He Faked Amnesia To Abandon His Wife

The neurosurgeon looked at me with pity, delivering a diagnosis that severed seven years of devotion in a heartbeat. According to the scans, my husband, Dante Rizzoli, remembered how to strip a Glock blindfolded and launder millions. He just didn't remember loving me. Overnight, I went from being the cherished Mafia Princess to an unwanted stranger in my own penthouse. While I filled our home with his favorite lilies trying to spark a memory, Dante brought home Gia. She was loud, tacky, and draped over him like a cheap suit. The Capo had forgotten his wife, but he seemed to remember his lust perfectly fine. I swallowed the humiliation, clinging to the hope of his recovery, until I stood outside his office door with a tray of espresso. I heard his dark, amused laugh rumbling through the wood. "The amnesia is the most useful card I've ever played," Dante told his soldier. "It buys me time to enjoy Gia without the family breathing down my neck. Elena is a boring, safe relic. I need fire, not a porcelain doll." My heart didn't race. It stopped. The medical anomaly was a lie. He hadn't forgotten me; he was just done with me. I set the tray down silently. I wasn't going to wait for him to remember anymore. I walked out of the penthouse and dialed a number I hadn't used in years. "Get the new ID ready," I whispered into the phone. "Elena Vitiello dies tonight. Livia Moretti leaves at dawn."

Chapters

Chapter 3

Elena Vitiello POV

Recovery is a quiet violence.

I spent three weeks at a private retreat in upstate New York, hidden away by my cousin Maya. I didn't speak. I didn't check the news. I simply... existed. I let the silence scrub the sound of Dante's voice from my mind, scouring the memory until only the scar remained.

But you cannot hide from the Family forever.

The invitation to the Valenti Charity Gala was not a request; it was a summons. To refuse would be to admit defeat. To admit I was broken beyond repair.

I chose black. Not mourning black. Revenge black. A silk sheath dress that clung to my body like a second skin, with a slit that sliced up to my thigh and a neckline that plunged dangerously low. I painted my lips a deep, blood-red crimson.

Maya squeezed my hand in the limo, her fingers trembling slightly. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes," I said, my voice unfamiliar in its steadiness. "I do."

We entered the ballroom. The air was thick, perfumed with the cloying scent of Casablanca lilies and old money. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a viral contagion. There she is. The discarded wife.

Then I saw them.

Dante and Gia.

She was wearing a white gown, looking like a twisted, mockery of a bride. She was clinging to Dante's arm, whispering in his ear like a conspirator. Dante looked... impeccable. A tuxedo that cost more than most people's mortgages. He looked powerful. Untouchable. A king holding court.

Until he saw me.

His eyes locked onto mine across the room. He froze. He expected to see a wreck. He expected puffy eyes, shaking hands, and a slumped posture.

I gave him nothing. I lifted my chin and looked right through him, as if he were merely a waiter passing with a tray of canapés.

"Elena!" A group of old friends descended on me like vultures. "Oh my god, how are you? We heard about Dante's... condition. It must be so hard seeing him with her."

They were digging for tragedy. They wanted the spectacle of my tears.

I smiled. It was a cool, porcelain expression. "I'm doing wonderful, actually. The time apart has been... clarifying."

"But... do you think he'll remember?" one asked, feigning concern.

"It doesn't matter," I said, loud enough for the nearby tables to catch every syllable. "People change. Relationships end. I've accepted reality and moved on."

I felt Dante's gaze burning into the side of my face. He heard me. He was angry. Good.

The night wore on. Dante kept trying to catch my eye, his confusion evident. My indifference was a weapon he didn't know how to parry. He was used to my adoration or my fury. Apathy was a foreign language to him.

Then came the game.

The host, a drunk underboss with too much power and too little class, suggested Truth or Dare. It was juvenile, yes, but in our circle, a refusal was a confession of weakness.

The bottle spun. It pointed to Gia.

"Dare," she purred, looking at Dante with predatory eyes.

"I dare you," the host slurred, "to have Dante confess his love for you right now. And give you a token."

Gia clapped her hands, delighted. "Dante, baby..."

She looked at me, a smirk playing on her lips. "And maybe Elena can tell us how it feels to be the third wheel."

The room went silent. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

Dante looked at me. He was testing me. He wanted me to break. He wanted me to run out crying so he could feel important again.

I took a slow sip of my champagne. I didn't blink.

"Actually," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "I think Gia is confused. A third wheel implies I'm part of the vehicle. I'm not. Dante is just someone I used to know."

