In The Wrong Mafia Don's Bed
When our family empire crumbled, my sister and I were sold off as collateral to the Chicago Outfit.
My fierce sister Frankie was forced to marry Damien Moretti, the terrifying Don. I was shackled to his brother Leo, a notorious, degenerate playboy.
I thought my life was over, but the real nightmare began on our wedding night. A terrified maid handed me the wrong room key. Exhausted and numb, I crawled into a dark honeymoon suite, praying my new husband would be too drunk to find me.
Instead, the heavy door opened, and a man fueled by a drug-laced drink stepped in. He was ruthless, punishing, and entirely stripped away my dignity in the pitch black.
When the morning light finally broke, I turned my head, expecting to see Leo's boyish face. Instead, I saw a profile carved from ice.
Damien Moretti. The Don. My sister's husband.
The very man who had previously called me a "liability" and ruined my life. When he realized who I was, his eyes filled with absolute, chilling disgust. He dragged me out of the ruined sheets, threw me onto the floor of a freezing shower, and demanded to know why I had sneaked into his suite.
"You ruined me. How am I supposed to look at Frankie? You should have just killed me. Kill me now, Damien. It would be a mercy compared to this."
I sobbed, the freezing water mingling with my tears. He just stared down at me with cold, unreadable intent. I was now trapped in a house of monsters, carrying the Don's darkest secret, and I had to figure out how to survive without destroying my sister.
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Chapter 2
Damien POV
*"But God isn't the one who needs to hear what I actually want in a husband."*
Isabella Griffin’s naive, spoiled voice echoed faintly off the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral as she walked down the main aisle with her associate.
I remained perfectly still in the suffocating shadows of the side chapel. I hadn't come to Holy Trinity to eavesdrop on the pathetic prayers of a ruined family's daughter, but her sheer audacity kept me rooted to the spot. A liability. That was what I had called her at the gala, and listening to her now only cemented the fact.
"I'm serious, Nina," Isabella continued, her heels clicking against the marble. "If I have to marry, he must be breathtaking. Built like a Greek god. And he needs to be filthy rich, because I have expensive tastes."
A dark, cynical amusement twisted in my chest. The Griffin empire was crumbling into dust, yet this pampered princess was still dreaming of fairy tales.
"And loyalty," Isabella’s voice grew sharper, echoing back to me. "Absolute loyalty. If he ever dares to take a mistress, I’ll take him to the cleaners. I’ll leave with half his fortune and move into the biggest, most luxurious estate in Chicago."
I stepped out of the alcove just as the heavy oak doors of the cathedral shut behind them. *Shameless.* She was a delusional, gold-digging child who understood nothing of our world. In the *Famiglia*, marriage wasn't born of love or loyalty; it was a brutal transaction of blood and power. Whoever ended up shackled to that foolish girl would be dragged straight to hell by her sheer ignorance.
Dismissing the irritating encounter, I turned and headed for the side exit.
The biting March wind whipped through the stone cloister as I stepped outside. I reached into my tailored coat for my keys, but my instincts flared a fraction of a second before the shadows detached themselves from the ancient pillars.
Six men blocked the narrow walkway. *Enforcers.* My Enforcers.
I stopped, my posture instantly shifting into the lethal stillness that demanded absolute obedience. "What is the meaning of this?" I asked, my voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register.
From the center of the group, Luca stepped forward. My most trusted Soldier. His face was a blank, unreadable mask, but his hands were empty of weapons.
"Forgive me, Don Moretti," Luca said, his tone devoid of its usual deference. "But I come with orders from Elena."
My jaw tightened. My grandmother. The Matriarch and the sole Elder of the Moretti family.
"Tomorrow," Luca continued, his eyes meeting mine without flinching, "you will marry Francesca Griffin, the eldest daughter of the Griffin family."
A cold, violent fury surged through my veins. "I am the Don," I commanded, the absolute authority of my title lacing every syllable. "Stand down, Luca. Now."
No one moved.
"The Matriarch invoked the Old Law," Luca stated, referencing the sacred, ancient decree that allowed an Elder to force a union if the family's survival or bloodline was at stake. It was a law older than the Chicago Outfit itself, a mandate that even a Don could not easily shatter without inciting a civil war.
For a fraction of a second, the sheer audacity of my grandmother's maneuver distracted me. I calculated the political fallout, the sudden, desperate alliance with the decaying Griffins.
That split second of distraction was all Luca needed.
He moved with the terrifying speed that had earned him his rank. Before I could draw my weapon, he was behind me. A thick cloth, reeking of a potent chemical sedative, was clamped brutally over my mouth and nose.
I reacted instantly, driving my elbow backward into his ribs, hearing a satisfying crack. But the Enforcers swarmed, pinning my arms with heavy, coordinated precision. I held my breath, fighting the iron grips holding me down, but the fumes were already burning my eyes, seeping into my bloodstream.
My vision blurred, the stone arches of the cloister spinning wildly.
