BOUND TO MY MAFIA KING
Prostitution wasn't exactly the future Ariella pictured for herself. But a series of unfortunate events landed her in a brothel she couldn't escape. Until he came in.
His name is Killian Morozcov. He moved liked he owned the world and planted bullets in the heads of men who looked at him the wrong way. He came into the brothel and left with her, and no matter how much she pleaded, he refused to tell her why.
In Ariella's experience, she's learnt that you either stab someone in the back or they'll do it to you. Yet Killian showed her a side of humanity she'd never seen before and her defences fall, leading to a love that they both knew couldn't last.
he was an heir to a Mafia kingdom, and she was a girl from a brothel with no familial backing.
their love was doomed the moment Killian saved her.
especially since he saved the wrong girl. he'd gone to the brothel thinking Ariella was his lost sister, Stella Morozcov.
he'd been wrong and in the process of continuing his search for Stella he grew attracted to Ariella. so much that he felt that he couldn't breath without her.
Their love is built on nothing but pain and deceit...skeletons rotting in their closets. They both have secrets that could tear them apart.
But the past is a funny thing... no matter how much you run from it, it always guns you down in the end.
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Chapter 2
She didn't know me.
Or she did and just didn't remember. Or maybe this was wrong to begin with, and she really wasn't my sister.
Pulling the door open, my body pressed against it, making room for the trembling girl behind me to enter the suite. The edge of my handgun pressed firmly into my waist, a reminder of how much blood had been shed to get this girl.
Her head turned from me to the dark interior of the suite and then back to me. "Go in."
The moment the words left my lips, she darted inside, flinching when the door slammed shut behind me, her eyes moved to me. My fingers traced the white walls for the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the large room.
She pulled off my jacket slowly, seductively, her pointed siren eyes roaming my body. Exactly like she'd probably been taught. Her small frame seemed so out of place in the suite. Her steps barely made any noise against the white, polished tiles.
"Your things aren't here yet, but I'm sure there's a robe or something in the bathroom." My chin jerked to the direction of the bathroom. "You can clean up, then we'll take a look at your wounds."
Her brows drew together, confusion sewn into her expression. She'd been like that for basically the whole night. Unstable and afraid. Not that she was to blame, it was expected. Nodding, she turned and walked towards the grey door, wincing when her hip collided with the edge of the cream ceramic table in the dining area.
Her waist length black hair covered her like a coat. The edges were slightly damp, but other than that, she was completely dry.
A part of me had hoped that when she heard my last name, she would recognise me. But every second spent taking in her features made it more clear that she might not be my sister. Might not be Stella.
Moving towards the king-sized bed took more effort than it should've. The bed creaked when my weight collided with it. The plush white sheets almost dragged me under.
How did I get this so wrong? The shower came on, reminding me of the human sized problem currently in my bathroom.
We were supposed to fly back to Chicago tomorrow, but that was when there had been no doubt that my Stella would be here. Ariella couldn't stay here though, Vegas would swallow her whole and leave no crumbs. But the Chicago mafia would crumble the moment the Morozcov family appeared weak.
My mind slowly zoned out, only returning back to reality when delicate fingers wrap around my foot, yanking my shoe off it.
My reaction is instinct. Pushing up from the bed, my right hand gripped my handgun from its holster, aiming it at the person who touched me.
Ariella shrunk back on her knees,choking on her scream. She was naked except for a small towel wrapped around her, and holding my fucking shoe. If not for her being fucking terrified, her beauty was difficult to ignore.
Eyes narrowed, my armed hand lowered. "What the fuck are you doing?"The words came out harsher than intended.
"I_ you were asleep. I wanted to ask you if you wanted me to just take a shower or if you wanted me to wait for you in a bath, but you were asleep, still wearing your shoes. I just thought _" Her pupils glistened with unshed tears as she finally stood, the towel drew dangerously high bur her eyes never left the weapon in my hand.
Sighing, my fingers uncurled around the gun, dropping it against the bed. This couldn't be happening.
She stepped back, gasping when I rose from the bed to my full height and kicked off the other shoe. "Drop it, Ariella."
Her head lowered to the shoe in her hand, after a second it landed on the tiles with a thud.
"I'm sorry." Her voice shook, eyes refusing to meet my gaze. It made me want to see her even more.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Her body was completely tense, like the concept of me following her to the bathroom was only stirring trouble.