Dante's face went rigid. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His ego, that massive, fragile thing, had finally cracked.

"Someone you used to know?" Dante repeated, his voice low and laced with danger.

"Yes," I said. "A past acquaintance."

He stood up. The violence radiating off him was palpable, a physical wave of heat. He grabbed Gia by the waist. He pulled her flush against him, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Let me remind everyone," Dante sneered, "who the future is."

He kissed her.

It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a branding. It was aggressive, messy, and performed entirely for an audience of one. Me.

He ground his mouth against hers, his hand tangling in her hair with bruising force. The room watched, mesmerized and horrified.

He pulled back, breathless. Gia looked dazed and triumphant.

Dante looked at me, his eyes black holes of malice. "Now you know who won, Elena."

I set my glass down on the table. It made a soft, deliberate clink.

"The only prize here is your ego, Dante," I said softly. "And you can keep it."

Continue to next part

It wasn't a gun, but the pen in my hand was going to end my life just the same. Liam, the man I was supposed to marry in a month, pointed to the tablet on his desk. It showed a live feed of my mother’s hospital room. "Sign the confession, Ava," he said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "Take the fall for the embezzlement. Or the funding for her ventilator stops in ten seconds." My heart hammered against my ribs. The crimes weren't mine. They belonged to Chloe, his mistress. But Liam Valenti, the Underboss of New York, was sacrificing me to save her. "She's fragile," he said casually, adjusting his silk cuffs. "She can't handle prison. You're strong. You'll survive." With tears blurring my vision, I signed the document. I signed away my career as a lawyer and my freedom to save my mother. Liam snatched the paper like a prize. He didn't offer comfort. He just smirked. "Good girl. The wedding is still on, of course. You'll look beautiful in the ankle monitor." He walked out to celebrate with his mistress, thinking he had won. Thinking he owned me. But he forgot one crucial detail. I wasn't just his fiancée. I was the one who laundered his money. I knew where every body was buried—literally and financially. The moment the door clicked shut, I stopped crying. I pulled out a burner phone and opened an encrypted app. I wasn't going to jail. I was going to war. I typed three words to the one man Liam feared most. "Execute Protocol Zero."

Mafia Modern Romance

9.3

He Chose The Mistress Over His Queen

9.3

I was polishing a diamond engagement ring that cost more than a small island when I heard the truth. My fiancé, the ruthless Don Dante Moretti, was telling his mistress I was nothing more than a glorified bank account. But it wasn't until the accident that I understood the depth of his cruelty. While training in the estate gym, a support cable snapped. I fell twenty feet, shattering my leg on impact. Through the haze of blinding pain, I waited for Dante to save me. Instead, he rushed to his mistress, Livia—the woman who had cut the wire. He held her close, soothing her because the loud noise had "startled" her, while I lay broken and bleeding on the floor. "She won't die," I heard him whisper to her later. "Pain is a good teacher." My love for him turned to ice in that moment. He didn't just want my father's money; he was letting her plan my assassination to get it. They thought I was just a porcelain doll to be discarded once the wedding contracts were signed. They forgot that even a pawn can kill a king. I wiped the tears from my face and walked straight into the territory of the Valenti Syndicate—Dante's sworn enemy. "I don't want protection," I told the rival Don, placing the surveillance evidence on his table. "I want to burn his entire dynasty to the ground."

Mafia Mystery Romance

8.5

His Cold Heart, My Fiery Soul

8.5

Delphine Yenla has learned one thing the hard way; love doesn't just hurt, it breaks you in ways you don't recover from. So she stopped believing in it. She chose independence, control, and a life where no one could get close enough to hurt her again. And for a while, it worked. Until Wilson Dan walked into her world. Cold, composed, and impossible to read, Wilson is the kind of man who never loses control. He does not get involved. He does not make mistakes. And he never lets anyone get close enough to matter. But she doesn't realize... Wilson is not the kind of man you resist twice. People don't challenge him. Delphine does. From their very first encounter, something shifts. The tension between them is immediate, sharp, unsettling, impossible to ignore. And from the moment he notices her, walking away stops being a choice. Every conversation feels like a quiet battle. Every glance lingers longer than it should. And the more they try to stay in control, the more everything begins to slip. But this is not just about attraction. There are things Wilson isn't saying. Things Delphine is starting to notice. And people around them who are already watching... and waiting. What began as resistance quickly became something she cannot control. Because this is not just about feelings. It is about power. It is about position. And Delphine may already be standing somewhere she doesn't understand, somewhere she cannot simply walk away from. Is she getting closer to Wilson... or already too deep to step out? When control finally breaks, one truth becomes impossible to ignore: Some hearts don't just fall in love. They fall into something they may not survive.

