Mo Moqi

I spent five years protecting Grafton Mcleod, the ruthless King of Chicago. Not because I loved him, but because I swore a blood oath to his dying brother to keep him alive. On the day my contract ended, I placed my resignation on his desk. Grafton didn't just refuse it; he laughed. "You don't resign, Cayla. You belong to me." He thought I was a jealous, obsessed assistant in love with him. He let his cruel fiancée, Cherrelle, torment me daily. He forced me to drain my own blood to save her after she faked an accident. He threw me into a freezing fountain when she lied about me pushing her. But the final straw came when he dragged me to a syndicate gala. He didn't take me as a guest. He put me on stage, in a silk dress and a collar, and sold me to his enemy for five million dollars. "This is what happens to property that misbehaves," he sneered as the gavel came down. I escaped that night, but I didn't run away. I drove to the bridge where his brother died. I left my phone on the railing and let the icy water take me, finally free of my debt. It was only when Grafton stood on that bridge, holding my cracked phone, that he learned the truth. He unlocked it and saw my wallpaper. It wasn't him. It was his dead brother. And the diary inside revealed that the woman he was about to marry was the one who had ordered the hit that killed him.

My parents left me to freeze to death on a mountain just to save their adopted daughter. When I dragged my broken body back home days later, my father didn't hug me. Instead, he frowned and asked why I was making such a scene over a "simple accident." For eighteen years, I was the Corbett family's dirty secret. Despite being their biological child, I slept in a pantry and scrubbed their floors while Angelique, their "chosen" one, lived like a princess. They erased my existence, starved me, and when I finally packed my bags to leave forever, they accused me of being an ungrateful gold-digger. Even my childhood protector, Asher, looked at me with disgust, claiming my survival was hurting "delicate" Angelique. I severed all ties, but they wouldn't let me go. When they cornered me at my new school to save their plummeting stock prices, I didn't cower. I exposed every scar, every unpaid bill, and every crime to the principal, getting them banned from campus. Now, as I head to MIT on a full ride, the Corbett empire is burning to the ground. And I' m the one holding the match.

My fiancé, Archer, left me at the altar 98 times for the same woman, Kennedy. Each time, she'd orchestrate a new disaster, and he'd rush to her side, leaving me in a wedding dress to face the humiliation alone. But I always forgave him. Years ago, when I was a bullied college student on the verge of jumping off a bridge, he saved me. He became my hero, my protector, the man I owed my life to. Tonight, I overheard the truth. "You used her," Kennedy said. "You orchestrated her father's 'accident' to get me his liver." Archer's reply shattered my world. "She was just a means to an end. It was always you." He didn't just use me; he murdered my father for her. Then, to appease Kennedy's jealousy, he tried to kill me with a seafood allergy, kicked me off a cliff, and left me for dead. But I survived. Rescued by my former mentor, I erased my identity and became a top scientist on a deep-space mission. Four years later, I'm back, and this time, I won't be a pawn in their game. I'll be the one who ends it.

For five years, I was the perfect, amnesiac wife to the tech mogul who "rescued" me from a helicopter crash. Then, a video from his mistress shattered the lie. It wasn't just her ultrasound; it was a news clip showing my real fiancé, Caleb, had survived the crash. My memory came flooding back. When I confronted their affair by setting fire to the vineyard he built for her, he chose to save his pregnant mistress over me. At the hospital, surrounded by reporters she had called, he publicly disowned me to protect her. "My wife has been unwell for some time," he announced, his words a final, cold betrayal. But they mistook my silence for defeat. Facing the cameras, I traced a secret symbol over my heart-a message only one man would understand. I leaned into the microphone, turning my humiliation into a call to arms. "Caleb," I whispered. "It's time to come home."

The phone rang, shattering the silence. It was the hospital. My husband, David, was in the ER. He'd been in a severe accident, his injuries particularly bad to his face and eyes. When the doctor told me his corneas were beyond repair, a strange sense of peace washed over me. The very reason I'd married him - the eyes that had once belonged to Alex, the love of my life - were now destroyed. I walked out of the hospital and called my lawyer. "Draw up the divorce papers," I said. "I'm done." My marriage wasn't real; it was a cage I'd built. For five years, I' d endured his insults, his coldness, his affairs, all to keep Alex's eyes in my life. He'd even taught our son, Leo, to despise me, to call me names, to see me with his father' s contempt. The day before his accident, I' d threatened divorce if he went on a reckless trip with his mistress. He' d scoffed, certain I' d crawl back. But now, the corneas were gone. The last piece of Alex was gone. My reason for staying, my obsession, my penance-it was all over. He wouldn't see me at the hospital, telling the nurse his fiancée, Emily, was his only family. That was fine. It made this cleaner. I was finally free.

