From Mafia Doll To Montana Queen

I was the invisible daughter of the Hayes crime family, secretly painting portraits of Marcus, the Underboss. He was the man who had once protected me from the world, the man I loved from the shadows. But he chose power over affection. To secure an alliance, he engaged Isabella. Threatened by my existence, Isabella staged a fake miscarriage and framed me for destroying her heirloom wedding dress. Marcus didn't ask for my side of the story. Blinded by rage over his "lost heir," he ordered his guards to drag me to the Ice Cellar—a freezing underground torture chamber used for traitors. For days, I shivered in the absolute darkness, listening to the water drip, realizing the man I worshiped was actually my jailer. My father, protecting his own millions, let it happen. In that cold, the girl who loved Marcus died. When he finally released me, he expected me to be broken, obedient, and grateful for his mercy. Instead, I burned every painting I had ever made of him. I packed a single bag and vanished into the night, escaping to a rugged ranch in Montana where no one knew my name. Three years later, the truth about Isabella’s lies finally surfaced. Marcus tracked me down. The King of New York fell to his knees in the dirt and cow manure of my new home, weeping, begging, and offering me the entire world to come back. I looked down at the man who once owned my heart. "You can't un-shatter a glass, Marcus," I said coldly. "I'm not coming home."

Chapters

Chapter 4

Olivia POV

The cold in the Ice Cellar wasn't merely a temperature; it was a physical assault.

It sliced through my thin dress, gnawing at my bones with invisible teeth.

I sat in the corner, knees pulled tight to my chest, listening to the maddening *drip, drip, drip* of condensation.

Hours passed. Maybe days. Time had ceased to exist in this darkness.

Suddenly, the door groaned open.

Light flooded in, violent and blinding.

Marcus stood framed in the silhouette. He held a riding crop in his hand, the leather tapped rhythmically against his leg.

"Stand up," he commanded.

My legs were stiff, locking in protest, but I stood. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me crawl.

"You disrespected a made man," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth, any recognition. "You destroyed a life."

"I did nothing," I croaked. My throat was dry as sandpaper.

The leather cracked through the air.

The crop hit my thigh. A sharp, stinging fire that stole my breath.

I gasped, but I bit my lip until the copper taste of blood filled my mouth. I wouldn't scream.

"Admit it," he said.

"No."

He struck again.

This time it was my shoulder.

I stumbled back, hitting the rough stone wall hard enough to bruise bone.

Above us, through a small grate near the ceiling, I heard a low, melodic laugh.

I looked up. Izzy’s face was pressed against the bars, shadowed and cruel. She was holding a phone, the screen glow illuminating a picture. It was her and Marcus, kissing.

"He's mine, little girl," she whispered, her voice dripping like poison. "All mine."

I looked back at Marcus. He was preparing to strike again, blind to everything but his own rage.

I remembered the garden. The sun. Him laughing at something I said.

The memory twisted in my gut like a serrated knife.

"Do it," I spat at him, my voice trembling with defiance. "Beat me. It won't make her lie true."

He struck me again. Harder.

The pain washed over me, hot and white. But with every blow, the love I held for him evaporated. It was being beaten out of me, replaced by a cold, hard hatred.

"From this day on," I gasped, locking eyes with him, "we are nothing. You are nothing to me."

He stopped. His chest heaved. For a second, I saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes—a ghost of the man I knew. But it vanished as quickly as it came.

He turned and left, slamming and locking the door.

I slid down the wall, the stone rough against my bruising skin.

Later—an eternity later—the door opened again. But it wasn't Marcus.

It was my father.

David Hayes looked older. Haggard.

He didn't speak. He walked over to me and draped his heavy coat over my shivering shoulders, his touch gentle.

Then he pulled something from his pocket. My sketchbook. The one I hadn't burned. And my diary.

"He doesn't know," David whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I recovered them."

He handed them to me.

Then, he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a small velvet bag.

"And this."

I opened it. It was the family crest I had carved for Marcus out of wood when I was twelve. I had left it on his desk as a peace offering.

"He... he stepped on it," David said, his voice breaking. "He didn't even look at what it was. He just crushed it under his boot."

He showed me the pieces.

The final illusion shattered.

"He thinks you're a child who needs to be broken," David said, his hands trembling with suppressed rage. "He told me you'll learn your place and go back to being a princess."

I looked at my father, my eyes dry. "I'm not a princess anymore, Dad."

"I know," he said. A single tear leaked from his eye. "And you can't stay here."

"I heard them talking," David continued, his voice low and urgent. "The other Capos. They say Marcus is going too far. But they won't stop him. Izzy has him wrapped around her finger."

He gripped my shoulders, anchoring me.

"My daughter will not die in a cage."

He pulled a small key from his pocket.

"Tonight," he said. "When the guard changes. I've paid off the night watch. Go to the tunnels."

"Dad..."

"Go," he ordered. "I have resources. Offshore accounts he doesn't know about. I'm getting you out."

He left before I could argue.

I was alone again.

I touched the bruises on my arms. They throbbed, a rhythmic reminder of my new reality.

I picked up the charcoal pencil I had hidden in my pocket days ago. It was broken.

I crushed it in my hand, the black dust coating my skin like war paint.

*Marcus is dead,* I chanted in my head. *The family is dead.*

I wasn't waiting for a savior anymore. My father was opening the door, but I had to be the one to walk through it.

I squeezed my fist tight, my nails digging into my palm until I felt the sharp sting of skin breaking.

Pain meant I was alive.

