Married to the Mafia Alpha

Isabella’s POV  THE WOLFMOON Club wasn’t just a nightclub. It was a palace built for sin. Every inch of the place screamed money and danger — black marble floors polished like mirrors, crystal chandeliers dripping gold light over silk-draped VIP booths, and a bass line so deep it vibrated through my ribs. And somewhere inside, I knew, was the man I’d been hunting for three months. “Dominic Valtieri,” Detective Raines had told me over the burner phone an hour ago. “Alpha. Billionaire. And the head of the Valtieri syndicate.” A small pause, his voice dropping lower. “You don’t want to get close to him, Cross. You want to write this exposé and live to publish it, you steer clear.” I hung up without answering. Steering clear wasn’t my specialty. My heels clicked sharply on the marble as I stepped through the entrance, adjusting the strap of my backless black dress. It wasn’t my usual style — too much skin, too little armor — but blending in here meant looking like I belonged to someone powerful. My press badge wouldn’t open doors tonight. My legs might. I scanned the crowd from beneath lowered lashes. Glittering women with diamond collars looped through the arms of men who could kill you with a look. Servers in satin slipped through the press of bodies with trays of champagne and caviar. The air was thick with perfume and the faint tang of expensive cigars. And under it all… something else. Something raw and electric brushed my senses like a current. A subtle pull, like the air itself, was thickening around me. I pushed it aside. This was business. I caught sight of my contact — Detective Raines’s inside man — leaning against the bar. His tie was loose, his expression tense. “You’re late,” he muttered as I slid up beside him. “Traffic,” I lied, giving him a smile that wouldn’t draw attention. “Tell me you have something.” His gaze flicked toward the mezzanine above us. “He’s here. Second floor. Private section. Two bodyguards at the door. Don’t—” But I was already walking. The private stairs were roped off, guarded by two men in tailored suits that looked like they’d been stitched over muscle and bad intentions. I tilted my head, letting the light catch the diamond studs I’d borrowed from a friend. “I’m here to see Mr. Valtieri,” I said smoothly. One guard’s jaw flexed. “Name?” “He’s expecting me,” I lied without blinking. It was a mistake. Their eyes sharpened instantly, and in a second, I was being turned toward the exit. “I’m a guest—” I began, but my words cut off when a shadow shifted on the mezzanine. And then I saw him. Dominic Valtieri leaned against the rail like a king surveying his court, one hand wrapped around a glass of amber liquor, the other resting lazily in his pocket. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair slicked back to reveal the hard lines of his face — all cheekbones, jaw, and eyes that gleamed like molten steel under the lights. But it wasn’t just how he looked. It was how my body reacted. The second his gaze locked with mine, the world narrowed to a single, pounding heartbeat. My heartbeat. No — ours. I could hear his in my ears, deep and steady, syncing with mine like they’d been meant to match all along. A scent hit me, warm and devastating — cedarwood, smoke, and something wild that made my knees want to bend and my pulse want to race. The air between us crackled, my skin prickling as if invisible fingers were brushing over every inch of me. Mate. The word slid through me like a whisper I didn’t want to hear. Dominic’s lips curved. Not warmly — like a predator’s slow smile before the kill. He said something to the man beside him, then strolled toward the stairs with the kind of lazy, contained power that made the crowd part without him asking. The guards stepped back immediately when he appeared, but he didn’t look at them. He looked at me. Right through me. My throat went dry. “Mr. Valtieri—” “I don’t want her,” he said, voice low and deep enough to vibrate in my bones. He didn’t even break eye contact as he spoke to his men. “Get her out.” For a second, I didn’t understand. Then the words sank in, cold and sharp. Heat rushed to my cheeks, but I lifted my chin. “Excuse me?” He just smirked. As if he knew exactly what he’d done. As if he knew I felt the bond too, and was twisting the knife. Humiliation burned hot in my chest as the guards stepped forward again. I could feel eyes on me from the bar, the booths, even the dance floor — the curious, knowing looks of people who’d just seen someone get dismissed by the king of the Wolfmoon Club. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to slap that smug look off his stupidly perfect face. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I straightened my spine and let my heels click sharply against the marble as I walked away without a backward glance. By the time I hit the cold night air outside, my heart was still pounding — but not just from embarrassment. Something about him had… unsettled me. The mate pull was supposed to be undeniable, magnetic. But he’d rejected it like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing. Fine. If Dominic Valtieri thought he could humiliate me into walking away from this story, he was dead wrong. I was halfway down the narrow alley behind the club when it happened. A sharp crack split the night, too loud to be anything but a gunshot. The sound echoed off brick and steel, followed by a muffled shout. I froze. Another shot. Then silence. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and for a heartbeat, the scent of cedar and smoke seemed to wrap around me again, even though I knew he hadn’t followed me. I swallowed hard, every instinct screaming at me to run — but I was already reaching for the small camera tucked into my clutch. If I were going to dance with wolves, I might as well start with blood.