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 3
Isabella POV
The heavy oak doors of the Griffin Estate study slammed shut behind me, sealing me inside with the suffocating scent of stale cigars and my father’s silent despair. I had barely taken off my coat after returning from Holy Trinity Cathedral when the summons came.
"Sit down, Bella," my father, Richard, muttered, staring blankly at his empty crystal glass.
My mother, Catherine, stood by the unlit fireplace, her posture rigid and her face devoid of its usual warmth. "Tomorrow morning, you and Francesca are getting married."
I froze, a nervous, breathless laugh escaping my lips. "Married? To whom?"
"The Moretti brothers," my father said, his voice hollow. "Frankie will marry Damien. And you will marry Leo."
The room spun violently. *Leo Moretti.* The degenerate. The notorious playboy who practically lived in Chicago's most depraved underground clubs.
"No," I gasped, backing away toward the door. "No! You can't do this! I won't marry that disgusting pig! I'll run away!"
"Run where?" Catherine snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. She crossed the room, her perfectly manicured fingers digging brutally into my shoulders. "Wake up, Isabella! The Griffin empire is crumbling. The Kramer family is circling us like vultures. Do you think your pink Bentley and your trust fund will magically protect you? Without the Moretti alliance, you will have absolutely nothing. You won't be a princess; you'll be a plaything for our enemies."
Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. I looked at my father, begging for him to intervene, to protect me like he always did, but he couldn't even meet my eyes. They were selling me. I wasn't a beloved daughter anymore; I was a piece of collateral.
"Frankie will be with you," my mother added, her tone softening just a fraction, though her grip remained iron-tight. "You won't be alone in that house."
A sob tore from my throat. The only tiny mercy in this nightmare was my sister. Defeated by the terrifying reality of poverty and the monsters waiting outside our gates, I let my head drop. I had no choice.
*
Damien POV
The heavy, metallic taste of the chemical sedative still coated my tongue when I opened my eyes. The air was freezing, thick with the scent of damp earth, mold, and aging oak. The Moretti wine cellar.
"I'm going to kill them," a voice snarled from the shadows.
Leo paced like a caged animal between the racks of priceless vintages, his tuxedo jacket torn, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. He had clearly put up a fight when they dragged him from whatever club he’d been wasting his night in.
"We shoot our way out," Leo demanded, turning to me with wild eyes. "I am not marrying that spoiled Griffin brat."
I pushed myself up from the cold stone floor, my muscles heavy and uncoordinated. "Stand down, Leo."
"Damien, they locked us in a fucking cellar!"
"By the order of the Matriarch," I said, my voice a low, dangerous rasp that demanded immediate submission. "Elena invoked the Old Law. The Enforcers are loyal to the tradition. If we fight our way out tonight, we start a civil war within the *Famiglia*. I will not burn my own empire to the ground over two ruined women."
Leo dragged a hand through his messy hair, panic bleeding into his anger. "So what? We just roll over? I'm not being shackled to a wife."
"We play the game," I said coldly, leaning against the stone wall as my mind rapidly calculated our exit strategy. "We stand at the altar tomorrow. We say the vows. But we do not touch them."
Leo stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing in the dim, flickering candlelight.
"The marriages will be *non consummatum*," I explained, the plan solidifying in my mind with ruthless clarity. "We give Elena her public alliance to stabilize the territory. But behind closed doors, the girls remain untouched. When the time is right, and our power is absolute, we file for annulment. We send them away without a scratch, and the Old Law cannot bind us."
Leo let out a harsh breath, a dark, cynical smirk slowly forming on his face. "A sham marriage."
"Exactly." I adjusted my cuffs, the lingering effects of the drug completely replaced by a cold, calculated fury. The Griffin sisters thought they were securing their survival tomorrow. They had no idea their marriages were dead before they even began.
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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.