My body was cold. I knew I was dead, a helpless spirit hovering above my own corpse in a cheap apartment. It was Christmas Eve, a day meant for warmth and family, but I died alone. Three days later, my six-year-old son, Leo, finally stopped thinking I was just sleeping. He called his billionaire father, Ethan Miller, begging for help. Instead of concern, Ethan' s voice was sharp and impatient, cutting through the silence. "What? Why are you calling me? Where's your mother?" He laughed harshly when Leo said I wouldn't wake up. "She's always sleeping. Or complaining. Tell her to stop being so dramatic." Leo pleaded, "No, Daddy, it's different. She's cold." But Ethan, fueled by his mistress Sarah's whispers, twisted his words into an accusation about money and a heating bill. He hung up, demanding I apologize to him myself. My son, heartbroken but determined, remembered Ethan's "magic feather pen" he believed could wake me. He braved the freezing city, walking for hours to his father's mansion, only to see Ethan with Sarah and her daughter, Chloe-a new, perfect family. Sarah, seeing Leo, poured scorn on him, calling me a "pathetic woman" and a "leech." When Leo defended me, calling her a "monster," she shoved him, causing him to hit his head and bleed. Then, she forced him to crawl through a doggy door, humiliating him, recording it on her phone. Ethan, manipulated by Sarah, saw not a hurt child, but a pawn I supposedly sent to make him feel guilty. When Leo stammered, "The pen... the one you use to wake Mommy up," Ethan was confused, but Sarah quickly steered him away, making him believe Leo was trying to steal her phone. Blind with rage, Ethan ripped off Leo's sweater, found nothing, and dragged him outside. "You will kneel there," he snarled, throwing my son into a snowdrift. "You will not get up until you tell me where the phone is and apologize for your lies." The feather pen, Leo' s only hope, was held hostage. My brave boy, shivering and bleeding, silently knelt in the snow as Ethan closed the curtains, returning to his party with Sarah.

For five years, the hum of servers was the only soundtrack to my quiet exile in Havenwood. I' d traded city lights for a beige cubicle in a tech support call center, a far cry from the life I once knew, after a spectacular fall from grace orchestrated by my ex-fiancée, Sophia Davis. I found a strange peace, a quiet contentment, building a new life from the wreckage of the old. Then, Sophia, flanked by her new fiancé, Mark, waltzed into my office, their expensive city clothes a stark violation of my humble world. She sneered at my surroundings, then offered me a "chance" to return to the city-as her pet project, if I' d just apologize. The entire office fell silent, my colleagues watching, seeing my only escape. I finally looked up, calm, and delivered the blow: "I'm married." Sophia froze, her face contorting in rage, shrieking about me lying, about who I could possibly marry in "this wasteland." Mark mocked my hypothetical wife, suggesting some "desperate single mom." My jaw tightened. "You don't get to talk about my wife," I growled, standing to tower over him. Sophia, furious, spotted a box of clumsy friendship bracelets my colleagues' children had made for my wife, and deliberately stomped on them, grinding them into the dirty floor. "Pathetic," she spat, her vicious satisfaction palpable. As she and Mark left, I stared at the crushed innocence, and for the first time in five years, a cold, hard anger began to burn. How could I have let myself be so naive, to truly believe I had escaped her?

The rejection email was just another polite "no" in a sea of them, a stark reminder that my art, full of abstract shapes and raw emotion, didn\'t sell. My studio apartment was small, the rent was late, and I was perpetually, painfully broke. Then my father died, and the will was read: everything, the grand house, the stock portfolio, the priceless art collection, all went to my older sister, Olivia. Not a single mention of me. It was a final, public dismissal, echoing a lifetime of being told I was a disappointment. Even worse, Olivia and her slick fiancé, David, weren\'t just inheriting; they were erasing me. They were planning to auction off a collection of "newly discovered masterpieces" from my father\'s estate-masterpieces that were, in fact, my early college works, secretly bought by my father under a pseudonym because, as I would later discover, he actually believed in me. My mother' s whispered call about a "surprise for you" before Olivia cut the line, then Arthur Sterling\'s revelation that my father had secretly collected my art for years, planning a grand exhibition for me, shattered my world. Every cold comment, every dismissal, every belief I held about my place in the family-all lies. The truth fueled a rage so cold and sharp, it cut through the shock. This wasn\'t just about a broken heart; it was about art, legacy, and a fundamental theft. I looked at Mr. Sterling, the struggling, adrift artist gone. In her place, a woman fueled by a burning need for truth. "They\'re going to sell my art," I said, "As his." I would not let that happen.