The door was still open, and the inside smelled vaguely of citrus and maybe strawberries.
A large wall sized mirror sat in front of a clean gold and cream counter. A bathtub sat at the very corner painted gold, the tap was turned on,and it was nearly half way filled.
The shower was still on as well, the glass door translucent from the steam of the hot water.
Stepping forward, she turned the shower off and made her way to the ceramic tub, climbing the two steps that that held it up.
Her hips swayed deliberately, arms dropping to her sides, the towel fell off her frame.
My eyes snapped away to the large tub. I sat at the edge of the tub, extending my arm to check the temperature and adding a few oils and scents.
"Get it." The water was warm enough that it wouldn't hurt her wounds, but would still be comfortable to sit in.
She sat in the tub, knees pulled to her chest like a child, staring at me. Her blue eyes were wide staring at me.
She moaned when the loofah touched her body, my touch light. Her body relaxing even when my hand brushed against her round breasts, and she eventually leaned back with a sigh.
The tension came right back when it was time to wash between her legs. Her back straightened, she avoided my gaze. "It's ok, Ariella, I'm not going to hurt you."
Even after she was clean she didn't relax. My fingers wrapped around her chin, raising it up gently. "Stay like this. I'm going to wash your hair, I don't want the soap to get into your eyes."
She nodded slightly, obeying my command. Once her locks were thoroughly soaked, I lathered her scalp with shampoo, rubbing it in slow deliberate circles. She shivered, a soft hum rose from her throat.
I didn't ask if it felt good, that would just make her afraid of the pleasure. Maybe without drawing attention, she'll allow herself to bask in it for a while.
Eventually, the hair had to be rinsed. She looked a little sad but her skin would wrinkle and we needed to get some sleep for our flight to Chicago tomorrow morning. There was still hope that this was Stella.
It's been so many years since she got lost, seeing our home in Chicago might remind her of something. After all she was only ten when she went missing.
With me as support, Ariella stood up in the tub, stepping out gently. "Thank you sir."
"Killian." A grunt escaped my throat. "You can call me Killian." Her brows draw into each other, frowning slightly as she reached out and picked a clean towel from the rack, before her hand touched it she stared at me for approval.
After drying her up we went back to the bedroom. A large cart sat near the edge of the table, filled with all sorts of food. Someone must've come in here to drop it.
"Where do you want me...Killian." Ariella said sultry, tracing her fingers over the buttons of my white shirt.
My hands darted out, holding her still before she dropped the towel covering her. Minus the fact that there was still a slight possibility this was my sister, there was no way in fucking hell we were having sex after what she's been through.
"There are some clothes in the suitcases next to the bed. They're all probably big, but wear whatever you like and come to the table to eat." Her expression morphed from seductive surprise, like my words came out in a different language.
We had dinner in silence, my oversized grey shirt barely hung to her frame, falling off her shoulder multiple times. She ate like a starved animal, shoveling the food into her mouth like it would dissappear if she so much as looked away.
In my exhaustion and desperation to get to bed, the last problem of the night presented itself. "We need to be up early. I know you're probably confused, I'll explain everything soon, ok? Go to bed."
She shifted on her feet, trembling slightly, before she crawled onto the bed, positioning herself in the centre, on her hands and knees and her back arched. Presenting herself to me.
Bile nearly rose to my throat. "What are you doing? I didn't tell you to do that."
"I_ you told me to..." if she was trembling before, she was shaking now.
Sitting on the bed, my hand brushes against her now dry hair. Ariella basically purs, leaning into my hand. "I meant to sleep. Nothing more. I'm not going to touch you."
My arms wrapped around her slender waist, so thin it was almost unhealthy. Almost. We settled on different sides of the bed, since she probably didn't want to touch me anyway. Offering herself to me chance she got was just another proof of the horror she'd lived though.
Warm arms closed around my chest shyly, and then her mane of black hair was buried in the crook of my neck, her breath hot against my skin as she spoke. "Please don't sell me."
My words got clogged in my throat, unable to give her an answer. Even if she wasn't my sister, there was no way in fucking hell she was going back to the system that so clearly failed her.
