EVA PINK

For three months, I thought I was the only woman who knew Fabiano’s soul. Then he saw my face — and decided I was worth less than the check he slid across the table. But it was all a clerical error. When we finally met and he saw my plain face, he realized I wasn't the glamorous mafia princess he thought he was talking to. He immediately severed our connection and forced me to help him court her instead, promising a blank check to save my dying grandmother from loan sharks in return. I swallowed my pride and did everything he asked. When my grandmother suddenly needed immediate brain surgery to survive the night, I crashed his VIP party to cash in his promise. Fabiano wrote the check, but his new princess snatched it, poured red wine all over the paper, and threw it in the trash. "You are a jealous, pathetic leech. You are nothing," she spat, laughing in my face. I stood there with my hand frozen in the empty air, looking at Fabiano. The man who once swore he would burn down the city for me just sat there on the leather sofa, watching in complete silence as my grandmother's only lifeline was destroyed. The foolish warmth I carried for him instantly died. I turned around, walked out into the freezing rain, and got into the armored SUV of his biggest rival. This time, I wouldn't beg for scraps; I was going to build my own empire.

I was exactly three thousand words away from eviction when the heir to the New York underworld smashed my laptop and offered me a job instead of an apology. Dante Vitiello wanted me to write a memoir that would paint him as a saint. I moved into his penthouse, thinking I could keep things professional. But when his arranged fiancée, the daughter of the Chicago Outfit, arrived, she didn't see an employee. She saw a threat. She didn't just humiliate me; she leaked fake evidence to the press, branding me as a federal informant. I woke up in a hospital bed with the word "RAT" plastered across every gossip site. Sofia’s guards were stationed outside my door, blocking even the nurses. I was a liability. A stain on the Vitiello name. I knew how these stories ended. The Prince always chooses the Family. The Alliance is more important than the girl. I was packing my bag, shaking with fear, ready to disappear into the night to save him from ruin. But Dante didn't come to fire me. He walked into the boardroom where his father and the Chicago Boss were waiting for him to beg for forgiveness. He looked at the crown that was his birthright, then he looked at the gun on the table. He didn't kneel. He didn't apologize. He slammed his weapon down, shattering a hundred-year alliance and forfeiting his empire with a single sentence. "Keep the crown. I take the girl."

For three years, I was the one scrubbing the scent of blood from his hands and holding him while he screamed in pain. I was the one who taught Coleton Barron how to walk again after the car bomb nearly took his legs. But the moment he reclaimed his seat as Don, I became invisible. At his recovery gala, he draped his arm around Charly—the woman who fled when he was crippled—and laughed as he told his inner circle I was "just the hired help." It didn't stop at insults. When Charly faked a fall, he shoved me aside with enough force to crack my skull against the pool edge. When a bomb went off in a gallery, he looked me in the eye, saw me trapped under debris, and turned his back to carry her to safety instead. He even held a gun to my head because she lied about me poisoning his soup. His mother threw a check at me, telling me that tools go back in the box when the job is done. They thought I would beg to stay. They thought I was weak. I took the five million and vanished without a word. Three years later, I returned to New York. Not as his nurse, but as the fiancée of the only man Coleton fears. And when he saw the diamond on my finger, the King of New York finally realized he had thrown away his only lifeline.

I was a Vitiello, sold to the Morettis to secure an alliance. For five years, I quietly loved Dante, counting down the minutes until our wedding at St. Patrick's Cathedral. But it ended with a single text three minutes before the ceremony. "Stay at the apartment. Sofia is awake. Don't make a scene." His ex-girlfriend, the love of his life, had woken from a coma with no memory. Just like that, I was erased. For thirty days, I waited in the shadows while Dante played hero to a woman who didn't remember him. He told me he was protecting her fragile mind. But then I found the truth. I stood outside the doctor's office and heard Dante refuse a treatment that would restore Sofia's memory. "If she remembers, she might leave again," Dante told the doctor. "Elena will wait. She's a good soldier. Let me have my fantasy." He wasn't protecting her. He was keeping her broken to feed his ego, banking on my submission. He thought I was furniture he could put in storage. He was wrong. I didn't go back to the apartment. Instead, I dialed a number every made man in New York feared. "Matteo," I said to Dante's lethal older brother, the King of the underworld. "I am done waiting. I want to be a Moretti bride. But not Dante's."