The silence in our house became a tomb after Liam, my husband, returned a war hero. But the man who sat across from me was a ghost, his eyes vacant, haunted by a wall only he could see. Then Scarlett, his childhood friend turned trauma therapist, arrived, convinced only she could save him. She systematically poisoned our marriage, each act a deliberate, insidious cut, turning Liam against me until he no longer saw me, only her, the broken bird he felt compelled to save. When a horrific car crash left me bleeding and broken, Liam' s panic-filled voice screamed for Scarlett. He chose her, again, leaving me in the wreckage, forcing me to sign divorce papers, sending me away like discarded trash. I rebuilt my life 500 miles away, finding peace and even a flicker of new love with Ethan, but Scarlett wouldn' t let go. She stalked me, attacked me, even kidnapped and tried to murder me in a fiery warehouse, always with Liam's complicity, his misplaced loyalty forcing me to bleed for her survival. How could I comprehend a love so warped it enabled such cruelty, and a man so blind he couldn't see the monster he protected? But the day Scarlett, in a final, insane act of rage, deliberately drove her car to kill me and Ethan, everything changed. Ethan, my brave, kind Ethan, threw himself in front of me, taking the full impact, and in that horrifying moment, I found a strength I never knew I had.

The screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the blinding pain – then, Isabella' s dying whisper: she' d run off with Julian, the starving artist, for a "real" life. My world was ending on the Brooklyn Bridge, yet her last words were a bullet to the heart, proving every sacrifice I made for her had been for nothing. The flash of emergency lights, the fading cold… and then I blinked. I was back, tuxedo-clad, at our engagement party in the Hamptons. A year ago. Julian, the artist, strode in, chaotic and loud, pointing dramatically at me, declaring my life a "golden cage." Last time, Isabella had clung to me, mortified. This time, she looked at him, then at me, tears in her eyes, a strange resolve on her face. She took off the diamond ring, letting it clink on a table, and walked straight to him, choosing him. My parents were aghast, the guests gasped, but I felt no pain, no shock. Just a clear, potent understanding. Life had given me a reset button, and I was done playing her game. This time, I' d make my own rules.

Michael Evans, just another face at his ten-year college reunion, pulled up in a dark grey SUV, instantly feeling the weight of his "boring government job" compared to the Porsches and McLarens lining the Newport Beach valet. His old, arrogant classmate Chad, dripping with newfound wealth, and even forgotten acquaintances like Jessica, scoffed openly at his practical vehicle and "still working for the government." The air crackled with their disdain, a tangible reminder of his perceived failure to "get rich." The taunts escalated, Chad publicly demanding Michael kneel and "shine his shoes," eager sycophants snickering along. When Michael attempted to leave, Chad, fueled by ego, ordered his security to trash Michael' s modest SUV, then grabbed a crowbar himself to finish the job. Every word, every destructive swing, felt like a deliberate blow against Michael's quiet life and modest choices. The humiliation wasn't just personal; it was an assault on professionalism, on the very idea of quiet dignity versus flashy excess. How could they be so brazenly contemptuous, so convinced of their untouchable status, that they would destroy what they believed was a mere "clunker" as a public spectacle? As Chad raised the crowbar for the final blow, utterly unaware, Michael, held fast but with an almost imperceptible flick of his thumb, silently activated a secure comms device, initiating a response that would shatter their world and unveil a truth far more powerful than any luxury car.

