Entangled with the Mafia Don novel Chapter 35

Ezra's POV:

The prospect of tonight’s formal dinner with Tatiana Sokolova clung to me like a suffocating shroud. The meticulously tailored suit, the crisp white shirt – each garment felt like a step closer to a predetermined future I loathed. I lingered in the sterile confines of my private office at the Devil's Club, the muffled sounds of the late-night revelry a distant, unwelcome reminder of the life I was about to trade for a cold, political alliance. The polished mahogany desk reflected my grim visage, a man reluctantly marching towards his own gilded cage.

Just as I finally forced myself to rise, the weight of obligation heavy on my shoulders, a sudden, violent commotion erupted near the back of the club. Roy’s usually gruff pronouncements, laced with an unfamiliar urgency, sliced through the thumping bass of the music. A morbid curiosity, a perverse need for distraction from the impending ordeal, drew me towards the unfolding drama like a moth to a flickering flame.

The scene that greeted me was a chaotic mess of flailing limbs and spilled drinks. Ivan, my soon to be brother in law, the hulking brute with the unsettlingly vacant eyes, lay sprawled on the sticky floor, clutching his bloodied face, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips. And then I saw Davina. Her slender frame swayed precariously, her eyes glazed and unfocused, rolling back in her head with alarming frequency. She looked… utterly compromised, drugged. A cold, incandescent fury, far more potent and possessive than my earlier irritation at her private dance, surged through me, eclipsing all other thoughts. That vile bastard.

Without a flicker of hesitation, the carefully constructed facade of the soon-to-be fiancé shattered into a million pieces. I moved with a speed born of pure, unadulterated rage, my fists connecting with Ivan’s already battered face with brutal, sickening efficiency. Each blow was fueled by a possessive fury, a primal need to protect what I considered mine, a complicated, unwanted entanglement be damned. Roy and Devlin, their faces a mask of shock and fear, rushed forward, their frantic protests mere muffled background noise to the roaring red haze of my anger. I didn't stop, couldn't stop, until Ivan lay groaning and semi-conscious amidst the broken glass and spilled liquor, his body a testament to my uncontrolled rage.

Then, my focus, sharp and possessive, snapped back to Davina. Her already unsteady legs buckled, and she swayed like a wilting flower, her eyes fluttering closed, her body threatening to crumple to the floor. Before she could fall, I reacted instinctively, my arms wrapping around her fragile form, her limp weight heavy and disturbingly vulnerable in my grasp. The air around her was thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume mingled with a sickly, synthetic undertone. Ruffie. The realization hit me with a sickening certainty. That son of a bitch had deliberately ruffied her.

Ignoring the stunned silence that had fallen over the club, the worried, hushed murmurs of Devlin and Roy, I cradled Davina in my arms and strode purposefully towards my office.

My office, usually a sanctuary of sterile order, felt strangely unsettling with Davina’s unconscious form lying on the soft, expensive leather of the mini living room couch. Her breathing was shallow and uneven, her skin clammy and pale against the dark leather. The detached anger I had felt moments ago slowly gave way to a grudging, possessive concern.

The icy image of Tatiana’s cold, assessing gaze flickered in my mind, and the thought of touching her, of any semblance of intimacy, felt suddenly repulsive, a violation of some unspoken boundary.

I knelt beside her, my gaze tracing the delicate curve of her cheek, the faint shadows beneath her closed eyes. The urge to call Mario, my personal physician, warred with a fierce, almost irrational protectiveness, a deep reluctance to involve anyone else in this tangled mess, to expose her vulnerability to outside eyes.

Then, she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, her gaze unfocused and disoriented, swimming in a hazy confusion. "Ezra?" Her voice was a weak, barely audible whisper, laced with a childlike bewilderment that tugged at something unfamiliar within me.

Before I could offer a reassuring word, her small yet surprisingly strong hand reached out, her fingers tangling in the smooth fabric of my tailored suit jacket. Her grip tightened, pulling me inexorably closer. I leaned in, concern etched on my face, ready to offer comfort or explanation.

And then she pulled me down.

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