Mafia Romance: Love in the Underworld

I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

I stood outside my husband's study, the perfect mafia wife, only to hear him mocking me as an "ice sculpture" while he entertained his mistress, Aria. But the betrayal went deeper than infidelity. A week later, my saddle snapped mid-jump, leaving me with a shattered leg. Lying in the hospital bed, I overheard the conversation that killed the last of my love. My husband, Alessandro, knew Aria had sabotaged my gear. He knew she could have killed me. Yet, he told his men to let it go. He called my near-death experience a "lesson" because I had bruised his mistress's ego. He humiliated me publicly, freezing my accounts to buy family heirlooms for her. He stood by while she threatened to leak our private tapes to the press. He destroyed my dignity to play the hero for a woman he thought was a helpless orphan. He had no idea she was a fraud. He didn't know I had installed micro-cameras throughout the estate while he was busy pampering her. He didn't know I had hours of footage showing his "innocent" Aria sleeping with his guards, his rivals, and even his staff, laughing about how easy he was to manipulate. At the annual charity gala, in front of the entire crime family, Alessandro demanded I apologize to her. I didn't beg. I didn't cry. I simply connected my drive to the main projector and pressed play.

I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella. Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark. But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved. Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies. When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel. While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest. The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella. He ordered my father to punish me. I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth. That night, the love in my heart finally died. On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape—the only proof that I was Seven. Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney. By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.

I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?

I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't a quick death. It was slow, cold, and meticulously planned by the man who called himself my father. I was twenty years old. He needed my kidney to save my sister. The spare part for the golden child. I remember the blinding lights of the operating theater, the sterile smell of betrayal, and the phantom pain of a surgeon's scalpel carving into my flesh while my screams echoed unheard. I remember looking through the observation glass and seeing him—my father, Giovanni Vitiello, the Don of the Chicago Outfit—watching me die with the same detached expression he used when signing a death warrant. He chose her. He always chose her. And then, I woke up. Not in heaven. Not in hell. But in my own bed, a year before my scheduled execution. My body was whole, unscarred. The timeline had reset, a glitch in the cruel matrix of my existence, giving me a second chance I never asked for. This time, when my father handed me a one-way ticket to London—an exile disguised as a severance package—I didn't cry. I didn't beg. My heart, once a bleeding wound, was now a block of ice. He didn't know he was talking to a ghost. He didn't know I had already lived through his ultimate betrayal. He also didn't know that six months ago, during the city's brutal territory wars, I was the one who saved his most valuable asset. In a secret safe house, I stitched up the wounds of a blinded soldier, a man whose life hung by a thread. He never saw my face. He only knew my voice, the scent of vanilla, and the steady touch of my hands. He called me Sette. Seven. For the seven stitches I put in his shoulder. That man was Dante Moretti. The Ruthless Capo. The man my sister, Isabella, is now set to marry. She stole my story. She claimed my actions, my voice, my scent. And Dante, the man who could spot a lie from a mile away, believed the beautiful deception because he wanted it to be true. He wanted the golden girl to be his savior, not the invisible sister who was only ever good for her spare parts. So I took the ticket. In my past life, I fought them, and they silenced me on an operating table. This time, I will let them have their perfect, gilded lie. I will go to London. I will disappear. I will let Seraphina Vitiello die on that plane. But I will not be a victim. This time, I will not be the lamb led to slaughter. This time, from the shadows of my exile, I will be the one holding the match. And I will wait, with the patience of the dead, to watch their entire world burn. Because a ghost has nothing to lose, and a queen of ashes has an empire to gain.

I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.

When I was eight, Dante Moretti pulled me from the fire that killed my family. For ten years, the powerful crime boss was my protector and my god. Then, he announced his engagement to another woman to unite two criminal empires. He brought her home and named her the future mistress of the Moretti family. In front of everyone, his fiancée forced a cheap metal collar around my neck, calling me their pet. Dante knew I was allergic. He just watched, his eyes cold, and ordered me to take it. That night, I listened through the walls as he took her to his bed. I finally understood the promise he’d made me as a child was a lie. I wasn't his family. I was his property. After a decade of devotion, my love for him finally turned to ash. So on his birthday, the day he celebrated his new future, I walked out of his gilded cage for good. A private jet was waiting to take me to my real father—his greatest enemy.

