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 3
We're on a jet. A private fucking jet.
And the man sitting across from me on the plush white couch that took up the entirety of the left, owned it.
My stomach ached slightly, probably having difficulty digesting the large breakfast that was served to me. Or maybe it was anticipation. We hadn't had sex last night, and my request had gone completely unanswered. Not even a hint as to whether or not he would infact, sell me or not.
Killian had been questioning me all morning, asking about my childhood and my kidnapping. When someone first sold me. Strange things he shouldn't have cared about.
Every answer was a lie that made me squirm in the yellow sundress he brought to me this morning. He must've known, but he never forced the truth out of me. Which was good for me because every fact he knew would only be weapons he could use to make my life more miserable than it already was.
After getting nowhere with asking about my past he started asking me regular 'getting to know you' questions. There was no way he could use that information against me, and there were only so many lies he could take from me before he became angry. And angry men always meant some form of pain. At the moment, all that mattered to me was surviving, and if making conversation with Killian was how, then that was what would happen.
The interior of the jet gleamed, all the translucent windows were sealed shut, and a few rows of plane seats were placed near the front, an orange door was the only demarcation between there and here. If he got mad and reached for me on the couch, there would be no escape.
"What do you like." His deep husky voice penetrated the room again, taking another sip from the glass and crossing his legs, his navy blue suit framed his body perfectly. He noticed my gaze on the glass and offered it to me.
"Um_ cake?" My teeth sunk into my lower lip. That was such a stupid answer.
He reached across the couch, gently pulling my lip from between my teeth. "You'll hurt yourself." He said, leaning back. "So, you like cake? What flavor?"
Wasn't he bored? Last night there'd been no doubt as to why he'd bought me, but now it didn't feel like he wanted sex.
"Chocolate. And strawberry. I love strawberry." Back when my life was still mine, my parents used to buy me triple layered cakes on all my birthdays, while we all pretended it was going to be a surprise. The ache that used to be buried in my chest rose again. My mother's dimpled smile was still plastered in my memory.
A deep chuckle dragged me from my depressing thoughts. Killian still had a ghost of a smile on his face. "What's so funny?"
"It's nothing. You just remind me of someone I used to be close to." He sighed, expression not happy but definitely not the same frown he carried last night.
"Used to?" This was a dangerous play, asking questions that weren't my business.
"We don't see each other anymore. You look alot like her." His eyes roamed me, like he was staring at some sort of mirror image of the person he was talking about.
Before the next stupid question left my lips though, one of the flight attendants came in, bowing slightly to Killian. "We're about to land, please return to the seats and buckle yourselves in. If you have further needs we well see to it after landing."
Killian signed as the girl walked away, pulling me off the couch as he stood "Let's go. I'm guessing this is also your first time on a plane?"
"No, I've been on planes before, never any this beautiful though." Once again, the beautiful interior catches my eye, from the diamond shaped lights on the premium leather ceiling to the plush silk carpets beneath my feet.
"Really? When?" He pushed the orange door open, stepping aside to let me enter first. Six cushioned seats are arranged evenly on both sides, a small glass table beside each.
My breath hitched, taking in the light cinnamon scent of the jet, hesitating. He's still trying to learn about my past. "A few of my past owners liked to travel."
He grunted, probably irritated by the mention of the people who owned me before him. A reminder that he was carrying used goods.
The though still hung in my mind as Killian nudged me gently into one of the front seats, dragging the leather belt across me securely.
"Landing might be a bit intense, but just remember that it's safe. So don't scream again." Killian deadpanned, a single eyebrow raised.
My face flushed the memory of my reaction when the jet hit turbulence in the air still followed me like a plague built with humiliation.
"I won't. I'll be good." He sucked in a breath, patting my head gently before settling on the seat across from me.
Landing is rough as expected, even with the pilot himself announcing it again. My jaw ached from how hard my teeth grounded together. The whole process went by in a blur until the plane landed and Killian was escorting me out of it.
The hanger was so big, part of me was convinced someone would get lost.
The plane sat at the centre of the metal interior, the forth wall was completely pulled up leaving a wide open space that gave a view of the airport.
A woman approached us as soon as we stepped out of the plane, giving orders to the men standing around to carry the luggage into the carts and away. They all wore the same red vest and pleated trousers.
"Mr Morozcov, welcome. I trust your flight was well?" She said, her black hair was pulled into a tight bun, formal just like the black suit.
"Ruth, thank you for your help." He turned to me, gesturing at the woman. "This is Ruth, she's my secretary."
Ruth stared at me, eyes wide and smiling slightly. "You really found her?"
"No." Killian's answer is sharp, my head snapped up to stare. Hadn't he found me? "I'm not sure."
Ruth nodded, reaching for me only for Killian to yank me back by my wrist.
After clearing her throat, Ruth spoke again. "The car is this way. Mr Morozcov, some of the partners requested a physical meeting with you tonight, I haven't given them a final answer though."
Killian nodded, following her and dragging me with him, his grip on my wrist didn't bruise, but it was firm.
She led us out of the airport to the busy Chicago streets, approaching a black car. My knowledge of cars were close to non-existent, but this definitely wasn't the car we drove last night. Once again the question of who Killian was ans why he wanted me hung in my brain. Every answer seemed more illogical than the last.
Killian pulled the car door open for me, letting me enter before sitting next to me. Ruth was already in the driver's seat, one hand on the wheel and the order on the gear.
The mysteries surrounding this man felt choking. Curiosity wasn't a privilege for me, but every part of me burned to know what was happening.
He clearly didn't want sex, and that was all I'd ever been traded for my whole life. There had to be something about me that was useful to him, or why would he bother coming all the way to Vegas.
My palms felt sweaty, nausea rising to my throat with each bump and pot hole the car drove over.
"Hey? What's wrong?" Killian leaned in taking my hand in his.
My head shook, heart racing. Would he sell me? Was I some kind of gift for a friend? The possibilities were endless, and him refusing to touch me sexually took away my single chance at security.
"Ella if there's something wrong you have to tell me right now." That sounded like a command. Disobedience wasn't exactly an option, not in my place.
The lump in my throat made talking nearly impossible, but the words found their way out regardless. And while the regret is instant, so is the relief when when the question escaped me.
"Why did you buy me?"
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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."