Roses never fade
For seven years, I was his eyes. But the moment he regained his sight, he decided to marry someone else.
Seven years of devotion couldn't buy his heart.
I gave him back his dignity. Now that he was restored as the Godfather of the New York Mafia, he laughed with others, degrading me to the status of a mere "mistress."
He thought I didn't understand Italian, but I heard him loud and clear: he was going to marry his first love.
He arrogantly believed I would always love him, willing to stay in his penthouse like a caged bird.
But he was wrong. I boarded a one-way flight to Australia.
Dante, I don't want you anymore.
By the time he returned home, he would have lost me forever.
But a sore loser refuses to concede. Even if he had to burn the world to the ground, he would search for me and beg for my forgiveness.
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Chapter 1
For seven years, I was his eyes. But the moment he regained his sight, he decided to marry someone else.
Seven years of devotion couldn't buy his heart.
I gave him back his dignity. Now that he was restored as the Godfather of the New York Mafia, he laughed with others, degrading me to the status of a mere "mistress."
He thought I didn't understand Italian, but I heard him loud and clear: he was going to marry his first love.
He arrogantly believed I would always love him, willing to stay in his penthouse like a caged bird.
But he was wrong. I boarded a one-way flight to Australia.
Dante, I don't want you anymore.
By the time he returned home, he would have lost me forever.
But a sore loser refuses to concede. Even if he had to burn the world to the ground, he would search for me and beg for my forgiveness.
Chapter 1
Elena Rossi's POV:
Dante's phone rang. In a brief three-minute call, my seven years of devotion were reduced to ashes.
We were sitting in the backseat of an armored Maybach.
Dante Vitiello, the boss of the New York Mafia. Before I pulled him back from the edge of the abyss, he had been consumed by blindness, whiskey, and rage.
He simply answered the phone.
"Parla," he commanded.
It was Italian for "Speak."
He put it on speaker. He thought I was just the maid's daughter, good for nothing but changing his bandages and warming his bed.
Little did he know, during the long nights of his blindness, I had taught myself his native Italian—just so I could understand the terrors haunting his nightmares.
"Dante," Marco's voice came through the line, laced with anger. "Are you out of your mind? You're marrying Sofia? After she abandoned you?"
My posture stiffened.
Dante sighed.
"It's a strategic move, Marco," Dante replied in Italian. "The Moretti family's territory is crucial. Sofia is the key. I need her father's soldiers."
It was hard to tell if he meant it. Sofia was his first love, I knew that. But when Dante went blind, Sofia left him.
"What about the girl?" Marco asked. "Elena?"
Dante looked at me.
His eyes, restored to their icy blue clarity, swept over my face.
He squeezed my hand.
"Elena is... comfortable," Dante said in Italian. "She brings me solace. But Sofia is a wife."
"Elena doesn't need to know the details. She's happy in the penthouse. I'll keep her there. I'll keep her happy. If necessary, I can even give her a wedding without legal bindings."
All I felt was a freezing chill.
I wasn't his partner, nor was I his savior.
I was a pet.
My heart didn't break; it simply stopped beating, sinking into ice-cold water.
I turned my head to look out the window, hiding the tears threatening to fall.
"She's just a servant's daughter, Marco," Dante added. "She won't question the Godfather."
He hung up.
He brought my hand to his lips and kissed my palm.
"Business," he said in English, his voice smooth and charming. "Just some boring logistics."
I smiled.
It felt like the skin on my face was going to crack.
"Of course, Dante."
His phone buzzed again. A text message.
He glanced at it, and I saw the name "Sofia" flash across the screen.
He clenched his jaw.
He knocked on the partition. "Pull over."
The driver immediately pulled the car onto the wet, gravel shoulder of the highway.
"Elena," Dante said, turning to me. "I have to handle an urgent matter. It's not safe for you to come along."
It was raining.
We were still ten miles away from the penthouse.
"Here?" I asked softly.
"The driver will come back for you in an hour," he said, opening his door. A gust of cold wind hit me, stinging my skin. "Wait in that guard booth by the road. I need the car."
He wasn't protecting me.
He was going to see her.
He didn't want the maid's daughter getting in the way. I knew that.
I stepped out.
My heels sank into the mud.
The heavy door slammed shut, and the Maybach sped off, leaving me standing alone in the freezing rain.
I watched the taillights fade away until they were swallowed by the darkness.
Seven years.
I fed him when he couldn't even find his own mouth.
I read to him when he lived in perpetual night.
I had worshipped a broken god. Now that he was reborn, he deemed me unworthy of his divinity.
I didn't walk to the guard booth.
I stood there, letting the rain soak through my silk blouse, washing away the scent of his cologne lingering on my skin.
I couldn't tell if the wetness running down my face was rain or tears.
I pulled my phone out of my bag. My hands were shaking, but my mind was startlingly clear.
I dialed a number I had never dared to use before.
"Vitiello Residence," a frigid voice answered.
"Put Donna Isabella on the line," I said, staring down the empty road.
Donna Isabella. Dante's mother, the matriarch of the Mafia.
"Tell her the maid's daughter is ready to negotiate a severance package," I said. "I am willing to leave Dante. Forever."
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7.1
I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York.
