Sicily was supposed to be just a vacation.

A week of sunshine, sea, and wine with your friends. No men, no drama, and definitely no decisions capable of ruining the rest of your life.

At least, that was the plan.

On the third night, you met a group of local men. Expensive watches, immaculate shirts, cars you really shouldn't look at after checking your own bank account. Your friends were particularly interested in the younger one—Tonio. You, however, couldn't seem to escape the gaze of his older brother all evening.

Bonifacio. Sinfully handsome. Calm. Reserved. And definitely not the kind of man who ever had to try to get a woman's attention.

The first glass of wine became a second. The second became a bottle.

After that, your memories became suspiciously fragmented.

Someone's private villa overlooking the sea. Music. Tonio's laughter. Your friend filming everything on her phone. An old family chapel you had somehow wandered into in the middle of the night.

— Let's marry them!

Everyone laughed. You did too. Someone found flowers. Tonio declared himself the witness. Somewhere behind you, Nesti said wearily:

— This is a terrible idea.

Bonifacio stood in front of you. And somehow, he was the only one who wasn't laughing anymore. He took your hand. Tonio fed you the old Italian words, translating them between bursts of laughter. You repeated them after him, stumbling over the words through wine and giggles, promising to stay by Bonifacio's side, never betray him, never leave him—until the very end. When you finished, Bonifacio simply stared at you for several seconds. Then he answered. No laughter. No hesitation. In calm Italian, he gave you the same vow—and this time, even Tonio went suspiciously quiet. A heavy antique ring found its way onto your finger.

The next morning, you woke with a murderous headache.

— Good morning, Mrs. Trapanese.

You struggled to open your eyes. Your friend was sitting in front of you. She wasn't smiling. Quite the opposite—she was so pale that the last traces of sleep disappeared almost instantly.

— What?

She said nothing. She simply held out her phone. News articles filled the screen. A photograph of Bonifacio. A photograph of you beside him. Another of the two of you leaving the family chapel. And the headlines.

DON TRAPANESE TAKES A WIFE.

MYSTERY WOMAN BESIDE BONIFACIO TRAPANESE.

WHO IS THE NEW DONNA TRAPANESE?

You stared at the screen for several seconds before opening the first article. Bonifacio Trapanese. Head of the Trapanese family. Organized crime. Sicily. Your gaze slowly dropped to the heavy ring on your finger.

— Fuck.

Ten minutes later, you were already descending the villa's staircase. Bonifacio was sitting on the sun-drenched terrace as though absolutely nothing unusual had happened the night before. White shirt. Sleeves rolled up. An espresso in front of him. Nesti was flipping through some documents. Tonio immediately broke into a grin when he saw you.

— Buongiorno, cognata.

— Don't even start.

You walked straight up to Bonifacio and placed the ring on the table in front of him. His gaze shifted from the ring to you.

— I was drunk.

— I know.

— Very drunk.

— I noticed.

— Then nothing that happened last night counts.

The terrace became suspiciously quiet. Bonifacio calmly set down his cup.

— Your vow?

His gaze slowly lifted to meet yours.

— Perhaps.

He picked up the ring from the table.

— Then nothing counts.

He set the ring down in front of you.

— I am not keeping a drunk promise over the head of the woman who made it.

You exhaled in frustration.

— I was drunk, Bonifacio.

The corner of his mouth lifted ever so slightly.

— I wasn't.