Tentu, saya akan menambahkan POV (Point of View) ke setiap bab sesuai dengan permintaan Anda, tanpa mengubah format atau konten lainnya. On the day my daughter turned five, my husband Carter finally came home-with his mistress and a child who looked exactly like him. He introduced me as the "mother of his child," not his wife, while my own parents fawned over his illegitimate daughter to secure a business merger. I was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer, leaving me with months to live, yet no one cared. The breaking point wasn't my illness, but seeing Carter slap our daughter across the face because she refused to give her first-place ribbon to his mistress's child. "She disrespected me! I have a right to discipline my own daughter!" He thinks I' m just a dying, discarded wife who will fade away quietly to make room for his new family. He' s wrong. I have three months left to live, and I' m going to spend every second of it burning his empire to the ground. My funeral will be the stage for his destruction.

At my husband's nephew's christening, I saw him across the ballroom holding a newborn with another woman. I was four months pregnant with his heir, but he was presenting her son as his own. He had built a criminal empire, and our marriage was a strategic alliance. But now, the men who toasted our wedding were congratulating him on another woman's child, their gazes sliding right past me. My mother confirmed my worst fears: he'd been paying for his mistress's apartment for months. His mistress, Selena, cornered me, her voice dripping with venom. "He chose me. And our son." The stress brought on sharp, agonizing cramps, but when my husband, Dante, rushed over, he took her side. "Calm down," he commanded. "You're making a scene." He accused me of being hysterical, of cornering his fragile mistress who had just given birth. Through a haze of pain, I watched him shield her from me, his wife, telling me to go home and "be rational." The public humiliation was absolute. In the lawyer's office, Selena slapped me, then knocked over her own baby's carrier and screamed that I had attacked her child. Dante believed her without question. As I collapsed from the pain, the last thing I saw was his back as he walked away with his new family. I woke up in the hospital. He arrived with his mistress, not to see if I was okay, but to demand I apologize to her. That was the moment the woman he married died. And in her place, someone new was born.

For three years, I lay dying from a poison, my only hope a single-dose antidote, the Moonpetal Elixir. My husband, Alpha Joshua, had played the part of a devoted mate, and I trusted him to save me. But through our fading bond, I overheard his secret command to the pack's healer. "Give the Moonpetal Elixir to Ella Campbell's mother." His reason shattered my world: "Ella gave me a son. A healthy, strong son." He had a secret family. The past three years of his loving care were a lie. He was just waiting for me to die. He even brought me their leftover soup, calling me "the sick wolf," and defiled my parents' sacred home with his mistress and their child. He planned to tell the pack my cure was stolen, turning my death into a tragedy for his own gain. He thought I was a weak, dying wolf. He had no idea what kind of storm he had just awakened. That night, I gathered the last of my strength and severed our mate bond. The pain was excruciating, but I walked out of that house of lies, leaving only my wedding ring behind. I would not die. I would live to watch his world burn.

My life with Andrew was a constant dance around the baseball bat, a premonition of my own bloody end that haunted my every waking moment. Then, I found my father-in-law, Mr. Scott, in a pool of his own blood on the kitchen floor, a deep gash on his forehead. Instead of calling 911, I manipulated my lifelong hemophobia and feigned terror, dialing Andrew' s cousin, Ethan, a kind paramedic, dragging him into a manufactured crisis. At the hospital, Andrew' s true colors bled through: he cursed me, refused to sign for his dying father' s emergency surgery, and screamed divorce, all while giggling with his mistress, Sabrina, in the background. He even tried to strangle me at his father' s funeral, abandoning the casket to rush to Sabrina' s side, believing her needs superseded everything. I wasn' t a helpless victim anymore; I recorded his abuse, exposed his heartless acts online, and watched, stone-faced, as the internet tore him apart, leading to his public humiliation and firing. But Andrew, fueled by rage and paranoia, wasn't done; he came for me, knife in hand, convinced I was conspiring to steal his inheritance with Ethan. When Ethan arrived and got stabbed trying to save me, something snapped inside him, and he furiously plunged the knife into Andrew, again and again. Ethan got prison time for manslaughter, but Andrew' s death wasn' t just a simple crime of passion; his wife' s whispered revelation at the funeral, a calculated confession of her own brutal past with Ethan, shattered my understanding of what truly happened that night. Now, years later, I am finally free, walking away from the ghosts and the blood, ready to build a new life for myself, but the true scope of the sacrifices made for my freedom still lingers.

