RUINED BY THE MAFIA CEO
"You're mine now, Brittany." He whispered in my ears. I froze. I don't remember telling him my name.
Zayne...Zayne...oh God. Now, I remember why his name sounded so familiar...but it was too late, I thought as I lost consciousness.
__
Brittany's life has been full of heartbreaks and pain, from her father's death to her mother's manipulation and abuse, while using religion as a weapon.
She grews up with fear, guarding her virginity like a cloak because of her mother's constant words in her ears.
Until she meets Zayne, known throughout New York as the CEO for his ruthlessness, he turns out to be Mafia too.
Zayne claims her as his refusing to let her go. Will Brittany grow to love him and give him a chance after what he did to her?
What happens when she's the only one who can save him from enemies flocking around him?
__
"I'm letting you go, doll." He mumbled as he held on to me, his eyes growing weak.
My heart twisted in my chest as tears fell down my cheeks.
No... "I don't regret a thing. You taking me was the best thing that ever happened to me."
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Chapter 1
BRITTANY'S POV
"Get out of bed, Brittany!" Margie yelled before grabbing my legs and pulling me out of bed. I hit the floor with a thud, my head banging against the floor of my room.
"Ouch!" I cried out, clutching my head as I felt my head sting with so much pain, I could have sworn I saw stars in front of my eyes.
I forced myself to my feet and glared daggers at Margaret.
"What the hell was that for?"
She glared back, and snickered at me.
"You promised to come with me to the club today. And I come and find you in bed? You bitch!" She scoffed.
She moved to my wardrobe and threw them open as she started to rummage my clothes.
"Go take a shower, I'll pick a dress for you. Hurry up! Or I'm coming in there and I'll drag you out." She stated in a threatening tone.
Groaning, I dragged myself to the bathroom. There was no need arguing with Margie when she got like this.
She had been trying to get me to go to the club with her for months ever since she got a new job and moved to Los Angeles.
I had moved too because well, I had nothing waiting for me back at New York and my aunt was more than glad to see me leave.
Margie and I have been roommates ever since. Though we could never be more different. She was wild, a party animal and popular with the guys and I was just well, Brittany.
I quickly showered and stepped out of the bathroom in my towel.
I took one look at the dress Margie had laid out for me and her mischievous smile and froze.
"There's no way in hell I'm wearing that! My mother would roll in her grave if I did."
I suspected the dress would barely skim my thighs, and it looked too revealing even though I was yet to put it on.
"Oh come on, it's a club. Just try it on."
Reluctantly, I went to my wardrobe and got my underwear and quickly slipped into them before reaching for the dress.
"No way, Margie!"
The dress was too short. It showed too much of my boobs and it covered little. My thighs and laps were on full display and the dress didn't even have a hand.
She took one look at me and giggled excitedly, clapping her hands like a three year old.
"You're definitely going to get laid in that. You look perfect! Let's go!" She urged.
I eyed her own outfit, and I realized I was probably more decently dressed than she was.
Arguing with her was pointless as usual. I grabbed one of her bags and stuffed my things into it and allowed her to drag me out to her car.
~~~~
Margie was nowhere to be found. She had abandoned me at the bar the moment we got here and I had no idea where she went.
She was probably getting slammed in one of the bathrooms. So like, Margie.
Reluctantly, I ordered a drink. I had no experience with alcohol and I was feeling a bit daring and decided to ask for something strong.
After the second shot, I was feeling lightheaded and my head was buzzing with excitement.
The loud club music was suddenly louder, and I could hear people shouting.
Liking how the alcohol made me feel, I ordered another shot and when the bartender poured me one, I moved to the dance floor, the glass in my hand.
There were so many people, all gyrating against each other's bodies, their movements in sync with the beat blasting from the speakers.
It was a madhouse and I suddenly found myself in the middle of the chaos and I was digging it.
I was just one girl, in the middle of it all, lost in my own world as I moved my hips to the beat of the song, occasionally sipping the drink in my hand.
I turned at a point and bumped into a wall. I stared up into the most intense eyes I had ever seen.
I tried to move away but something held me in place. There was something about him, something so strong and potent, just the sight of him had me transfixed to the spot.
I watched as he closed the distance between us, his hands slipped around my waist just as a slow song came on.
He spinned me and the glass fell from my hand shattering to the ground but I barely noticed.
My hands went round his neck as we swayed to the beat of the music, our gazes locked.
There was something about the way he looked at me that made my blood heat up in minutes.
