Rising From Ashes: The Mafia King's Bride
I discovered the dark secret my stepmother Beatrice had been hiding for years.
When I threatened to expose the truth to the mafia, my half-brother Angelo and step-sister Carmella locked me in an abandoned Brooklyn warehouse.
Carmella stood there in my mother's expensive silk dress, her voice sweet and venomous as she confessed how she had meticulously stolen my life and my father's love.
Angelo looked at me with cold indifference, pouring gasoline over my feet before striking a match.
"You're insane for threatening to break the code of silence," they laughed, leaving me to burn alive to protect their stolen thrones.
My own father turned a blind eye, letting his trueborn daughter turn to ash just to maintain the illusion of his perfect family.
The smell of charred flesh filled my throat. Until I died, I didn't understand. I had bled for our survival, even taking a bullet for the terrifying Moretti Matriarch.
Why did my father let the bastard children of a Chicago bootlegger steal my inheritance and murder me?
Opening my eyes again, the phantom heat of the inferno faded into a cool New York afternoon.
I was seventeen again, sitting in the backseat of a Cadillac, just returning from my three-year exile in Switzerland.
This time, I wouldn't just scream. I would marry the terrifying Prince of New York and watch my stepmother's entire bloodline burn.
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Chapter 3
Isabella POV
The profound awe in Nonna Elena’s eyes didn't fade with the passing days. It carried us straight to the grand steps of St. Patrick's Cathedral that Sunday.
The winter air was biting, but the atmosphere outside the heavy bronze doors was thick with the expensive perfumes and quiet murmurs of New York's most powerful families. Nonna stood tall, the black onyx rosary gleaming against her dark coat. It was a beacon.
Eleonore Falcone Moretti emerged from the crowd, her presence parting the sea of made men and their wives. She approached us with a warm, calculated smile. "Elena," Eleonore greeted, her sharp eyes dropping to the silver 'M' on the crucifix. "A beautiful piece of history. I am hosting a charity gala at the Plaza Hotel this Wednesday. I would be honored if the Russo family joined my table."
It was the ultimate invitation, a golden ticket into the inner circle. I saw the flicker of pride in Nonna’s eyes, the temptation to accept. But I had warned her. *Public spectacles with politicians bring ruin,* I had whispered to her the night before.
I stood slightly behind my grandmother and gently, almost imperceptibly, tugged at the sleeve of her coat.
Nonna Elena’s posture stiffened slightly. She met Eleonore’s gaze with a gracious, apologetic smile. "You are too kind, Eleonore. But my Isabella is still recovering her strength. The crowds... they are too much for her fragile nerves right now. We must decline, with our deepest regrets."
Eleonore looked at me, her expression unreadable, before nodding gracefully. We walked away, leaving the trap behind.
Three days later, the trap snapped shut.
The silence in the Russo family dining room that evening was suffocating. The clinking of heavy silver forks against porcelain seemed to echo off the faded portraits of our ancestors. My father, Luca Russo, sat at the head of the table, his face a mask of grim satisfaction.
"The feds raided the Plaza Hotel tonight," Luca announced, his voice cutting through the tension. "Senator Vance was arrested on corruption charges. Every family in that ballroom is currently being documented by the FBI."
Beatrice’s fork clattered onto her plate. The color drained from her heavily rouged cheeks.
Luca slowly turned his gaze toward me. For the first time in my life, there was no dismissal in his eyes. There was calculation. There was respect. "You did a good thing for this family, Isabella. You kept our names off federal paper."
Carmella let out a choked sob. She pushed her chair back and dropped to her knees beside Beatrice, burying her face in her hands. "I didn't know!" she wept, playing the perfect, tragic victim. "I only wanted to secure the senator's favor! I only wanted to bring us honor!"
Angelo and his wife, Vera, immediately rushed to her side, patting her shoulders and casting venomous glares in my direction, as if my foresight was a personal attack on their sister.
"Her ambition was misplaced," Nonna Elena said coldly, slicing through Carmella’s theatrics. She looked at me, her cloudy eyes filled with absolute certainty. "Isabella is a blessing to this house. Her wisdom protected us all."
Luca didn't care about blessings; he cared about survival. He slammed his hand flat against the mahogany table, silencing the room. He looked directly at his wife.
"Three days, Beatrice," Luca ordered, his tone carrying the absolute, unforgiving weight of a Caporegime. "Clean out the Matriarch's Suite. My daughter moves back in. This delay is a *disonore* (dishonor) to our blood."
Beatrice looked as though she had been struck. She opened her mouth to argue, to defend the bastard child crying on the floor, but the Capo's word was law.
I didn't gloat. I simply stood up, the picture of a dutiful daughter, and offered a graceful curtsy. "Thank you, Father."