"We have men at the club right now," Luca grunted near my ear, struggling to keep the rag over my face as my knees finally buckled. "They are grabbing Leo. He weds the younger sister, Isabella."
A dark, bitter laugh died in my throat as the drug dragged me under. Isabella Griffin wanted a loyal Greek god. Instead, she was getting my degenerate, playboy brother.
The darkness swallowed me whole, sealing my fate for the night.
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7.3
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
7.4
I thought my life was over when my sister died, leaving me to raise her two babies in a world that wanted to swallow us whole. Then I made the mistake of a lifetime: I left a bold, humiliating voicemail for the one man I should have feared most.
Anton Oryolov.
The ruthless king of the Oryolov Bratva. A billionaire monster who rules the city with ice in his veins and blood on his hands.
I expected him to fire me. I expected him to destroy me. Instead, he gave me a choice that felt like a death sentence: sign a contract and become his.
The rules were simple. I belong to him. I live in his shadows. In exchange, he protects the children. But as the doors of his mansion locked behind me, I realized the "forced proximity" wasn't just a business arrangement. It was a cage.
He thinks he can use me as a pawn in his dark mafia games. He thinks the children are just leverage to keep me in line. But he's starting to look at me with a hunger that isn't in the contract, and I'm seeing a man beneath the monster that I never expected to find.
In the Cruel Paradise of the Bratva, loyalty is a lie and love is a weakness. Our deal is signed in ink, but it's going to end in blood.
He owns my signature. He owns my safety. Now, he wants my soul.
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.
7.4
I was the wife of Damien Valenti, the most ruthless mafia Don in Chicago.
But to cement his power and marry a rival family's daughter, he exiled me to the slums without a single dime.
"Stay not as my wife, Izzy, but as my whore."
That was his final ultimatum before dumping me out of his black SUV like trash.
Terrified of losing me, my five-year-old son, Angelo, secretly hid in the car to follow me.
Two days later, in a squalid Indiana motel, Angelo caught severe pneumonia.
I had no money and no doctor. In sheer desperation, I sliced my own wrist with broken glass, pressing my bleeding arm to his pale lips, begging him to drink and live.
But my little boy died in my arms.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, Damien was sipping vintage champagne with his new bride, casually dismissing the life of his own flesh and blood.
The grief turned me into a monster. I spent twenty years clawing my way through the underworld to destroy his empire, only to die with a bullet in my chest.
I gave him my absolute devotion, yet he traded our family for political power without a single ounce of hesitation.
Opening my eyes again, I was back in that hellish neon-lit motel room.
Angelo was burning with fever and fighting for air, but he was still breathing.
This time, I wasn't the naive girl who loved Damien Valenti. I was a woman holding two decades of their darkest secrets, and my vendetta had just begun.
8.0
My sister Rosalie always played the role of my gentle protector. On the night of my engagement, she insisted I take a secluded canyon road for my own safety.
In my past life, I didn't know it was a deadly trap. I fell for the staged ambush and the rival mobster, Julian, who took a fake bullet to "save" me.
Because of my blind trust, my entire Falcone bloodline was annihilated overnight. My father was beheaded, my brothers were gunned down, and my sweet little sister was left to die in a filthy alley. I was even brainwashed into betraying my new husband, Damien Moretti. I shot the only man who truly protected me right through the heart, just before Rosalie drowned me in a freezing lake, laughing as she confessed she was just a bastard child stealing my life.
When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very night my nightmare began. I was trapped in a penthouse, a lethal drug melting my sanity, pinned beneath Damien. But after he brutally sweat the poison out of my veins, he didn't look at me with love. He handed me a Plan B pill with a gaze full of ancient, chilling hatred.
"Swallow it," he commanded, his voice a sheet of ice.
He remembers. The Dark Don remembers the past life where I murdered him. But this time, I won't be a pawn. I wiped the blood of my traitorous maid from my hands, ready to drag my fake sister straight to hell.
9.1
I woke up strapped to a freezing operating table, a gaping hole crudely sutured over my heart.
Joi Rocha, my supposed guardian, stood nearby holding a glowing vial that contained my freshly extracted Phoenix gene sequence.
"Don't blame me, sweetheart. Gayla's body is just too weak. She needs this sequence more than you do."
In my past life, I endured years of illegal biological harvests for this family. My fiancé Brennon watched with cold eyes as they ripped the gene from my chest, while the elite academy students filmed and mocked my bleeding, broken body. They stripped me of my status, drained every drop of my worth, and left me to die in a freezing tomb just so their precious fake daughter could thrive.
Until my dying breath, I didn't understand. I had given them my absolute loyalty, so why was I treated like disposable medical waste? Why did my life mean absolutely nothing to them?
But opening my eyes again, I realized I had returned to the exact day they stole my core.
This time, I didn't cry or beg. I stared dead into Joi's eyes and smiled.
I detonated the residual energy in my chest to incinerate Gayla's stolen sequence, faked my own flatline, and injected myself with a hidden dark matter drive to completely rewrite my DNA.
If they wanted to play God with my life, I was going to burn their entire world to ash.