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.
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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 3
BRITTANY'S POV
Immediately Margie opened the door to let me in, she jumped on me and tackled me to the ground.
"Argh!" I yelled as I hit the ground with a thud, she got on top of me and pinned me down.
"Get off me you psychotic bitch." I yelled.
She hissed but she didn't budge. Not even a little.
"Where the hell have you been? Didn't you see my calls? I was beginning to feel guilty for dragging you to the club with me." She yelled.
I scoffed, "Yeah, you should be!" I scolded her, "Now, get off me!"
"Not a chance. Start talking or you're never getting off this floor! What the hell happened? I was starting to think you got kidnapped or something."
I struggled against her but I was tired, I had a slight hangover and well...Margie was stronger than me.
That sucked. I gave up after trying without success to get her off me.
"Well, I had the most insane night. My mom is going to die again in her grave if she heard."
Margie gasped and that was enough to get her off me. She sprang to her feet and sat on the bed, her eyes wide and fixed on me, a mischievous grin on her face.
"Oh my God! Did you finally get laid, Brit!"
I groaned as I got to my feet and took off my shoes and flung them aside and then I got out of my clothes.
Before I could talk again, her eyes latched onto somewhere around my neck and she ran towards me, her eyes twinkling.
"Ugh, hold that thought bitch. I see the evidence right here. That's some big ass hickey! Tell me you got his number!" She yelled as her breath fanned my neck.
I scoffed and pushed her away, my cheeks burning. I scrambled to the mirror and I gasped when I saw several hickeys sitting pretty on my neck.
Damn, was he some kind of animal? Or did he just have a thing for hickeys?
Maybe it was a mark thing for him...like, hey you're mine now. The thought made me smile as I recalled how hard his hands gripped me and how good he had felt.
Margie squealed and a pillow hit the back of my head.
"Girl, it must have been some fuck if you're standing there looking all...giddy! Bitch, give me deets already." She whined.
I turned to her and threw the pillow back at her with a laugh.
"Fuck off, Margie. I'll have a bath first." I told her and I paid her no attention as I walked into the bathroom and she rambled on.
I told her everything as soon as I was done taking a shower and putting on my clothes.
Thankfully I didn't have to work until later today.
"So you don't even know who he is!" She exclaimed in an alarmed voice.
I shrugged.
"Maybe your virgin pussy turned him off." She said thoughtfully.
I snickered and hit her with a pillow.
"You're a bitch. Whatever. Maybe it's a good thing. What would he think of me? That I went around fucking strangers in clubs?"
Margie rolled her eyes.
"Don't be a prude, Brit. You finally got laid. Don't say I didn't do anything for you."
I gave her a look. Really?
"Anyway...Bryan is getting married." She announced.
My mood soured the moment I heard that name.
Bryan. My stupid ex. The one who cheated on me on our anniversary. I was going to surprise him by finally giving him my virginity, only to find his face buried in his secretary's pussy.
It was the last straw. I left New York without looking back. He was the only reason I stayed so long.
My aunt didn't like me and my parents have been dead for a long time.
After that, I concluded no guy deserved getting my virginity, and Margie had spent every day since then trying to convince me otherwise.
Guess she finally succeeded. I had a freaking one night stand. But it was better it had been some stranger than Bryan.
It hasn't even been up to a year yet. The stupid bastard.
"Why would you mention that loser's name? Ugh. I hope he burns with his new bride or something." I murmured.
She grinned mischievously.
"I was thinking you should go! Show up looking sexy. Let him know what he missed. Who knows? You could find some other hottie."
Oh oh. God no. Once Margie got any kind of idea in her head, you couldn't convince her it was a bad idea.
I wasn't going to be getting out of this. No matter what I said, she would drag me to that party.
I collapsed on my bed, "Fine, whatever Margie."
She gasped and jumped on top of me.
"Hey!" I yelled and pushed her off me and she stared doubtfully at me as she lay beside me, while laying on her side, one elbow propped under her head.
"Really?" She asked.
I rolled my eyes.
"It's not like you're going to give me a choice." I murmured.
"No, I totally wouldn't bug you if you said you didn't want to go." She said,
I turned to her with a surprised look.
"Really?" I asked. She grinned.
"No." I groaned and hit her with a pillow. "You're such an ass."
But as Bryan's wedding got closer, I started to buy in more to Margie's idea, especially after I thought about all the energy I wasted on our relationship and the sacrifices.
Sorry to whoever Bryan's new wife was, but we were so crashing that party.
Margie – the bitch – didn't mention Bryan was getting married in New York until the last minute.
Well, it made sense since that was where Bryan's company was but I never would have agreed if it meant going back to the city where I had so many bad memories.
And it turned out to be worse than I thought. New York was about to get a whole lot darker for me.
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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.