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 4
"Why did you buy me?"
The question was soft, unsure and shaky, but it might as well have been a punch to the gut.
My eyes locked with Ruth's in the rear view mirror, she looked away immediately, shrugging like this was my problem only. Though technically, it was.
"I wanted you." My reply was vain and shallow, but it would have to do.
"But you didn't fuck me last night. Did I do something wrong?" The innocence in her voice was choking, like a rope wrapped around my throat.
"You didn't....don't do that again. That's not why I took you." The car window rolled down, the streets of Chicago flying by in a blur, the calm breeze hitting my face.
"But, that's what I'm for."
"And that's not why I took you." My knuckles paled from how hard my fist clenched. She leaned back, like she was trying to fade or blend into the leather seat of the car.
Her eyes were fixed on my clenched fists, glassy and somewhat wide. "I'm not going to hit you, Ariella." The pain of my nails digging into my palm gave way to relief when my fist unclenched.
The car drove to a halt at the entrance of the estate. A tall golden gate stood, connected to the concrete wall that went around the white, illuminated mansion where my whole life was based. Even through the gates the sound of the angel fountain that stood right infront of the golden steps attatched to the front door still rang in my ears
The gates parted, giving way for the car to drive in. Ariella was still pressed firmly into the seat when the car parked, sitting still and staring at her palms even after me and Ruth stepped out of the car.
Moving to the other side of the car, my hand closed around the handle of the door, pulling it open. She startled, looking up at me. "Come out, we're here."
She stepped out of the car keeping her head down. A warm hand wrapped around my wrist. She held it firmly, like it was a lifeline for her.
The guards pulled open the ivory front doors as we climbed the few steps to them. Ariella loosened from my side with every guard we approached. The tension never left her body and she didn't release my hand, but at least we were getting somewhere.
As soon as we were in though, the shrill shriek that greeted us though sent Ariella right back to the trembling being she'd been last night.
My head raised to the direction of the voice at the top of the spiral twin stairways that stood in the end of the waiting room, plain otherwise for the exotic paintings that hung from the white walls. My mother raced down, her gaze fixed on Ariella. Towards the bottom of the stairs she nearly slipped, her heels bent on the brown polished tiles, tangling into her silk red maxi dress. She barely managed to catch herself on the golden railings.
"Mother, stop running. You'll hurt yourself." My voice felt tight.
Her grey eyes glistened with unshed tears, ignoring me she approached Ariella. The girl was still pressed into me, peaking slightly at my mother. It would have been cute if it wasn't already so fucking heart breaking.
"Is this...really her?" Her voice shook, fingers trembling as they cupped Ariella's cheek gently. "Ella? It's really you." Her
"She's still in shock. We're not sure if it's her, but we'll take her to the hospital tomorrow, and make sure." Ruth chirped, eyeing me with her lips pursed.
"Is that even necessary?" My mother finally broke, pulling Ariella into a hug and running her fingers through her hair.
"I'm sorry. Did I do something wrong? I didn't mean to make you cry. Please, I'm sorry." Ariella's eyes were wide, her hand squeezing my wrist slightly.
"Oh, my little girl. What did they do to you?" Mother sniffled, holding her tighter. "It's ok. It's all over now. Let's get you settled."
"Where's dad?" His absence shouldn't have been a surprise to me. To think he would have jumped at the chance to see his possible missing daughter was just wishful.
"Your father had something to handle on short notice. Perhaps I should place a call to him? Let him know of your arrival." Ruth said, already reaching for her phone.
"Have the maids bring her things to the room we prepared. The one opposite mine." My eyes still hadn't left my mother hugging Ariella.
The words she'd said to me before I went to Vegas still rung in my head. 'If there's even the slightest chance that my little girl is alive, is living in some filthy brothel, you bring her back home to me. Bring her back and destroy the people who took her.'
As Ruth walked out giving orders to the maids, my mother finally released Ariella, using her fingers to brush her hair, her eyes raised to mine, smiling shakily. "Thank you. Thank you so much, Killian."
An ache built in my chest. My mother hadn't given me that much recognition since Stella went missing. The one bond we still shared apart from blood had been our obsession with finding Stella. And now there was a chance that it was gone.
My mother led her to the twin stairs, taking the one on the right to the bedrooms. Ruth shuffled back to my side, holding an old green backpack.
"That's all her stuff?" Not exactly shocking at this point.
"Yes sir. We can get her some clothes after we confirm she's truly miss Morozcov."
My eyebrows drew together into a frown. "We'll get her something regardless of the outcome. Give me the bag." Ruth's lips parted as she handed me the bag. The memory of my mother's relieved, overjoyed face echoed in my mind. "I need to go upstairs to check on them. Tomorrow's test...whatever the results are, let's just keep it to us, ok?"
"Sir, with all due respect, what are you asking me to do?" She eyed me warily.
"I'm saying that if she really isn't Stella, that information stays between us, not a soul more. Am I understood, Ruth?"
"I won't say a word to anyone boss." She said, stepping away from me. "Not a soul."
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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."