The heavy scent of lilies usually meant a formal dinner, but today, they heralded my future. My parents, William and Catherine Vance, sat across from me, ready to present three velvet boxes, each holding the name of a suitable husband. This was the day they' d chosen my alliance, a fate pre-ordained by family honor and tradition. But I' d lived this day before. Three times, in fact. Ethan Cole, Liam Hayes, Noah Miller-my past husbands-all secretly, desperately, loved just one person. Chloe Davis, the meek and innocent estate manager' s daughter, was the true object of their affection, and I was merely a shield. A convenient placeholder to protect their families from the scandal of marrying "beneath" them. Each of my previous marriages had been a loveless charade, ending in tragedy and their deaths-all linked to Chloe' s endless dramas and manufactured crises. I was discarded, neglected, and used, an unwilling participant in their twisted love story for another woman. My family remained oblivious, pushing me towards another sacrificial alliance. The cold fury of that realization was a bitter taste in my mouth. How could I have been so blind? So utterly disposable? The pain was a familiar ache, but this time, it fueled a quiet resolve. Not this time. Not again. With the knowledge of my past lives, I looked at the three boxes before me and declared, "No." Then, I made my own choice: Blake Sterling, a self-made tech billionaire, an outsider who would be my alliance-and my freedom. This life, I decided, would be different. This time, I would choose my own future.

Amelia Hayes Bishop had a perfect life: a successful career as an architect, a beautiful home, and a decade-long marriage to her college sweetheart, Ethan. Their upcoming weekend at their Galveston beach house was meant to reignite their flagging romance. But Amelia had secretly uncovered Ethan' s embezzlement of her family' s renovation funds and his affair with his ambitious PR assistant, Savi Carter. The true horror struck just before their trip, when Amelia overheard Ethan chillingly plot her "tragic accident" at sea to secure her inheritance. On the boat, amidst a manufactured squall, Ethan watched her succumb to the waves, making no move to save her. Washed ashore miles down the coast, Amelia discovered the world believed her dead, and Ethan, feigning grief, publicly painted her as unstable. Savi, his mistress, brazenly stood by his side as he swiftly moved to liquidate Amelia' s assets, erasing her very existence. How could the man she loved be so monstrous? How could he so expertly twist the narrative, making her the villain, while he and his mistress moved into her life, unburdened? The injustice burned, transforming her grief into a chilling, unbreakable rage. Recognizing the immediate danger of revealing herself, Amelia made a terrifying choice: she would remain "dead." Adopting a new identity, Anna Smith, she vowed to meticulously dismantle Ethan's empire from the shadows, returning only when his carefully constructed world was ready to crumble. This wasn't just survival; it was a resurrection fueled by a silent, deadly promise of reckoning.

He didn’t know how to love, but he was a master of hurting others’ hearts. Indifferently, he watched her as she got tortured and bore endless pain in love. An evil smile appeared on the corner of his lips, but he felt heartache deep inside. She told herself more than one hundred times that he was not the one she should fall for. He was her best friend’s beloved and didn’t belong to her. However, she couldn’t help herself but fall into his charm.

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.

Andrew Hebert, the man who promised to protect me, stood on a stage and announced his engagement to my tormentor. It wasn't just heartbreak; it was a business deal. He was selling me to a creditor to cover his gambling debts. The applause of the powerful families was a death sentence, each clap sealing my fate as collateral. Andrew had paraded me here just to show everyone I was an asset to be liquidated, while his new fiancée smirked at me from the stage. I was trapped, with no money and no one to turn to. The man I loved was leading me to the slaughter. But as I fled into the library, a voice emerged from the shadows, deep and dangerous. Damien Maddox. The Dark Don. The only man Andrew feared. He offered me a different kind of cage, one with the power to burn Andrew's world to the ground. With nothing left to lose, I looked the devil in the eyes. "Take me with you."

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.

My husband, the Outfit’s most feared Consigliere, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. He had just convinced a jury that Sofia Moretti was innocent. But we both knew the truth: Sofia had poisoned my mother over a spilled martini on her Valentino dress. Instead of comforting me, Dante looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "If you make a scene," he whispered, gripping my arm until it bruised, "I will bury you in a psychiatric ward so deep even God won't find you." To protect the Family alliance, he sacrificed his wife. When I tried to fight back, he drugged me at a gala. He let a private investigator take photos of me, naked and unconscious, just to have leverage to keep me silent. He paraded Sofia around our penthouse, letting her wear my dead mother’s shawl while I was banished to the staff quarters. He thought he had broken me. He thought I was just a nurse’s daughter he could manage. But he made a fatal error. He didn't read the "committal forms" I handed him to sign. They were divorce papers, transferring his assets to me. And the night of the yacht party, while he toasted to his victory with my mother's killer, I left my wedding ring on the deck. I didn't jump to die. I jumped to be reborn. And when I resurfaced, I made sure Dante Russo burned for every sin.