I was the "Ice Queen," the perfect Mafia wife who managed the De Luca empire's millions while my husband, Alessandro, played the part of the feared Underboss. I thought my silence and competence earned me respect. That was until I woke up in the estate's medical bay with a shattered leg. My saddle had snapped mid-jump. It wasn't wear and tear; it was sabotage. Lying in the dark, feigning sleep, I heard Alessandro whispering outside my door with his enforcer. "The buckle was filed down," the enforcer said urgently. "Aria tampered with it. She could have broken her neck." I waited for Alessandro’s rage. I waited for him to execute the mistress who tried to kill his wife. Instead, his voice was cold and dismissive. "Bury it," Alessandro ordered. "It’s just a broken leg. Aria was upset about the credit cards. She just wanted to teach Katarina a lesson." A lesson. My husband wasn't just cheating on me; he was protecting the woman who tried to cripple me. Three days later, at the Family Charity Gala, he humiliated me publicly. He outbid me for my grandmother's heirloom necklace and clasped it around Aria's neck while I watched from my wheelchair. He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a piece of furniture to be rearranged. He didn't know I had bugged the entire villa while I was recovering. He didn't know I had the recordings of what Aria was really doing when he wasn't looking. I gripped the USB drive in my pocket and signaled the tech team to lock the doors. The statue was broken, but he was about to learn that shattered ice is sharp enough to slit a throat.

"Lovely, Cara," he whispers, licking and kissing my clit. I'm twitching, shaking, back arched- He reaches down and picks up the champagne bottle, pouring out the liquid on my body. I gasp at the sudden bubbling cold. I try to wriggle away but he holds me down and sucks the champagne, licking me clean, making these filthy delighted noises as he does it. "I couldn't help myself. You taste too good." - Fed up with her abusive husband, twenty-three-year-old Cara Hellington runs away from home and ends up in a notorious bar, destitute, sad, but relieved and free. When she gets into a verbal altercation with the snotty bartender over the ownership of her credit cards, an unlikely savior comes to her aid. Eros Kazan Alfred. He's tall, massive, rippling with muscles, and covered with dark tattoos. Everything Cara is not used to. Everything Cara is drawn to. She should run towards the opposite direction, away from him. But she runs right onto his bed. After a hot sizzling night together, Cara is comfortable and confident in him taking good care of her. But tensions are rising all around them, as significant figures from their past will stop at nothing to bring them both down. Will they succumb under the wickedly twisted circumstances fate seems to be throwing at them?

My husband, the King of New York's underworld, declined my call for the ninety-ninth time just as my brother's heart monitor flatlined. He claimed he was in a life-or-death sit-down with the Commission. But moments after my brother took his last breath, I saw his mistress's Instagram post. The "meeting" was an emergency C-section for her Persian cat. My brother was dead because a mistress's pet needed the surgeon Dante had promised to send for him. The betrayal didn't stop there. When our car was T-boned days later, Dante didn't pull me from the wreckage. He carried his mistress to safety, screaming for paramedics to save his "fiancée," leaving me trapped in the burning vehicle with crushed legs. Miraculously, I survived. Lying in the hospital bed, I waited for an apology. Instead, I got a threat. "Without me, you are nothing," Dante sneered, throwing a box of chocolates at me like I was a dog. But the final blow came from the County Clerk. When I tried to file for divorce, they told me no record existed. Seven years of loyalty. Seven years of standing by his side. And I wasn't even his wife. I was just a possession he had tricked into playing house. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I picked up my phone and scrolled past Dante's name to the one man he feared most: his rival, Alessandro De Luca. I typed three words. I need extraction. It was time to burn his kingdom to the ground.

I was the Queen of New York, the untouchable wife of the city's most feared Mafia Don, Liam Goldstein. But my throne was built on quicksand. It started with a photo of a hotel receipt and a tangle of lingerie sent to my phone. It ended with a listening device I planted, hearing my husband tell his mistress that I was just a "decoration" while she would bear his heir. The humiliation reached its peak at the charity gala. His mistress, Ava, marched in wearing my jewelry, claiming my husband in front of the city's elite. When I tried to leave, Liam grabbed me. I fell. I hit the floor hard, and the pain in my stomach was blinding. I lay there on the ballroom parquet, bleeding out in my white gown, losing the unborn son Liam claimed he wanted more than anything. But he didn't kneel to help me. Terrified of a scandal, he shielded his mistress from the paparazzi and walked away, leaving me to die amidst the champagne and diamonds. I woke up in a hospital bed with an empty womb and a "sorry" check from his lawyer. He thought money could fix a dead child. He thought I would just go back to being his ornament. He was wrong. That night, I initiated the Phoenix Plan. I planted my DNA in a car wreck, drove it to the docks, and watched it explode into a fireball. To the world, and to Liam, Maya Goldstein is dead. But I’m very much alive. And I’m going to burn his empire to the ground.