*I will live,* I vowed. *I will live just to spite him.*

Continue to next part

BLURB "Beg for it, Bella," his rasped voice whispered against my ears as his dick rubbed against my thighs. "I want you to f**k me until my tongue knows nothing but your name. Please, Daddy," I begged shamelessly until he finally slipped into me. - The first time I saw him, I understood why people ruin their lives for dicks. He was standing in the sunlight, watching me like he already knew how the story would end. I had a boyfriend. He was my best friend's father. And ninety days should have been easy to survive. Then I opened the wrong door, and after everything burned. Alexander Moreau doesn't touch you first. He studies you, learns you, and makes you feel like the only person in the room. And somewhere between midnight swims and locked doors, I stopped pretending I didn't want him. I'd go through hell and come back friends with the devil if it would mean him sticking his dick inside me again. But houses made of glass don't protect secrets, and by the time summer ended, I had lost my best friend, my relationship, my future, and the version of myself I thought I was. Because falling for Alexander Moreau wasn't the danger. His ex-wife was.

Mafia Modern Romance

7.2

His Temptation

7.2

"Please don't hurt me, I will do anything you want me to, I will not tell anyone anything. I swear on my life, I don't want to die please" I pleaded, it was the least I could do in a situation like this. After all that I had seen, I knew I was nothing to him than just another body that he could drop dead. I closed my eyes hoping and praying that he would spare my life. "Anything?" I hear him say and I open my eyes immediately. Was he accepting my offer, was he going to spare my life. He was already standing in front of me, I had to tilt my head backwards a great deal to catch a glimpse of his face. "Yes anything" I nodded my head. Sky witnessed the death of her friend and family, while she stayed hidden in a closet. She thought she could escape the Culprit but she was caught and kidnapped by him. On her knees she begged to do anything for him if he released her. Rather be kidnapped her to be his maid, will she be able to escape him?

Action Mafia Modern

8.7

I Was Never His Real Wife

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."

Mafia Modern Romance

9.2

Just A Placeholder: Dying For His Mistress

9.2

I stood on the tarmac clutching white magnolias, watching the man I loved hand his loyalty to the woman born to destroy me. Dante Cavallaro, the Ruthless Underboss, didn't just leave me for Sofia Moretti. He revealed that for two years, I wasn't his lover. I was a human shield. The heavy iron bangle he forced me to wear wasn't a gift for my protection. "It's a Malocchio anchor," he sneered as I lay paralyzed on the floor. "It drains the wearer's luck to keep Sofia healthy. You are just the filter." My body began to rot from the inside out, my nerves dying one by one. When I was finally on my deathbed, unable to move or speak, Dante didn't cry for me. He cried because his tool was broken. He forced the cursed bangle onto his own wrist, begging the universe to keep me alive so I could continue to suffer in Sofia's place. "Please," he sobbed into my sheets. "Don't leave me alone with the bad luck." I used my last breath to make a wish—not for him, but for my freedom. I closed my eyes and died. Exactly one hour later, Dante's phone rang. It was his father. "Sofia just collapsed," he said. "Her heart just stopped." I was the vessel. And now that I was gone, the poison had come home to the King.

Action Mafia Romance

9.4

My Husband Gave My Mother’s House to His Mistress

9.4

The fluorescent lights in the basement clinic buzz like dying insects. I steady my hands over Kira Kelly's face, the scalpel cold between my gloved fingers. She lies on the surgical table with her eyes closed, sedated but not unconscious—Ivan insisted she remain aware enough to "appreciate the artistry." My husband stands three feet away, his Italian leather shoes gleaming against the concrete floor. In his hands, he cradles the ceramic urn that holds my mother's ashes. He's positioned himself directly over the industrial trash compactor, its metal jaws open and waiting. "Steady now, Talia." Ivan's voice carries the same casual tone he uses when ordering coffee. "One slip, and your mother takes a dive." I don't look at him. Can't. The scalpel finds the precise entry point along Kira's nasal bridge. She wanted a smaller nose—claimed the bump made her look "ethnic" in photographs.

Mafia Modern Romance

7.5

Reborn Heiress: Pampered By The Ruthless Don

7.5

The man smiling in the silver frame on my vanity was the very same man who, in exactly three months, would wrap his hands around my throat. I knew this because I had already died. I had felt the freezing, silty water of the Hudson River fill my lungs while Alexander watched the life drain from my eyes, his mistress laughing in the background. I had hovered like a ghost above my own funeral, watching the betrayal continue even after my death. My mother, the perfect Mafia widow, stood stoically next to my killer, unaware she had sold her daughter to a butcher. My fiancé checked his watch, bored, waiting to liquidate my inheritance. But then I saw him. Darrian Golden. The Don of the rival clan. The enemy. He stood in the pouring rain, his expensive suit soaked through, staring at my coffin as if the world had ended. When the earth hit the wood, he didn't just cry; he roared in primal agony. My fiancé killed me, but my enemy was the only one who mourned me. "The Commission is waiting," my mother’s voice snapped the timeline back into place. She stood in my doorway, demanding I set the engagement date to secure the territory. She saw a charming Capo; I saw the rat who had cut my father's brake lines. In my first life, I was a trembling bird. In this life, I was the match that would burn the cage down. I smashed the photo frame against the marble table, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot. "Contact the Golden Clan," I commanded. My mother went pale. "He is a savage, Azalea. He butchers men for sport." "Tell Don Golden that Azalea Kidd is offering a parley," I said, looking out the window at the city that would soon be ours. "Tell him I am offering the only thing he has ever wanted: Me."

Billionaire Fantasy Mafia

From Mafia Doll To Montana Queen

Chapter 4

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