The smell of burnt coffee and cheap vanilla filled my lungs, my hands shaking behind the counter of "The Daily Grind." Just moments ago, I was on a rooftop, the white of my wedding dress stained with grime, watching my fiancé declare his love for my best friend, Molly. My mother collapsed, her heart giving out from the shock, and I saw her fall before I turned and jumped. Yet here I was, alive, the calendar showing weeks before that catastrophic wedding day, the memory of my mother's lifeless body still fresh in my mind. Molly walked in, her fake-sweet smile exactly as I remembered, still utterly oblivious to the hatred now burning ice-cold in my stomach. She started her tale of a "Karmic App," claiming any man I liked would fall for her instead, her crocodile tears perfected. This was the lie she told me the first time, covering her tracks as she systematically stole every relationship and piece of joy from my life. I stared at her, the woman who orchestrated my downfall, consumed by a rage so pure it threatened to shatter me. Why was I back? Why was I given this impossible second chance, only to relive the agony that killed my mother and drove me to jump? Then it hit me: The app wasn't a curse; it was her weapon, and this time, I wasn't just back-I was going to be the one to erase her.

The cold garage floor seeped through my thin jeans as I lay hidden, listening. This wasn't a memory; it was a horrifying déjà vu, a second chance at the day that had once destroyed me. Inside, I heard my husband Kevin' s bitter voice, dismissing me as "simple," "always tired," and "smelling like the diner." His mother, Helen, chimed in, labeling me an "anchor, dragging him down" from his imagined football star glory. Then came the chilling words from my own twelve-year-old son, Justin. He openly wished Aunt Tiffany, the "friend" I'd helped through her divorce, was his mom, because her house didn' t smell like "fried onions." Tiffany' s smooth voice, dripping with fake concern, endorsed their narrative, twisting my double shifts into "neglect." I knew their entire sinister plot, every humiliating detail: Justin' s fake "runaway" act, Kevin' s performative call to the police and Child Protective Services, framing me as an unfit mother. They planned to file for emergency custody, force a divorce, and escape with Justin to a new "perfect" life with Tiffany, leaving me utterly ruined. In my first life, I was blindsided. I fought desperately, screamed, cried, and ultimately lost everything-my son, my home, my reputation. I truly died a broken woman, my soul consumed by an unbearable grief. But somehow, I was back. The crushing grief was gone, replaced by a terrifying calm and an ice-cold resolve. They still believed I was simple, weak. They were about to discover the monstrous mistake they had made.

The last thing Ethan Walker remembered was the bitter taste of pills. His life, once defined by Coast Guard rescues, had been systematically dismantled by his ambitious wife, Sarah, and her manipulative half-brother, Liam. They'd dismissed his debilitating leg injury, isolated him, and even sent their eight-year-old son, Ben, away, claiming it was for his "future." Drowning in pain and despair, discarded as a liability, Ethan saw no other escape. His final, icy thought: "Sarah, if there's another life, I won't love you again." Then, he gasped, bolting upright in his familiar bedroom. The early Alaskan sunlight cut through the blinds, and he saw the date: months before Liam' s arrival, before the crushing betrayals. He was alive. Again. The shock was a physical blow, but beneath it, a burning fury ignited. He' d believed in Sarah, in their life together, only for her to choose ambition and a snake like Liam over everything. How could she have let Liam twist their love, their family, into something so toxic? The memory of his shattered past, the agonizing spiral, the feeling of being entirely powerless and betrayed, hit him with brutal force. He wouldn't let it happen again. This time, he wouldn't be the wreckage left behind. His hand, trembling with cold resolve, reached for his phone. He was calling a divorce lawyer. When Sarah walked in, her composure already cracking, he stared her down, his voice cold. His fight for freedom, for Ben, and for his own redemption, began now.