I spent a year scrubbing floors in my fiancé’s club, hiding my identity as the daughter of the Capo dei Capi. I needed to know if Connor Bishop was a King worth merging empires with, or just a puppet. The answer came walking in wearing a neon pink dress. Jaden Juarez, a civilian he was infatuated with, didn't just treat me like a servant; she deliberately poured scalding espresso over my hand because I refused to be her valet. The pain was blinding, my skin blistering instantly. I video-called Connor, showing him the burn, expecting him to enforce the code of our world. Instead, seeing his investors watching, he panicked. He chose to sacrifice me to save face. "Get on your knees," he roared through the speaker. "Beg her pardon. Show her the respect she deserves." He wanted the daughter of the most dangerous man on the East Coast to kneel to his mistress. He thought he was showing strength. He didn't realize he was looking at a woman who could burn his entire world to ash with a single phone call. I didn't cry. I didn't beg. I simply hung up the phone and locked the kitchen doors. Then, I dialed the one number everyone in the underworld feared. "Dad," I said, my voice cold as steel. "Code Black. Bring the papers." "And send the wolves."

I was polishing a diamond engagement ring that cost more than a small island when I heard the truth. My fiancé, the ruthless Don Dante Moretti, was telling his mistress I was nothing more than a glorified bank account. But it wasn't until the accident that I understood the depth of his cruelty. While training in the estate gym, a support cable snapped. I fell twenty feet, shattering my leg on impact. Through the haze of blinding pain, I waited for Dante to save me. Instead, he rushed to his mistress, Livia—the woman who had cut the wire. He held her close, soothing her because the loud noise had "startled" her, while I lay broken and bleeding on the floor. "She won't die," I heard him whisper to her later. "Pain is a good teacher." My love for him turned to ice in that moment. He didn't just want my father's money; he was letting her plan my assassination to get it. They thought I was just a porcelain doll to be discarded once the wedding contracts were signed. They forgot that even a pawn can kill a king. I wiped the tears from my face and walked straight into the territory of the Valenti Syndicate—Dante's sworn enemy. "I don't want protection," I told the rival Don, placing the surveillance evidence on his table. "I want to burn his entire dynasty to the ground."

After fifteen years of marriage and a brutal battle with infertility, I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. This baby was my victory, the heir that would finally secure my place as the wife of mob capo Marco Vitiello. I planned to announce it at his mother's party, a triumph over the matriarch who saw me as nothing but a barren field. But before I could celebrate, my friend sent me a video. The headline read: "MOB CAPO MARCO VITIELLO'S PASSIONATE NIGHTCLUB KISS!" It was him, my husband, devouring a woman who looked like a younger, fresher version of me. Hours later, Marco stumbled home, drunk and reeking of another woman's perfume. He complained about his mother begging him for an heir, completely unaware of the secret I held. Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number. "Your husband slept with my girl. We need to talk." It was signed by Dante Moretti, the ruthless Don of our rival family. The meeting with Dante was a nightmare. He showed me another video. This time, I heard my husband's voice, telling the other woman, "I love you. Elara... that's just business." My fifteen years of loyalty, of building his empire, of taking a bullet for him—all dismissed as "just business." Dante didn't just reveal the affair; he showed me proof that Marco was already stealing our shared assets to build a new life with his mistress. Then, he made me an offer. "Divorce him," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "Join me. We'll build an empire together and destroy him."

On my wedding night, I made a vow to Liam Gallo, the most feared man in New York. "If you ever betray me," I whispered, "I will vanish from your life as if I never existed." He laughed, thinking it was a romantic promise. It was an oath. Three years later, I discovered his betrayal. It wasn't just an affair; it was a public humiliation. His mistress, Ava, sent me photos of herself in my places, wearing jewelry he'd given me, taunting me with her presence in my life. And Liam let her. The final blow came at our Hamptons estate. I saw them together, Liam and a triumphant, pregnant Ava, in front of his inner circle. He was choosing her, his pregnant mistress, over his injured wife, demanding I apologize for upsetting her. In my own home, I was an obstacle. In my own marriage, I was a prop. The love I clung to for years finally died. Ava's texts confirmed it all, including a picture of an ultrasound captioned "Our baby," and another of her wearing the necklace he named "Maya's Dawn." So, on the morning after our anniversary party, I enacted my plan. I liquidated my assets, bulldozed the garden he planted for me, and served him divorce papers. Then, with a new identity, I walked out of the service exit and disappeared into the city, leaving the man who broke his vows to the wreckage of the life he destroyed.

My little brother’s heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I’d saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team. “I’m handling an emergency,” he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead. I found out what Dante’s “emergency” was from his mistress’s social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat’s kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats. When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed. This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery. I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."

