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 6
A knock frightened me out of my thoughts. Killian stood outside the room, leaning on the doorframe, hair damp, his suit swapped out for a black low cut shirt. At this point, he might as well have been allergic to color on his skin.
"Before you go down, we need to talk." His adam's apple bulbed. "I know you're confused. But there's alot I need to tell you."
Understatement of the decade. Nonconsensual sex in an illegal brothel is comprehendable to me. Being mistaken for a Mafia family's daughter is not.
"A few years ago, my sister went missing. She was kidnapped by my family's opposition and sold to a trafficking ring. The same one that took you probably when you were also a child. You look like her." His biceps flexed as he crossed his arm. "Or at least what I assume she looks like. Plus, up until you told me your name I really thought you were her."
"That's why you bought me." Panic settled in my throat. The urge to lie scrapes at the back of my mind, but the consequence thwarts the idea. "I'm not her.."
"Maybe. I can't be sure until you're tested tomorrow. If your blood isn't compatible to mine then this really was for nothing."
My chest squeezed. For nothing. He could send me back. He would, as soon as he was certain that Stella wasn't me. "I know there has to be something I can do for you. Even if I'm not your sister, this doesn't have to be for nothing."
My knees buckled and he lunged forward, arms wrapping around my shoulders to balance me. "Please don't send me back there. Please, I'm begging you." The memories of blood spilling every night still clouded my brain. Sometimes my own, sometimes not. My lip quivered.
My knuckles fisted into his chest desperately, clinging to him like a lifeline. He hadn't seemed like the kind of person to do that, but there was also the fact that he was in the goddamn mafia.
"Ariella calm down I wont_"
"Don't sell me either. Please." My fingers released his shirt slowly, pushing off him. My body trembled, barely able to stand alone. Tears that didn't dare fall burned my eyes.
"I want to make a deal with you." His words cut through my minor panic attack. My racing heart felt like it had come to an abrupt halt.
"A deal?"
"Yes. I'll tell you more once your identity is confirmed. If you're my sister, it won't even be necessary. But first, are you completely sure that your name is infact Ariella?" His serious tone cut off my shortlived relief.
"It is. For as long as I can remember." My answer was like a ghost, whispered and forgotten.
"And how long is that?" His arms crossed again, over his chest, pulling down the fabric slightly and revealing a peak of his muscled chest.
"I don't really remember much. My whole life has always been...Well, you know." The tears pushed even more, only my sheer stubbornness keeping them at bay. "Maybe when I was 9 or 10, I don't know. But Ariella is what I've always been called."
Grunting, he lowered his hands to grip my chin, forcing my head up to face him. "You look so much like her. I almost can't believe I let myself believe..."
His eyes slammed shut for a second before he stood straight, composing himself and building back his barriers.
"What about your mum?" The words felt like an execution order against my tongue. "She thinks I'm her daughter. She'll be furious when she finds out the truth."
"You mean if there's truth to find out." Killian cut me off, his frown light.
"You don't actually still think that I'm Stella. That's_" my lips slammed shut before any more words could escape. It was well within his power to still get rid of me. And pissing him off would do no good to me once this cloud of denial finished raining over his head.
"Insane?" An eyebrow raised on his chiseled face. "Tell me something, Ella. Do you remember your life before you became a prostitute."
The malice in his voice sent a shiver down my spine. How my answer came out without a stutter was a mystery to me.
"I dont know. I'm not sure." The point of the argument was almost impossible to believe. The fact that I'd dared to argue with him was even more unbelievable. But there was no positive end or gain from lying.
"Yes or no, Ariella." His tone was calmer, more in control. But thay didn't make him any less dangerous.
My head hung, eyes fixed to the ground as the first tear finally slipped. "No. I don't."
There had been blurs. Frames of memory from my life as a child, but it felt like my mind had sealed them away from me, protecting them from the horror of what had been my reality.
Every memory of my childhood were of Motel rooms or some wealthy man's bed.
"So there's still a chance." He really was delusional.
"If there was, I'm sure something would've triggered my memory. This house, this room, your mom. You. Any memory at all."
His eyes shifted to the door, staring through it for a second. "Again, you'll be tested tomorrow. If you're not Stella, we'll come to an agreement."
My lower lip dropped, a question on my tongue. All the lessons that had been beaten into me since childhood had been thrown out the window in one afternoon. It was still a mystery what this man was fucking capable of, and questioning him was already a huge step out of place. My lips sealed back shut.
"You have a question?" His fingers slipped from beneath my chin, the warmth lingering on the skin.
"What agreement? And what about tonight? Your mum."
Shrugging, his whole posture seemed completely unbothered by that obstacle. Then again, he wasn't the one at risk here.
"Just play along. I'll keep her from asking too many questions. You can go straight to bed after dinner and we'll leave here at dawn." That said, he walked back towards the door.
"Wait. Play along? How?" His words were so nonchalantly infuriating.
"Improvise." His foot crossed the threshold, and before my mind could piece together another thought, he had walked away.
The choice to be made seemed clear. There weren't exactly alot of options to work with.
My steps out of the room felt heavy. The safety of the bedroom called to me, the hallway felt almost suffocating. And the modern paintings that hung from the white walls felt almost like judgemental eyes boring into me.
But there was only one more direction, and that was forward.
With a resigned sigh, I got to him just as he reached the stairs, matching his slow unhurried pace.
As we reached the bottom of the stairs though, Killian froze, fists clenched.
Standing at the door, an older version of him stood, wearing a black suit and carrying the same dark aura as Killian.
"Killian, son. You really found her? You brought my daughter home."
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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."