Action Mafia Romance

8.9

My Cold Heart: Rejecting The Mafia Boss

8.9

My husband, the Outfit’s most feared Consigliere, stood up and buttoned his suit jacket. He had just convinced a jury that Sofia Moretti was innocent. But we both knew the truth: Sofia had poisoned my mother over a spilled martini on her Valentino dress. Instead of comforting me, Dante looked at me with cold, dead eyes. "If you make a scene," he whispered, gripping my arm until it bruised, "I will bury you in a psychiatric ward so deep even God won't find you." To protect the Family alliance, he sacrificed his wife. When I tried to fight back, he drugged me at a gala. He let a private investigator take photos of me, naked and unconscious, just to have leverage to keep me silent. He paraded Sofia around our penthouse, letting her wear my dead mother’s shawl while I was banished to the staff quarters. He thought he had broken me. He thought I was just a nurse’s daughter he could manage. But he made a fatal error. He didn't read the "committal forms" I handed him to sign. They were divorce papers, transferring his assets to me. And the night of the yacht party, while he toasted to his victory with my mother's killer, I left my wedding ring on the deck. I didn't jump to die. I jumped to be reborn. And when I resurfaced, I made sure Dante Russo burned for every sin.

Mafia Modern Romance

7.7

My Husband Sold Me to the Don

7.7

My husband, Hudson Higgins, used my dowry to buy his way into the Chicago underworld while his family treated me like a servant in my own home. I endured their insults for the sake of my five-year-old daughter, Josie. But then, the unthinkable happened. I found Josie's small, lifeless body by the garden fountain, while my sister-in-law Karly and mother-in-law Eleanor stood by, complaining about their party plans. "She was just too naughty," Karly sneered, adjusting her pearls over my dead child. When I turned to Hudson for help, he looked at me with dead eyes and told me it was just her fate. In that moment of absolute grief, I remembered the words of the ruthless Don Damien Falcone: "Your husband is a man who knows how to close a deal." The truth sliced through me like a blade. Hudson hadn't just ignored the Don's interest in me; he had actively sold me to the Devil of Chicago to buy his seat at the table. He let his family punish me for the very sin he committed. I had lost everything-my dignity, my mother, and now my baby-all sacrificed for a man who traded his wife's body for power. The sorrow in my chest evaporated, replaced by a scorching, blinding thirst for a blood vendetta. After lunging at Hudson and feeling the world explode into white, I opened my eyes to find myself back in the winter of 1928. It was the exact night the nightmare began, and Don Damien Falcone was walking toward me in his penthouse. This time, I won't be the broken bird in his gilded cage. If Hudson wants to use me to climb the ranks, I will use the Don's dark obsession to burn the Higgins family to the ground.

Mafia Modern Romance

7.6

Not Just A Nanny: The Genius Returns

7.6

I spent five years as the perfect wife to Easton Harrington, smoothing his midnight-blue ties and fading into the wallpaper of his massive estate. I thought I was the heart of our family, but I was really just a ghost in a sensible beige dress. The illusion shattered at a charity gala when Easton’s "family friend," Georgina, appeared in a gown that matched his suit perfectly. While they basked in the flashbulbs as a golden couple, I was literally pushed into the velvet ropes by a cameraman. No one noticed. Then my four-year-old son, Holt, slapped my hand away in front of the city's elite. "Don't touch me! You're not my mom, you're just the nanny. Daddy said so." The room went silent, but Easton didn't defend me. He just looked annoyed that I was causing a scene, making a sharp shooing motion for me to take the boy away. Beside him, Georgina feigned shock while her eyes crinkled in pure amusement. I realized then that I wasn't his partner; I was a placeholder. They had stripped me of my dignity and even my child's love, treating my five years of devotion like a temporary staff position. I didn't scream. I just slid off the Harrington heirloom ring, tossed it into a fountain, and walked out into the night. Easton thinks I’m a penniless housewife who won’t last a week without his credit cards. He doesn't know that I’m Dr. Althea Morrison, the "prodigy" researcher his company has been begging to hire. I'm not asking for alimony, and I'm not begging for a second chance. I’m returning to the lab to build an empire that will bring his to its knees.

Mafia Modern Romance

He Faked Amnesia To Abandon His Wife

Chapter 3

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