For seven years, I scrubbed floors, cooked books, and hid my identity as the Vitiello heiress just to test if Dante Moretti loved me for me, not my father’s power. But the massive digital billboard in Times Square froze the blood in my veins. It wasn’t my face next to his under the headline "The King and his new Queen." It was a cocktail waitress named Lola. When I walked into the lobby to confront him, Lola slapped me across the face and crushed my late mother's locket under her stiletto heel. Dante didn't defend me. He didn't even look sorry. "You’re useful, like a stapler," he sneered, checking his watch. "But a King needs a Queen, not a boring clerk. You can stay on as my mistress if you want to keep your job." He thought I was a nobody. He thought he could use me to launder his money and then discard me like trash. He didn't realize that the only reason he wasn't in federal prison was because I was protecting him. I wiped the blood from my lip and pulled out a secure satellite phone. Dante laughed. "Who are you calling? Your mommy?" I stared him dead in the eyes as the line connected. "The pact is void, Papa," I whispered. "Burn them all." Ten minutes later, the glass doors shattered as my father’s military helicopters descended onto the street. Dante fell to his knees, realizing too late that he hadn't just lost a secretary. He had just declared war on the Capo dei Capi.

Vivian Harrison used to be an ordinary nurse at the hospital, but she had the rare Rh-negative blood type. Three years ago, she saved the life of the king of the underworld, Archie Palmer, who had been on the brink of death, with her blood. From that moment on, she had completely fallen for him. However, when Archie awoke, he just coldly handed her a marriage contract. "I never owe anyone a favor." The marriage, in the name of repaying a favor, became a gilded cage that confined Vivian for three years. Archie made Vivian his wife, yet he gave all his tenderness and devotion to a vivacious and innocent woman-Cassie Fuller. He would drive across half the city on a stormy night just to stay with Cassie because she was afraid of the dark. He would spend a fortune at an auction to acquire a piece of priceless jewelry, because Cassie said she liked it. Yet, all he ever offered Vivian was endless indifference and suspicion. When Cassie suffered even the slightest grievance, he would unhesitatingly lay all the blame on Vivian and even torment and punish Vivian in the cruelest ways. "Your blood disgusts me as much as you do, Vivian." Later, when Vivian took a fatal bullet for him and lay bleeding on the ground, he walked coldly past her, holding the frightened Cassie in his arms, without sparing Vivian even a glance. At that moment, Vivian finally understood that this marriage was nothing but a joke from the start. She decided that she would no longer play along with Archie. But when Vivian, her body battered and broken, resolutely left Archie, and Archie, who had always claimed he never loved Vivian, for the first time felt his eyes sting, and frantically searched for her all over the world.

Seven years ago, my fiancé, Don Dante Moretti, sent me to prison to take the fall for my adopted sister, Chiara. He called it a gift—a way to protect me from a worse fate. Today, he picked me up from prison only to abandon me at my family's estate. His reason? Chiara was having another one of her "episodes." My parents then informed me I'd be staying in the third-floor storage room, so as not to disturb the fragile girl who stole my life. They celebrated her "recovery" with a lavish dinner party, while I was treated like a ghost. When I refused to join, my mother hissed that I was ungrateful, and my father called me jealous. They assumed I couldn't understand their venomous whispers. But prison was my university. I learned Spanish. I understood every word. It was then I realized I wasn't just a sacrifice; I was disposable. The love I once felt for all of them had turned to ash. That night, in the dusty storage room, I logged onto an encrypted channel I'd set up years ago. A single message was waiting: "The offer stands. Do you accept?" My hands, scarred and steady, typed back, "I accept."

I carried the first word I had spoken in ten years like a sacred offering, ready to surprise the man who had saved my life. But through the crack in the study door, I heard Josiah tell his Underboss that I was nothing but a noose around his neck. "Grace is a burden," he said, his voice cold. "I can't become Don while babysitting a mute ghost. Lexi brings power. Grace brings nothing but silence." He chose to marry the Mafia Princess for her father's trade routes, dismissing me as wreckage. But the true betrayal didn't happen in that office. It happened in the woods during an ambush. With bullets flying and the mud sliding beneath us into a ravine, Josiah had to make a choice. I was injured, trapped at the bottom. Lexi was screaming on the ridge. He looked at me, mouthed "I'm sorry," and turned his back. He hauled Lexi to safety to secure his alliance. He left me to die alone in the freezing mud. I lay there in the dark, realizing the man who swore a blood oath to protect me had traded my life for a political seat. He thought the silence would finally swallow me whole. He was wrong. I crawled out of that grave and vanished from his world completely. Three years later, I returned to the city, not as his broken ward, but as a world-renowned artist. When Josiah showed up at my gallery, looking shattered and begging for forgiveness, I didn't sign. I looked him dead in the eye and spoke. "The girl who loved you died in that ravine, Josiah."