At first sight, he realized that he would never forget that face. Nancy was the one who saved Mond’s life and the one to steal his first kiss. Without even a shred of information about the girl’s whereabouts, he spent half a year and all his resources looking for her. Little did he know, that he was the groom her family was forcing her to marry. As she was running away from that marriage, she sought his help and got inside his car, not knowing that she was sitting right next to the man who was, in fact, responsible for all her troubles.

I am the wife of Dante Moretti, a powerful Mafia Underboss. But in secret, I am "Spettro," the phantom architect who built his entire encrypted bootlegging empire. On my birthday, I came home to find him gifting our five-year-old daughter the exact plush toy he had violently slapped out of my hands months ago. Only this time, he was giving it to his mistress, Adriana, to present as her own. "Auntie Adriana is a million times better than Mommy." My daughter's innocent words pierced my heart, while Dante coldly dismissed my presence, treating me like an unwelcome stranger interrupting their perfect family. He mocked my mothering, allowed his mistress to sever my desperate phone calls with my child, and weaponized his power to break our daughter's spirit just to spite me. He sneered that my only purpose was to stay quiet, absolutely certain I would crawl back the second my allowance ran dry. He thought I was just a weak, submissive wife who had lost everything. He didn't realize that the empire he arrogantly ruled was entirely built on my stolen brilliance. I left my diamond ring on the table, violently slashed our ancient blood oath in half, and walked out of his gilded cage forever. Sitting in a cold warehouse, I placed my hands on my telegraph machine and initiated the Ghost Protocol to permanently paralyze his entire criminal network. The era of playing the dutiful wife was over. I am Donna Falcone, and the vendetta has just begun.

I was three days away from marrying the Underboss of the Fazio crime family when I unlocked his burner phone. The screen glowed toxic bright in the dark next to my sleeping fiancé. A message from a contact saved as 'Little Trouble' read: "She is just a statue, Dante. Come back to bed." Attached was a photo of a woman lying in the sheets of his private office, wearing his shirt. My heart didn't break; it simply stopped. For eight years, I believed Dante was the hero who pulled me from a burning opera house. I played the perfect, loyal Mafia Princess for him. But heroes don't give their mistresses rare pink diamonds while giving their fiancées cubic zirconia replicas. He didn't just cheat. He humiliated me. He defended his mistress over his own soldiers in public. He even abandoned me on the side of the road on my birthday because she faked a pregnancy emergency. He thought I was weak. He thought I would accept the fake ring and the disrespect because I was just a political pawn. He was wrong. I didn't cry. Tears are for women who have options. I had a strategy. I walked into the bathroom and dialed a number I hadn't dared to call in a decade. "Speak," a voice like gravel growled on the other end. Lorenzo Moretti. The Capo of the rival family. The man my father called the Devil. "The wedding is off," I whispered, staring at my reflection. "I want an alliance with you, Enzo. And I want the Fazio family burned to the ground."

On my wedding day, my father sold me to the Chicago Outfit to pay his debts. I was supposed to marry Alex Moreno, the heir to the city's most powerful crime family. But he couldn't even be bothered to show up. As I stood alone at the altar, humiliated, my best friend delivered the final blow. Alex hadn't just stood me up; he had run off to California with his mistress. The whispers in the cathedral turned me into a joke. I was damaged goods, the rejected bride. His family knew the whole time and let me take the public fall, offering me his cousins as pathetic replacements-a brute who hated me or a coward who couldn't protect me. The humiliation burned away my fear, leaving only cold rage. My life was already over, so I decided to set the whole game on fire myself. The marriage pact only said a Carlson had to marry a Moreno; it never said which one. With nothing left to lose, I looked past the pathetic boys they offered. I chose the one man they never expected. I chose his father, the Don himself.

