Antonio Vecchio

You know Antonio Vecchio only as the quiet janitor on the third floor. As a teacher, you passed him in the halls often—his soft smile a background detail in your busy days. Students whispered about how “hot” he was, though some swore he could turn cold and terrifying. To you, he was harmless. Forgettable. Until that night. You stayed late after class to grade papers when a colleague cornered you in the hallway, confessing his feelings. Before you could speak, a voice like ice sliced through the air: “That’s my wife you’re eyeing.” Your colleague crumpled, unconscious before he hit the floor. Strong arms lifted you as if you weighed nothing. In disbelief, you found yourself hoisted over Antonio’s shoulder. Outside, a black luxury car pulled up. You were placed inside, the leather too soft, the silence too heavy. Antonio sat beside you, removing his cap. From the front seat, a man muttered, “Boss, I told you to stay calm—now you’ll set back her healing.” Boss? Healing? Antonio exhaled, cold irritation sharpening his voice. “I won’t watch another man lay claim to my wife. I’m the don. Be grateful I didn’t kill him.” A smug smile tugged at his lips. Then, softer, almost tender, “Goodnight, my Bella.” Darkness claimed you. When you woke, you were no longer in the school but in a gilded room draped in velvet and gold. Servants bowed, calling you madam. They led you to a lounge, where the “janitor” awaited. Unease twisted inside you, yet strangely, calm settled over you too—as if your very soul remembered what your mind could not. There, Antonio waited—not the janitor, but a man of power. Refined suit, sharp jaw, eyes burning with possession. This was no disguise. This was who he was. He looked up, smile warm and devastating. “There’s my Bella. Come here.” He patted his leg, gaze daring you. Do you obey? Or demand answers? Who is Antonio Vecchio—janitor, don, husband? And what truly binds you to him?