as adrenaline buzzed low in my belly.

I wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not without backup. Not without a plan.

But curiosity has always been a kind of hunger in me—dangerously addictive.

My name is Aaravi Sharma. Twenty-four. Investigative journalist for India Mirror. And I live for the stories no one else dares to chase.

I slipped into the narrow alley where my source had told me the handoff would happen. Illegal diamonds. Tied to the blood-soaked streets of Sicily. And now, Mumbai. It felt surreal—this cross-continental web of power and ruin.

That’s when I saw him.

He wasn't part of the deal.

Tall. Impossibly still. Cigarette smoke curling around his silhouette like it bowed to him. A perfectly tailored black suit, slightly wet at the cuffs. No expression. No fear.

Just… control. The kind of control you don't earn—you’re born with it. Or you steal it. Violently.

His eyes flicked to me.

And in that single glance, the air went sharp.

I couldn’t move.

He didn’t look Indian.

He didn’t belong.

And yet—he ruled the moment like it was his empire.

"Lost, signorina?" he said, voice low, laced with something unplaceable. Not quite an accent. More like an echo of somewhere colder, deadlier.

I didn’t answer. I reached for my recorder in my coat pocket, slow and deliberate. His gaze dropped to my fingers.

“Careful,” he murmured. “Curiosity kills more than cats in my world.”

His men moved around him like shadows. Silent. Armed. Unreadable. One of them stepped forward, but he held up a hand.

Still looking at me.

“You’re not police,” he said.

“No.”

“Then you’re worse.” He stepped closer. “You’re press.”

I wanted to deny it. My instincts screamed to run.

But his cologne—rich, dark, laced with leather and something primal—clouded my thoughts.

He leaned in, barely a breath away. “If I were you, I’d forget what you saw tonight.”

“And if I don’t?”

His smile wasn’t kind. It wasn’t threatening either.

It was dangerous.

Seduction, wrapped in steel.

“Then you’ll be mine, little dove.”

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—Leonardo Salvatore's pov—

Mumbai was a beast. Not like Rome—elegant, calculated, cruel in a quieter way. No, this city wore its filth on its sleeve. The stench of sweat, ambition, and desperation. Perfect breeding ground for business.

Diamonds in, weapons out. A thousand hands dirtied, but only mine got paid.

I stood in that alley like I owned the goddamn skyline. Cigarette between my lips, jacket drenched from the monsoon—but I didn’t feel a damn thing. Deals like this were routine. Money changed hands. Greed kept the blood flowing.

Then she appeared.

At first, I thought she was a mistake. Maybe some lost college girl with a broken GPS. But then she stopped—poised, sharp-eyed. No hesitation.

And those eyes—fuck me—those eyes could cut glass.

She wore black like a second skin, hair pinned back but messy from the rain. Lips parted, breath shallow, eyes scanning everything like she already knew too much.

And I couldn’t stop looking.

She didn’t belong here. Which made her all the more dangerous. Or delicious.

My cock twitched at the way her chest rose with every breath. She was tense—but not afraid. Not enough, anyway. And that little recorder in her coat pocket? Amateur move. But bold. And I like bold.

“Lost, signorina?” I asked, watching how her body stilled.

She looked at me. Not the way most women look at me—with hunger or fear—but with calculation.

I didn’t want to kill her.

No. I wanted to ruin her.

Ruin her mouth with my name,

Ruin her pretty little beliefs,

Ruin her until she begged me to keep her.

And fuck, she’d look so good ruined—knees bruised, throat raw, eyes wet.

I told my men to stand down. This wasn’t a target. This was… a toy I wasn’t done playing with.

She tried to stand tall. Tried to challenge me with her words. Brave girl.

"If I were you," I murmured, "I’d forget what you saw tonight."

“And if I don’t?”

Her voice was steady, but I saw it—the flicker. She felt me. My power. My pull. It was in her blood now.

I leaned in, close enough to taste the rain off her skin.

“Then you’ll be mine, Little dove.”

Her pupils dilated. Heart racing—I could hear it.

She had no idea the kind of man I was.

No idea what I could do to her.

But she would.

Oh, she would.

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