His hands moved slowly downwards until they were on my ass.
I gasped when he squeezed my ass softly, I looked up at him in alarm and I was embarrassed when I felt moisture gathering in my core.
What the hell was happening?
I was sexy dancing with a stranger in a club!
What if he was a serial killer? Or a Mafia King?
He moved even closer to me, and I could suddenly smell him, feel his breath on my neck.
My senses shut down for several seconds and before I could stop anything, he was kissing me.
He pinned me against him, giving me no room to struggle as his lips ravaged mine.
I clung to him, grabbing the front of his shirt in a tight grip, as I returned his kiss as much as I could.
God, the man could kiss! I moaned into his mouth as I pressed my body closer and closer, wanting to feel him so badly.
I felt his hardness against me and I yelped in surprise and pulled away from him, breathing hard.
But his hands didn't leave my waist.
His dark eyes held mine as he lowered his head and whispered in my ear, "Let's get out of here."
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9.5
For two years, I lived as a ghost in the Horn manor, a world built on blood money where my every breath was monitored. Fulton Horn, my stepfather’s nephew and the executor of my life, held the golden leash around my neck, forcing me to play the role of his secret mistress while he paraded a socialite as his fiancée.
Everything shattered at a high-society gala when the scent of raw seafood made me vomit at the feet of Fulton’s future bride. The ballroom erupted in whispers of a secret pregnancy, but Fulton’s reaction wasn't concern—it was cold, predatory calculation.
He immediately forced me into a clinical "inspection" to ensure his "merchandise" was sound, then destroyed my only chance at escape by framing my friend in a scandal and blacklisting my credit. He dragged me to his penthouse, ripped my clothes, and told me I was nothing but a "placeholder" for his dead first love, Arlena.
I was drowning in his obsession, forced to model his fiancée’s engagement gown while he claimed he was the only one who could "protect" me.
"You are what I say you are," he whispered, "and you belong where I say you belong."
I didn't understand how he could be so cruel, or why he was so determined to keep me in a cage of secrets. But when I looked closer at the photo of the "original" girl he loved, my blood turned to ice. It wasn't a girl named Arlena. It was a picture of me from six years ago, smiling and unbroken.
I realized then that Fulton hadn't just found a replacement—he had spent years carefully destroying the girl I used to be so he could keep the broken pieces for himself. Reaching for the hidden keycard, I finally made a choice: I would find a way to kill the ghost he loved before he finished killing the woman I had become.
8.6
I spent three years being the perfect wife to tech mogul Cash Ferguson, a forensic accountant playing the role of a low-risk asset to stabilize his public image. My world shattered when I saw a live CNBC broadcast from Sundance showing Cash tenderly hoisting a two-year-old boy onto his hip—a secret son born to a socialite mistress while he was supposedly at a business roadshow.
When I confronted him with divorce papers, Cash didn't apologize; he laughed, calling me a "liability" and weaponizing my mother’s history of mental illness to claim I was genetically unfit to carry his heir. He didn't just reject the split; he locked the penthouse elevator and froze every one of my accounts, reclassifying me from a wife to a piece of disputed company property.
"You came from nothing, Isidora," he sneered, tossing a credit card at me like a leash. "Stop being dramatic. I can afford a pet, but don't think you can survive a day in the real world without my name."
The betrayal turned lethal when I discovered Cash had tracked down my mother’s stolen emerald brooch—my only connection to my past—and bought it as a gift for his mistress. He was using my trauma and my heritage to decorate the woman who had replaced me in his secret life.
I realized then that Cash had made a fatal accounting error: he forgot that I was the one who built his shadow accounts and knew exactly where the fraud was buried. He wanted to treat our marriage like a hostile takeover, so I decided to give him a market correction he would never forget.
I escaped down forty flights of stairs with nothing but a burner laptop and a plan to burn his empire to the ground. If he wanted to play dirty, I’d show him what happens when a forensic accountant initiates a liquidation protocol. I’m not just leaving; I’m going to make him crawl.
9.1
Selene Rivers was an upcoming singer and her future was bright until the moment when she received a phone call which was supposed to elevate her but ends up ruining her life.
During the night, she was declared a fraud, beat up on the street, run over by a car and charged with committing a crime she never committed. Her husband framed her. Her songs were stolen by her best friend. And the world thought that she was dead.
Selene lost her voice, her face and her child who she believed was dead at birth in jail.