MAFIA RUTHLESS: BOOK ONE ************* ************ *********** The devil's captive became his heart's keeper. *************** *********** *********** Revenge! The only thing the strong ,powerful and ruthless mafia don Alessandro Moretti has harboured for years. When he discovers the identity of his mother's killer,he doesn't go after the man alone. He wants everything belonging to Giovanni Conti burnt to the ground,including his most valuable possession-his daughter. Auctioned off by her uncle to the highest bidder,Isabelle Conti's fate is sealed. Not until masked gunmen crash her wedding,and she wakes up in the don's den. She becomes his captive. His obsession...His willing prey. His weapon of vengeance. Isabelle Conti turns out to be different from the others,this time around she doesn't want his affection...she needs his downfall. And when she finally has him where she wants him and she's torn between her feelings and surrendering to the ruthless don. One question threatens to destroy everything, Have you ever loved me?

Penelope's life takes a brutal turn when her arranged marriage to Max Castillo is shattered. The night before their wedding, her step sister attacks her and kills her mother. Penelope survives the attack, but her face is left severely damaged. After undergoing surgery to restore her appearance, she vows revenge on everyone who wronged her, especially her stepsister, who not only killed her mother but also married Max, the man Penelope was meant to marry. Training under a dangerous crime boss, Penelope prepares to take down the Castillo family. She's given one task: kill the Castillo's Don in exchange for her revenge. To do that, she'll have to seduce Silvio Castillo, the ruthless Mafia Don, and use him to destroy the family from the inside. But as she gets closer to Silvio, she starts to feel something she never expected: real attraction. Now, as she faces the consequences of her plan, Penelope must decide what's more important, revenge, or the man she's falling for. Will he forgive her for trying to kill him? Will a quest for revenge destroy their love?

TRIGGER WARNING: This book contains physical harm, torture, explicit contents including- Dark themes, erotic sex scenes, non consensual situations. And mature topics including trauma, loss. While this is a romance story, READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. - - - - - - - - - - - - "You're mine now," he breathed those words on my neck, his hands trailing down my body and stopping only to linger on my thighs. "I'm Axel Salvatore Rossi. And whatever I want- I get." * * * * * Bound to a man she barely knew, Olivia is confined to a world of games and organized crime. After her sister steals a priceless item, she's left to pay- with her existence being tied with the mafia lord, Axel. What starts as an unexpected encounter turns out to be something more. Passion ignites, past secrets are revealed, and an ex lover knocks at the door to interrupt a new beginning. Olivia must make a choice- play the game, or fight the players who play dirty...

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.

My fiancé of seven years, the heir to a mafia dynasty, claimed amnesia three weeks before our wedding, forgetting only me. Then I overheard him laughing on a video call, calling it the perfect "hall pass" to sleep with an influencer before he was tied down. He flaunted his affair, abandoned me with a broken arm after a staged car crash to save her from a scratch, and planned to leave me homeless. He called me his "property," a doll he could play with and put back on the shelf when he was done. He thought I’d be waiting for his "miraculous recovery." Instead, I disappeared, leaving behind his ring and a simple note: "I remember everything. Me too."

My fiancé left me standing alone at the podium during our rehearsal dinner to rush to the side of a woman whose only illness was a desperate need for attention. He humiliated me in front of the heads of the Five Families, abandoning our alliance to scoop his "dying" mistress off the floor. I didn't cry. I didn't run. I walked straight to the head table, to the most terrifying man in the city—his older brother, the Don. "The Woodward family owes me a husband," I declared calmly. An hour later, I was married to the Capo dei Capi. But my ex-fiancé didn't accept his demotion. He kidnapped me, strapping me to a chair in a soundproof basement. For three days, he drained my blood pint by pint to "save" his mistress, Jaidyn, who watched me fade while she casually ate an apple. "Take another bag," she ordered, smiling at my agony. "She still has too much fight in her." As the cold crept up my chest and my vision blurred, I realized I was going to die for a lie, drained dry by a madman. Then, the steel door detonated. Through the smoke and debris walked my husband, not with a ransom, but with a serrated knife and a promise to burn them alive.