To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen.
But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table.
It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test.
"Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture."
I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking.
He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago.
He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy.
He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go.
He was wrong.
I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don.
And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy.
I wanted to erase him.
I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built.
Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa."
It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul.
On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial.
When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth.
He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife.
Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.
9.0
For Her Sake
9.0
Kelvin held her wrist and pulled her into a room in the hotel. "What are you doing?" Amelia asked, trying to tug at him.
"Don't pretend you don't want this too." He said, rubbing his thumb at her hard nipples threatening to tear out of her dress, his eyes watching as her body responded to him. He held her neck in the most seductive way and pinned her against the wall.
His hand went up under her black dress tracing her skin in a calculated path, as his fingers touched her already soaked pants, Amelia let out a soft moan and pulled him closer with a kiss.
***
Amelia found herself getting married to her ex-fiancé's brother, it was an almost perfect revenge. Only to find herself wrapped deeper in the evil hands of the brothers. Would she ever be able to get her revenge and find her true love?
Explore a tale of romance, suspense, treachery, and love. The fascinating novel 'For Her Sake' will have you reading until the very last page.
9.0
I shattered my knee jumping in front of a silver bullet meant for him.
The poison seeped into my marrow, putting my wolf into a coma and leaving me crippled.
I thought my sacrifice would secure his love forever.
Instead, five years later, Brennan stood in a warehouse while a Rogue held a silver-laced dagger to my throat.
Beside me sat Debbi, his mistress—a spy who had staged the whole kidnapping.
"You can only save one," the kidnapper sneered.
Brennan didn't even hesitate.
He looked me in the eye, his gaze cold and devoid of the bond we once shared.
"I choose Debbi," he said.
He walked out with her in his arms, leaving his Fated Mate to bleed out on the concrete floor.
As the blade dug into my skin, I felt the mate bond snap.
He thought I died in the explosion that followed.
He spent weeks howling in grief when he finally realized Debbi was a traitor and he had killed the only woman who truly loved him.
But he was wrong.
I didn't die.
A federal agent pulled me from the fire, and the trauma didn't kill my wolf—it woke her up.
A year later, Brennan walked into a small bistro in Italy, looking for redemption.
He fell to his knees when he saw me standing there, healed and glowing with the aura of a White Wolf.
"Alyssa," he wept, reaching for me. "I'm so sorry. I'll do anything."
I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze icy blue.
"Get out," I said. "We don't serve traitors here."
8.4
I was exactly three thousand words away from eviction when the heir to the New York underworld smashed my laptop and offered me a job instead of an apology.
Dante Vitiello wanted me to write a memoir that would paint him as a saint.
I moved into his penthouse, thinking I could keep things professional. But when his arranged fiancée, the daughter of the Chicago Outfit, arrived, she didn't see an employee. She saw a threat.
She didn't just humiliate me; she leaked fake evidence to the press, branding me as a federal informant.
I woke up in a hospital bed with the word "RAT" plastered across every gossip site.
Sofia’s guards were stationed outside my door, blocking even the nurses. I was a liability. A stain on the Vitiello name.
I knew how these stories ended. The Prince always chooses the Family. The Alliance is more important than the girl.
I was packing my bag, shaking with fear, ready to disappear into the night to save him from ruin.
But Dante didn't come to fire me. He walked into the boardroom where his father and the Chicago Boss were waiting for him to beg for forgiveness.
He looked at the crown that was his birthright, then he looked at the gun on the table.
He didn't kneel. He didn't apologize.
He slammed his weapon down, shattering a hundred-year alliance and forfeiting his empire with a single sentence.
"Keep the crown. I take the girl."
7.8
Seven years. That was the price tag attached to my father's life.
When my father gambled away money he didn't have, Michael Vance paid the debt.
He bought my father's safety, and in return, he bought me.
I was nineteen then. A peasant girl he polished up to look like a mob wife.
I was reapplying my lipstick in the vanity mirror of his armored SUV when I found a diamond choker tucked behind the sunshade.
It was a million-dollar piece of jewelry that wasn't mine, engraved with a date that wasn't my birthday.
That night at the gala, Michael threw his mistress's heavy fur coat at me.
"Hold this, Sarah. Jessica gets hot easily."
I stood there like a servant, buried under the scent of another woman’s perfume, watching my fiancé hold her on the dance floor with a tenderness he never showed me.
When I stumbled from hunger, he called me a liability to his image.
But when Jessica faked a crisis, he abandoned me at the venue to rush her home.
I walked to the nearest trash can and shoved the expensive fur down past the half-eaten caviar.
As the sugar from a cheap candy bar hit my bloodstream, the fog lifted.
I realized I wasn't a wife-in-training. I was a debt that had been paid in full.
I left the penthouse, the ring, and the life.
But Michael wouldn't let his property go.
He cornered me in a parking garage, screaming that I belonged to him, threatening to start a war.
He didn't expect me to be standing next to David Chen, the Underboss of the rival Triad faction.
And he certainly didn't expect me to take off my Louboutin stiletto and use it as a weapon.
"I don't love you, Michael," I said, looking him in the eye as he knelt on the concrete.
"And I'm not for sale anymore."
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.