Annette Vasquez is broken and desperate to talk to Ryan, her ex-boyfriend who broke up with her a month ago. When an intimidating man appears on her door dressed in all blacks, she runs for cover and sends Ryan a text for help. Vicente Di Alberto is the Don of the Italian Mafia, cold, ruthless and untouchable. A strange message pops up on his phone which has him acting on impulse. He hates men who hurts women and he is ready to save and protect the woman calling for his help. Rescued by a sinfully handsome man, Ann feels safe around him until she finds out his real identity and also finds herself married accidentally to the most feared man in Italy. She wants out but Vicente is ready to use the accidental marriage to his advantage.

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.

For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne. But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.” My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love. He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter. They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."

My marriage to Joshua Caldwell was a prison sentence. I was a Hartman trophy, sold to the powerful family who had destroyed mine. Then I discovered he was cheating. His mistress was pregnant with the child he denied me, and he was stealing my secret song lyrics to build her career. When I confronted him, he called me a spineless liability and threatened to destroy what was left of my family. To make matters worse, a one-night stand with a stranger turned out to be with my husband's brother, Anthony Caldwell-the Don of the city. He knew all of Joshua's secrets and used them to trap me in a twisted game, seeing me as nothing more than an asset. They both thought I was a broken doll they could control. I wrote a song for his mistress, a beautiful execution with a single, impossible note I knew would destroy her voice. She sang it, and now her career is over. Now the Don has summoned me to Chicago, not knowing the woman he thinks is his asset is the one who just burned his brother's world to the ground.

On my wedding day, the wedding planner looked at me with pity in her eyes. She told me the groom had called with a last-minute request. He wanted the name on the floral arch changed from "Elena" to "Sofia." Five years of loyalty to Dante Romero, and I found out he was planning a "secret" ceremony with his mistress an hour before ours. He claimed she was dying of cancer. He said it was her final wish to be a bride, and that as a good mafia wife, I should understand. He swore it was just charity. But I had seen the texts where he called me "furniture." I had watched him step over my body when I fell down the stairs at a club, just so he could leave with her. And this morning, I watched Sofia walk into the hotel lobby wearing *my* custom French lace wedding dress, smirking as she clung to his arm. Dante thinks I'm crying in the bridal suite. He thinks I will sit in the front row of his "fake" wedding and wait for my turn like a dutiful puppet. He is wrong. I wiped my tears and picked up my phone. I didn't cancel the wedding date. I just changed the location to the ballroom next door. And I changed the groom. As Dante says his vows to his mistress, I am walking down the aisle to meet the only man the Romero family fears. The Reaper.

For eight years, I was the Falcone mafia's top fixer and the Don's secret fiancée, taking bullets to keep his syndicate alive. But when my mother was crashing from heart failure, he refused to authorize her lifesaving surgery. I dropped to my knees in the middle of the crowded ballroom, begging him to make the call. Instead, Kieran didn't even flinch. He sat there meticulously folding a paper bird for his new favorite, Elena. "You are causing a scene, Sienna," he scolded me coldly. "And you completely forgot to pick up Elena's custom gown today. I am not rewarding your tantrums." He then publicly stripped me of my executive rank, gave my hard-earned Underboss title to Elena, and made a show of praising her—while the vintage diamond ring he had chosen in her favorite style still sat on my finger. I had died on the operating table three times to build his empire, yet he was willing to let my mother die over a delayed dress. The desperation in my gut congealed into a block of ice, and my lingering love completely burned away. I took off the ring and walked straight out of the Falcone estate into the freezing night. Outside, the Matriarch of his deadliest rival was waiting in an armored SUV. "My clinic can save her," she said smoothly. "But you know the price." I didn't even hesitate. "I will marry your son."

For seventeen years, I was the Falcone family's Mafia Princess. Then a DNA test declared me a bastard orphan. My father stripped my title. My sister stole my savings. They framed me, kicked me through glass, and left me bleeding in the dirt. When I was handed to a slum thug to be destroyed, my fever hit 104. I heard Carlo Falcone's voice over the phone: "Let her rot." I jumped from a fifth-floor window into the freezing night. I survived. Now I'm not coming back as their discarded stray. I'm coming back as the queen of their deadliest enemy. And the Falcones are about to learn: You don't break a girl who has already fallen from the sky.