Somebody wanted her to go permanently. The job was nearly done by a gang attack, but was rescued by billionaire Ronan Blackwood, who is the best friend of her husband, and provided her with a new name, a new face, and a second life.
Now Selene is willing to reclaim all the things that had been stolen.
With a new name she comes back to the music world and reveals the lies, the betrayal, and the secrets that took her to the hell. Her revenge, however, reveals a bigger truth, that her son is alive, and he has lived under her roof all along.
As she struggles to seek justice and reclaim her life, she begins to feel something she has never anticipated, that is, love, comfort, and security in the arms of Ronan.
Her past tried to bury her.
Her opponents attempted to mute her.
But she is done running.
This is the time she will have her voice back.
This time she will save her child.
This time, it will be her own choice of the future.
9.5
Frances survived a horrific car crash, only to return to a suffocating life. Her wealthy husband, Baron, and his domineering mother were now relentlessly pressuring her to adopt a "poor, distant relative" named Jagger as the heir to their billionaire empire.
But on her way to sign the adoption papers, a violent vision flashed in her mind. The crash wasn't an accident. She saw her car in flames, while Baron watched with cold, calculating eyes. Beside him stood an older Jagger, who calmly muttered the chilling truth.
"The problem is solved."
A private investigator soon confirmed her worst nightmares. Jagger wasn't a charity case; he was Baron's illegitimate son. The family had been illegally funneling offshore money to fund his elite lifestyle. Worse, Baron's ultimate plan was to label Frances mentally unstable, lock her away in a Swiss sanatorium for life, and bring in Jagger's biological mother to take her place.
For years, Frances had played the perfect, obedient wife in their corporate marriage contract. How could they be so ruthlessly evil, plotting her agonizing death just to legitimize their dirty bloodline and steal her trust fund?
But she was no longer the fragile puppet they thought she was. At the high-stakes board meeting, with all eyes expecting her to submit, she put the expensive pen down.
"I refuse."
Instead of adopting their bastard son, she slammed down an SEC whistleblower threat, forced a new will, and introduced her own handpicked heir. The war had just begun.
9.8
"I didn't marry you for love, Elara. I married you for the land."
Five years ago, Elara Sterling wore a gold mask and shared a night of forbidden passion with Silas Vane, the "Ice King" of Seattle. Then, she vanished.
Now, she's back-not as a socialite, but as a struggling mother desperate to save her son. But Silas isn't the man she remembers. He's cold, powerful, and he just bought her father's debt.
The terms of the "Sterling Clause" are simple: Marry him for one year, and her debts are erased. But there's a catch. Silas doesn't just want the Sterling Port; he wants the son he never knew he had.
As Elara steps into a world of vipers and corporate sabotage, she must decide: Is she a wife, a prisoner, or the only woman powerful enough to melt the Ice King's heart?
In the game of power, love is the ultimate hostile takeover.
9.5
I married Clive Harrington, the coldest billionaire in Manhattan, under a strict contract that forbade any emotional burdens. When I needed a high-risk surgery to save my sight, I checked into the clinic alone, hiding the procedure from a husband who saw me as nothing more than a legal asset.
I thought I could handle the darkness in silence. But while I was blind and bandaged in my hospital bed, my biological mother called, screaming that if I didn't produce a Harrington heir by the end of the fiscal year, she would cut off the life-saving treatments for my disabled sister.
I was crawling on the cold hospital floor, desperately feeling for a cane I had dropped, when I touched a pair of expensive leather shoes. It was Clive. He was supposed to be in London closing a multi-million dollar deal, but there he was, watching his "contract wife" groveling in the dark like a beggar.
He didn't walk away in disgust. He carried me to a five-thousand-dollar-a-night VIP suite and sat by my bed, listening in chilling silence as another voicemail from my mother filled the room, calling me a "useless broodmare" who was only worth the trust fund disbursements my marriage secured.
I expected him to remind me of Clause 34B or hand me divorce papers now that I was "damaged goods." Instead, I felt his thumb brush a stray tear from my cheek, his presence shifting from a statue of ice into a predatory shield.
"I thought I was just currency to you," I whispered, my voice trembling behind the gauze. "Just an investment."
Clive didn't answer with words. He picked up his phone and called his head of legal with a single, terrifying command: "Kill the Douglas family’s credit lines. Every debt, every lien—trigger them all. If they want a war, I’ll give them a massacre."
As he leaned down to kiss my bandaged forehead, I realized the contract was dead. My husband wasn't protecting an asset anymore; he was hunting the people who had dared to touch what belonged to him.