The dinner ended in a bitter, fractured silence. I excused myself and walked up the grand staircase, the heavy Persian runners absorbing the sound of my footsteps. As I neared the second-floor landing, I paused in the shadows.
Aunt Sofia and her daughter, Clara, were standing near the alcove, their voices hushed.
"Why does Aunt Beatrice hate Izzy so much?" Clara whispered, her young face pale from the tension downstairs. "Carmella almost got us all arrested, but Beatrice still looks at Izzy like she's a monster."
Sofia quickly pulled her daughter deeper into the dim hallway, glancing around nervously. "Because Isabella is the trueborn," Sofia hissed softly. "She is the ghost of the first wife, a constant reminder that Beatrice is just an outsider from New Jersey." Sofia swallowed hard, her voice dropping to a trembling whisper. "When Isabella was five, she accidentally spilled a glass of water on Beatrice's dress. Beatrice dragged her down to the smuggling cellar and locked her in the ice-cold darkness for the entire night. She told your uncle the girl wandered down there playing."
Clara gasped, covering her mouth.
"In this house, knowing too much gets you killed," Sofia warned, clamping a hand over Clara’s shoulder. "Keep your head down."
I stood perfectly still in the shadows as they hurried away. The phantom chill of that wine cellar brushed against my skin, a memory I had buried deep. Beatrice hadn't just stolen my mother's room; she had tried to freeze the life out of me. I looked down the hall toward the heavy oak doors of the Matriarch's Suite. In three days, it would be mine again, and I knew Beatrice would not surrender it without a fight.
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8.7
I was the spare daughter of the Vitiello crime family, born solely to provide organs for my golden sister, Isabella.
Four years ago, under the codename "Seven," I nursed Dante Moretti, the Don of Chicago, back to health in a safe house. I was the one who held him in the dark.
But Isabella stole my name, my credit, and the man I loved.
Now, Dante looked at me with nothing but cold disgust, believing her lies.
When a neon sign crashed down on the street, Dante used his body to shield Isabella, leaving me to be crushed under twisted steel.
While Isabella sat in a VIP suite crying over a scratch, I lay broken, listening to my parents discuss if my kidneys were still viable for harvest.
The final straw came at their engagement gala. When Dante saw me wearing the lava stone bracelet I had worn in the safe house, he accused me of stealing it from Isabella.
He ordered my father to punish me.
I took fifty lashes to my back while Dante covered Isabella's eyes, protecting her from the ugly truth.
That night, the love in my heart finally died.
On the morning of their wedding, I handed Dante a gift box containing a cassette tape-the only proof that I was Seven.
Then, I signed the papers disowning my family, threw my phone out the car window, and boarded a one-way flight to Sydney.
By the time Dante listens to that tape and realizes he married a monster, I will be thousands of miles away, never to return.
8.4
"Are you going to treat me like the enemy?" Raffaele asked, hovering over me like a predator.
"You are the enemy," I sneered.
He smiled. "Careful. You're hurting my feelings."
"I hope I can hurt much more than that."
His eyes darkened. "You forget-I'm the one who can break you."
I vowed never to give my heart to a man. Never let one bend me. Never let one own me.
Then a single night changed everything.
When my best friend became a target, I took her place and caught the attention of the most dangerous man in the city. Raffaele, My friend's older brother, wasn't supposed to see me. We were never meant to meet but the moment his eyes locked on mine, I became his new obsession.
I don't bend and he doesn't let go.
Suddenly caught up in a world of blood and power, resisting a man like Raffaele might cost me everything...heart, body, and soul.
He wants me, dead or alive.
7.8
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.
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.
7.9
They Faked a Marriage in Summer. But Autumn had a Plan of Its Own.
Ivy Monroe is in a bind. She's got a shot at the research grant of her dreams. There's just one catch: it's for couples only. No husband? No deal.
That's where Lake Hart comes in. He's a broody, charming filmmaker who needs quick cash. She needs a fake husband. It's supposed to be simple: pretend to be married for one summer, fool a few people, and walk away richer.
But nothing about this fake marriage is simple.
They arrive at a romantic mountain retreat and things get complicated-fast:
- Weird "touch therapy" that's way too intimate
- One tiny bed that squeaks like crazy
- "Practice" kisses that don't feel fake at all
- Judges watching their every move-and a prize on the line
Ivy swore she wouldn't catch feelings. Lake never sticks around long enough to. But the more they pretend, the more real it starts to feel.
One lie. One summer. So many sparks.
If you love:
- Fake marriage shenanigans
- Forced to share a bed (and a shower)
- Enemies-to-lovers tension
- Slow burn with major payoff
- Hilarious, messy, steamy rom-coms
Then this is your next read. Funny, flirty, and full of feels.
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.