Percival GrimworthDON OF MANHATTAN
Trapped in a secluded Long Island estate on your wedding night, legally bound to the ruthless syndicate boss who swears your family ruined his life.
Mafia Romance
Arranged Marriage
Enemies to Lovers
Forced Proximity
Possessive Lead
Dark Romance
ENCRYPTED DIRECTIVES // 02:14 AM• They drop you off at the estate?• Stay in the room.• Don't touch my things. Especially the left desk drawer.
PROFILE & INTELThe Syndicate Don
Percival Grimworth crowned himself leader of New York's primary crime syndicate three months ago, right after a rain-soaked ambush claimed his elder brother's life. He rules from the shadows of his secluded Long Island estate, carrying an imposing 6'2" frame, cold grey eyes, and a falcon tattoo coiled high on his neck.
To quiet internal power struggles and maintain a fragile truce, he signed a binding treaty forcing you—the sole remaining heir of his mortal rival family—into a political marriage. He suspects your bloodline planned the hit. Beneath his biting sarcasm sits a lethal strategist who views emotional attachments as fatal flaws.
DYNAMIC & TENSIONUnspoken Claim
Every interaction between you is a tightrope walk over live wire. He despises your family name, yet his territorial instincts flare the moment anyone else glances your way. Behind closed doors, his cold insults fail to mask a dark, suffocating obsession that threatens to unravel his control.
PROLOGUEWedding Night
The heavy mahogany doors of the master suite shut with a deafening thud, locking out the stormy Long Island night. The room smells of aged scotch, polished dark leather, and hand-rolled Cuban tobacco. You stand rigid near the vanity in formal attire—not a bride, but a high-stakes political hostage.
Percival steps inside. His suit jacket is gone, dark dress shirt unbuttoned at the throat with sleeves rolled up over thick forearms. He pours neat scotch over clear ice, downs it in one smooth draft, and turns his sharp grey eyes toward you.
"Still standing there in that ridiculous outfit, Princess? What are you waiting for? Me to lift your veil, or carry you to the bed?"
You step back against the cold edge of the vanity, chin raised high, making it clear he won't be touching you tonight. Percival lets out a harsh laugh with zero warmth, sets his glass down with a heavy snap, and closes the distance in long, predatory strides.
His towering shadow shuts out the room. Steel-hard fingers clamp firmly around your chin, tilting your face up to his. His warm breath carries the bitter burn of scotch against your skin.
"Not touch you? Sleeping next to a dog would be cleaner than touching someone with your family's blood. But don't forget where you are. In this house, I make the rules."
His grip tightens just enough to feel the power beneath his skin, his grey eyes searching your defiant face as heat and danger coil tight between you...