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 5
The lady was crazy. As soon she escorted me into this room, all doubt of her sanity vanished. She was insane.
That was the only logical explanation for the woman currently gesturing hysterically at the decor of the room.
"So do you like it?" Her smile seemed so out of place on her pale face, her eyes stained with runny mascara and her tears. The purpose of her crying still eluded me.
Taking in the beautiful room, from the Queen sized bed filled with enough pillows to build a palace, to the human sized windows that occupied the wall opposite the front door with a red seat attatched to one. Everything was beautiful. "Ma'am I think you..."
The bronze door pushed open, interrupting me as Killian strode in, holding my tattered backpack which ruined his look with his crisp suit hugging his muscular frame perfectly. "Don't overwhelm her mum. She doesn't need to know the origin of every ornament in this room."
The woman, Killian mum apparently, chuckled. "I'm just so excited. It'll be dark soon, but I just want to stay here forever."
She moved forward, and my waist pressed into the wooden, honey colored chest of drawers from the instinctive step back.
"She's definitely tired after that trip. I know you're excited mum, but maybe we should get her settled first?" The echo of his steps faded once he stepped onto the plush wine rug that took up the majority of the floor, towards his mum.
"Oh, how foolish of me. You must be starving, let me go and check if the chefs are done cooking." She rushed towards the door, leaving me alone with Killian.
My eyes roamed him, searching for any sign that he was angry or about to harm me in any way. It was inevitable, but it didn't hurt any more to be prepared.
Rather than raging at me for leaving him for his mom though, he placed his hands behind his back, stepping forward, eyes locked to mine. "There's something important I need to discuss with you. Preferably after mother has calmed down."
"Um..did I do something wrong, sir?" Whatever it was, if he couldn't discuss it infront of his mom then it had to be bad.
"No, you haven't done anything. And I've told you, don't call me sir." He pressed two fingers to his temple, sighing deeply.
"Sorry sir..er, I mean Killian. Mr Killian? Mr Morozcov?"
"Killian is fine. Listen I_"
His mother's high pitched voice cut him off, ringing in my ears like a Chinese gong as she stepped in. "Ella dear, I'm not sure what you like now but when Killian told me you were coming I had the chefs make a bit of everything."
"Mother we'll join you soon, I just need to speak with her for a moment."
"You've had hours to do so. Whatever you want to discuss can wait." She cupped my cheeks, then scrunched her nose like my scent mimicked that of a decaying rat. "Preferably you should clean up first, while the maids set the table."
"Ok." She ignored my respose, glancing at Killian instead.
"You should get cleaned up too. Go downstairs when you're done. I'm going to help her get cleaned up."
Killian nodded, frowning slightly as he left the room. That wasn't exactly an unusual sight, in the short time since we met, smiling was a rarity for him.
"The bathroom's over there, I'm going to get you something you wear. Leave your dress in the basket by the door." She pointed to a bronze painted door a few feet from the chest of drawers. She hesitated a bit before releasing my hand, then she was gone.
This whole family was weird, but that lady was exceptional. She kept acting like her was her long lost daughter or something. And how she knew my name was beyond me, after all even Killian had asked when he took me from the brothel last night.
The bathroom door pushed open as my hand turned the knob. The interior was quite similar to the bathroom in the hotel, only clearly more expensive and maintained.
The yellow sundress fell of my frame, followed by my underwear and sandals, leaving me entirely bare. Goosebumps rose on my skin when the warm water of the shower made contact with it.
My questions seemed to have doubled since we got here. Mrs Morozcov's reaction my arrival only fueled my confusion. Her son brought home a literal prostitute. Not exactly a mother's dream surprise.
Perhaps she didn't know, but still, killian had to have told her something.
Every logic seemed to only result to more questions, and zero answers.
Ten minutes and a hot shower later, my feet brushed against the rectangular shaped rug in front of the bathroom door.
Mrs Morozcov was already there, sitting on the duvet of the queen sized bed. "You're done?"
Nodding, my eyes drifted to a beautiful navy blue, knee lenght dress laying next to her.
"OK, I'll just leave you to get dressed then." She smiled her eyes welling up with tears once again. "I still can't believe Killian brought you home."
"What?"
"Even after all these years, he made sure to bring my daughter back." She pulled me into a tight hug. "I know it's been so long, but I promise the men who did this will suffer. And you'll never have to worry about a thing again, Stella."
The clicking of her heels already faded out of the room and down the hall before her words sink in, and the questions doubled.
"Did she just call me her daughter?" Saying it out loud only led to another head pounding question.
Who the hell was Stella?
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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."