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 7

Elena Vitiello POV

Pain has a color. It isn't red. It's white.

Blinding, scorching, antiseptic white.

I woke up to the acrid stench of bleach and stale coffee. I wasn't in a plush VIP suite at Mount Sinai. I was in a small room with peeling paint and a flickering fluorescent light that buzzed like a dying insect.

"You're awake."

Maya was sitting in the plastic chair next to the bed. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup smeared down her cheeks like war paint. She looked furious.

"Where am I?" My voice sounded like I had swallowed broken glass.

"A clinic in Jersey," Maya said, her voice tight. "I didn't want you in the city. Not yet."

I tried to sit up. My ribs screamed in jagged protest, forcing a gasp from my lips. Memories flooded back. The tree. The shriek of metal. Dante's back as he walked away.

"Dante?" I asked. It was a reflex, a muscle memory of a life that no longer existed.

Maya's expression hardened into stone. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen aggressively before holding it up to my face.

It was a hospital report.

Subject: Dante Rizzoli. Status: Minor concussion. Discharged.

Subject: Gia Valenti. Status: Bruised wrist. Discharged.

"He left you, Elena," Maya said, her voice trembling with suppressed rage. "The paramedics found you. Not him. Witnesses said he pulled Gia out and told the first responders that the other car was 'empty.' He left you in there to burn."

The air left the room.

It wasn't just a betrayal of marriage. It was a violation of the most basic human instinct. It was a violation of the Mafia code he claimed to live by. Protectors don't leave their charges to die.

Unless I wasn't his charge anymore. I was just debris.

"Is he dead?" I asked quietly.

Maya blinked, startled. "What? No, I just showed you-"

"No," I interrupted, my gaze drifting to the ceiling, counting the water stains. "Dante Rizzoli. My husband. Is he dead?"

Maya understood. She reached out and gripped my hand. "Yes. He is."

"Good."

The door opened. My mother and father walked in.

My father, the Don of the Vitiello crime family, looked older than I had ever seen him. He was a hard man, carved from granite and old traditions. He had arranged my marriage to Dante for territory and peace. I expected a lecture. I expected to be told to go back and fix it.

Instead, my father walked to the bed and kissed my forehead. His lips were cold.

"I saw the police report," he said, his voice low and laced with a dangerous calm. "He broke the contract, Elena. Not you."

"I can't go back, Papa," I whispered. "I won't."

"You won't have to," my mother said, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "We will handle the Rizzolis. But you... you need to heal."

"I can't heal here," I said. "Elena Vitiello is a tragedy. I don't want to be a tragedy anymore."

I looked at Maya. "Is it ready?"

Maya nodded. She reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope, placing it heavily on the bed.

Inside was a passport. A driver's license. A birth certificate.

Name: Livia Moretti.

DOB: May 12, 1996.

Place of Birth: Seattle, Washington.

"It's clean," Maya whispered. "Deep clean. The bank accounts are offshore and untraceable. The apartment is leased under a shell company."

My father looked at the documents. He didn't object. He placed his heavy hand over mine.

"If you do this," he said, "you are gone. We cannot call you. We cannot visit you. To the world, Elena is recovering in a Swiss clinic indefinitely. But Livia... Livia is on her own."

"I've been on my own for a long time, Papa," I said.

That night, the nightmares came. I saw Dante's face in the flames. I saw him laughing as I burned. But when I woke up, screaming silently, I didn't reach for my phone to call him.

I reached for the lighter on the bedside table.

I had a box of photos Maya had brought from the penthouse. Us in Paris. Us at the altar. Us at Christmas.

I took them to the bathroom sink.

I lit the corner of the wedding photo. I watched Dante's face turn black and curl into ash.

"Goodbye, my love," I whispered.

The fire burned my fingertips, but I didn't drop it until the last second. The pain was grounding. It reminded me I was alive.

And he wasn't going to kill me again.

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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 7

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