Prisoner of Love: The Mafia Don's Treasured Darling

The crystal chandeliers in the Manhattan's top-floor banquet hall were blindingly bright.

Seraphina's fingertips traced the champagne glass, her gaze sweeping through the crowd to rest on the man in the main seat. Damien Blackwood, her godfather, the most powerful and icy man in New York, was now listening intently to the flattery of a bald old man beside him, not even bothering to give a half-hearted smile.

"Seraphina, come quickly," said family lawyer Richard, walking briskly over and lowering his voice. "The godfather is about to announce."

She remained motionless: "What announcement? That I can finally walk away from his sight?"

Richard wiped his brow. "Yes... it's your wedding. The groom is the youngest son of the Johnston family from the West Coast, with impeccable pedigree and a good age difference from you..."

"About the same age?" Seraphina chuckled, setting the cup on the waiter's tray. "Richard, you've been with him for twenty years—how could you still be so naive?"

She turned and walked toward the main seat. The hem of her crimson silk gown swept across the marble floor like a streak of blood.

The crowd separated automatically.

Damien raised his eyes. His pure black tailored suit accentuated the coldness of his face. The thirty-eight-year-old man's eyes held a depth she had failed to fathom for ten years.

"Seraphina," he said, his voice low, and the entire banquet hall fell silent in an instant.

She stopped three steps in front of him.

"Today you turn twenty," Damien leaned back, his fingers resting on the armrest. "In keeping with your father's last wish and for your own future, I've chosen a suitable partner for you."

The bald old man beside him quickly forced a smile: "Yes, yes, yes, the Johnston family is really looking forward to..."

"His name is Michael Johnston," Damien cut him off, his eyes locked on Seraphina's face. "He'll be in New York next week. You can meet him first."

Seraphina tilted her head: "What if I say I can't see it?"

"This isn't a question," Damien said in a flat tone. "It's an arrangement."

A faint hiss of air was heard in the banquet hall. Several bodyguards in black suits, equipped with earpiece communicators, moved half a step toward the source without showing any reaction.

Seraphina smiled.

She took two steps forward, then another. The neckline of her red dress was perfectly tailored, and the small black mole beneath her collarbone was the one Damien had personally treated when she was sixteen and had a fever.

"Godfather," she said softly.

Damien looked at her.

"You taught me how to use a gun," she said softly, as if pleading, "how to read the ledger, how to spot lies, and how to intimidate people at the negotiating table."

She took another step forward, her high heels almost touching the tip of his leather shoes.

"You taught me not to trust anyone, including you."

Her breath was already brushing against his chin.

Damien's fingers tightened on the armrest for a moment.

"But—" Seraphina suddenly stood on tiptoes, cupping his face with both hands.

Time has frozen.

Everyone's eyes widened in shock as the document in Richard's hand clattered to the floor.

She kissed him.

Her lips were icy, tinged with the bitter sharpness of whiskey. She could feel his muscles tensing instantly, like a bow stretched to its limit.

Three seconds. Or five seconds.

She stepped back, her fingertips still brushing against his cheek. Her lipstick had smudged, leaving a faint mark on the corner of his mouth.

The banquet hall was so silent that the hum of the central air conditioning could be heard.

Seraphina laughed, her voice ringing clear and resonant throughout the hall:

"The Godfather, you taught me everything—"

"Why did it fail to teach well?"

She licked her lips stained with his scent, then spoke each word carefully.

"The one I love has always been you."

yan 。

The crystal cup in Damien's hand is broken.

For the first time, his eyes held no coldness or control—only a shattered void, as if blown to pieces.

Seraphina took a half-step back, her chest heaving with emotion.

Then she turned, her red dress tracing an arc, and walked out the door with her high heels on, without looking back.

The bodyguards froze in place, too afraid to intervene, all their eyes fixed on the main seat.

Damien slowly rose to his feet. Blood trickled down his fingers, as if he were numb.

"Get lost," he said.

The voice was soft, yet every word struck a chord.

The crowd scattered in panic, surging toward the doorway like a tidal wave. No one dared to turn back.

Richard shuddered as he stepped forward: "Father, Father, your hand..."

Damien raised his hand to stop him. He stared at the doorway, the direction Seraphina had vanished into, where blood still dripped.

"Top-floor suite," he said. "Three locks. No step without my permission."

"So... so the Johnston family..."

“ put off 。”

Damien took out a handkerchief and carefully wrapped it around his bleeding palm. The white cloth quickly turned red.

"Also," he looked up and scanned the half-empty banquet hall, "investigate everyone present tonight. Especially—"

He paused, his lips pressed into a straight line. "Especially those who saw her kiss me."

Richard's back turned cold. "Yes."

Damien turned and walked away, his leather shoes kicking up blood droplets from the carpet.

Before the elevator door at the corridor's end closed, he cast one final glance out the window—

The night view of New York City is as brilliant as the Milky Way.

And his little rose, having just set it ablaze with his own hands, would burn his entire world to ashes.

The elevator is descending.

The number is blinking.

Damien stared at his hand wrapped in a blood-soaked handkerchief and suddenly let out a faint laugh.

"Seraphina." He called her name, as if uttering a curse.

"You are the most disobedient student I ever raised."

The elevator descended into the underground garage. Outside, six black SUVs were already idling.

The door opens.

Damien sat down, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the chair.

The palm is still hurting.

However, the more painful area was located beneath his ribs, within the left thoracic cavity.

The girl he had raised for ten years, whom he believed would forever stay obedient in the cage—

Just in public, she tore apart all the cages he had built for her.

It also shattered the order he had firmly believed in for thirty-eight years.

The top-floor suite.

Seraphina took off her high heels and walked barefoot to the floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside the window is the night view of Central Park.

She raised her hand and touched her lips with her fingertips.

The lingering scent of whiskey and the icy cedar aroma on his skin.

"Damien," she said to her reflection in the mirror, "Did you see clearly this time?"

"I am not your daughter."

"I am a woman."

"Women who want your life."

She laughed, laughing, and her eyes turned red.

The door lock clicked shut from the outside, three times, as heavy as a coffin lid closing.

She doesn't care.

She approached the door, gazing at the heavy solid wood panel, and murmured softly:

"Good night, Godfather."

"Tonight, you must..."

"Have a good dream about me."

Outside the corridor, the guard exchanged a glance with the bodyguard, his shirt soaked with cold sweat.

Who doesn't know that she is his own child?

Yet this child, whom he raised with his own hands, has now committed such a shocking act in public.