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7.8
Isabella Hart thought her Valentine's Day plan was perfect: propose to her boyfriend, celebrate in the Maldives, and finally start the life she'd dreamed of.
Instead, she walked into his office and found him kissing his assistant who was also her friend.
Heartbreak turned to fury and before she could stop herself, she shoved the engagement ring meant for him onto the finger of a stranger with cold gray eyes.
The stranger looked at her, amused, and said, "I do."
Moments later, her ex called that stranger Boss.
Luciano Moretti, the stranger, was no ordinary man. He was the quiet, ruthless king of New York's underworld, the man people whispered about but never dared to name aloud.
What began as a viral mistake became a dangerous entanglement of power, lies, and a love too forbidden to survive the truth.
9.3
He is power, control, and consequence.
She is everything he never planned for.
Lucien Blackwell rules his world through silence and precision, dismantling threats before they speak his name. When betrayal from his own family forces him to tighten his grip, the last thing he expects is her-a florist whose calm presence unsettles him more than any enemy ever has.
As unseen eyes close in and his shadow stretches across her life, she refuses to be protected through ignorance or distance. Instead, she chooses awareness, agency, and a place beside the danger.
Because some things don't survive darkness.
They bloom within it.
Blooming Under His Shadow is a slow-burn romantic suspense about power, choice, and the risk of loving a man whose world was never built for light.
7.5
For six years, Isabella Rossi used her family's immense wealth to save her husband's Mafia empire from bankruptcy while he fought on the front lines.
Her reward? Don Damien Moretti returns with a mistress, a secret son, and a demand: Accept them, and keep paying the bills.
He expects her to swallow her pride. Instead, Isabella closes her checkbook. She demands a divorce, cuts off their funding, and leaves his "glorious" empire to starve.
But a Queen stepping down draws wolves. Enter Giovanni Falcone-the ruthless, untouchable King of the New York Underworld. He doesn't want her money; he wants her.
Now, her ex-husband is begging for her back. But Isabella? She's too busy building her own empire-and watching his burn.
7.2
Elena stood flawless in her bridal gown. Five years of molding herself for Dante Moretti and a powerful mafia treaty culminated now. This dress was her only solace.
Then her phone buzzed. A text from Dante: "Wedding canceled." Two cold words, no explanation. Her world shattered, heart a sledgehammer blow.
Dante answered her call from a hospital, commanding her to leave, no apology. Her father and 500 mafia guests outside whispered of "humiliation." Marco then cleared Dante's things, revealing he was moving his long-comatose 'white swan,' Sofia, into their intended home. Her father's ultimatum: win Dante back in thirty days, or be married to a sadistic Russian boss.
Discarded, betrayed, and trapped, Elena felt absolute humiliation. She despised five years wasted, facing a fate worse than death. But as tears blurred her vision, a dangerous thought ignited: Dante wasn't the only Moretti. She wouldn't cry or beg. Instead, she'd choose the most terrifying Moretti of all, and make Dante pay for his arrogance.
8.2
"Little Siren: I miss your hands on me."
That message lit up the screen of a burner phone I found in my fiancé's jacket pocket while he was in the shower.
Franco Moretti, the rising star of the Vitiello crime family, treated me like a fragile glass doll. He claimed he was "saving himself" for our wedding night out of respect.
But the phone told a different story.
I unlocked it and found three years of betrayal.
It wasn't just a fling. It was Camilla, a girl from high school I had befriended out of pity.
I watched their history unfold. He complained that I was cold. He called me a statue.
Then I saw the invoice.
He had bought two identical pink diamond engagement rings. One for me, and one for her.
Worse, he had stolen my grandmother' s heirloom jade bracelet-a piece of history meant for his bride-and given it to his mistress.
"I need her name to get the chair," he texted her. "You are my true Queen."
I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I realized I wasn't a person to him; I was a ladder.
Leaving him would be too easy. Leaving is what victims do.
I walked to my laptop and opened a new document. I wasn't just going to cancel the wedding. I was going to broadcast his ruin to the entire underworld, and our wedding would be my stage.
Then, I picked up the phone and dialed the one number my father forbade me to call.
"I accept," I told the deep voice on the other end.
"You understand what you are agreeing to, Gianna?" Enzo Falcone asked.
"I understand," I said, looking at the New York skyline.
"You want an alliance. I want a weapon."
8.7
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."