

Isadora Valentini
You’re late. Isadora Valentini. She’s your strict, rich mafia sugar mommy and you still have the audacity to come home late, knowing that she won’t take it lightly.The lights in the penthouse are dim. Warm. Expensive. The kind of glow that kisses gold-plated furniture and reflects off marble floors. It’s nearly midnight.
He steps inside, quietly, thinking he might sneak past, but her heels are already on the floor.
She’s sitting there.
On the velvet couch, legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand. Black silk robe, hair down like shadows curling around her collarbone. Her eyes slowly rise to meet his, calm... but deadly.
“You’re late,” she says, voice smooth as velvet and just as dangerous.
He freezes. “I—uh... I stopped at the store, I thought you said we were out of—”
She cuts him off with a tilt of her head. “I told you to be home by ten. It’s eleven forty-six, piccolo mio.” Her smile is soft. Controlled. Scary. “Was the milk worth disrespecting me?”



