The Disguised Heiress And The Mafia Don
I was the Harrington family's only son, forced to play a deadly game of shadows in the brutal underworld of Chicago. After a meeting with the Falcones left me poisoned and broken, my car was run off the road in a calculated hit.
I crawled from the wreckage, bloodied and desperate, only to find Damien Cobb, the city's untouchable Don, looming over me with a gun pressed to my temple. He didn't see a victim; he saw a pawn to be crushed.
My jacket was ripped, my secret bindings nearly exposed, and my life hung by a thread. I managed to talk my way out of the execution, but the humiliation was absolute. When I returned home, the nightmare followed, haunting my sleep with the cold steel of a blade against my throat.
The world saw Alessandro Harrington, a man, but the truth was a fragile secret I guarded with my life. I was surrounded by predators who smelled my fear and mistook my silence for weakness. Why was I the target of their cruelty, and how could I keep my family safe when my very existence was a lie waiting to be unraveled?
Enough was enough. I wouldn't be the prey anymore. I stood in the mirror, adjusting my shirt, and made a choice: I would stop hiding and start hunting. The dockworkers' strike was my opening, and I would use it to bring the untouchable Don to his knees.
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Chapter 1
Alessia POV
The dim haze of the neutral speakeasy clung to my skin like a bad omen. Smoke curled from cigars, and the air reeked of cheap whiskey and desperation. Across the scarred oak table sat Marco Falcone, Capo of our sworn enemies, his smile sharp as a switchblade.
"To peace, Alessandro," he toasted, sliding the glass my way. Harrington's last scrap of dock territory hung in the balance. Refusing meant weakness. I lifted the tumbler, the liquid burning my throat like West Sicilian fire—familiar, deadly. Poison.
I cut the talks short. "We're done." Vision blurring, I stumbled out, heart pounding. The Gilded Cage's antidote waited. No time to lose.
Rain lashed Chicago's industrial streets, turning them to sludge. My battered Ford Model A fishtailed as I floored it, poison twisting my gut. Then—bam. Metal screamed. The truck flipped, hurling me into the mud. Left arm snapped like dry twigs, agony exploding.
Headlights pierced the downpour. A black Cadillac V-16 idled, unscathed. Damien Cobb stepped out, pristine in his tailored suit, sword brows furrowed. Chicago's Don, untouchable kingpin.
"You blind, Harrington? Or just stupid enough to scam me?" His voice dripped venom, eyes raking my mud-caked form. "John Harrington's son? More like a sissy who can't drive straight."
He loomed over me, his gaze flicking across my face. I could only imagine what he saw—mud, blood, and lips likely turning purple from the poison, though he’d probably mistake it for the cold or a wound from the crash. "Up you get, kid. Before I leave you for the rats."
"Don't touch me," I rasped, scrambling back with my good arm. His hand shot out anyway, fisting my collar—too close. Far too close to the bindings hiding my chest. A surge of pure panic, cold and sharp, shot through me. I swung my good fist, fueled by desperation, and felt the satisfying crack as my knuckles connected with his jaw.
His head snapped back, shock flashing in his eyes before it was consumed by pure rage. He lunged, grabbing my collar again, this time with intent. Fabric tore. My secret, my life, teetered on the edge of a ripped seam.
Luca, his Soldier, hovered nearby. "Boss—"
My breath hitched, caught in my throat. Desperation clawed at me, giving my words a sharp edge. "Ripping a boy's clothes in broad daylight, Mr. Cobb? Afraid those rumors about you will stick?"
I watched his fist tremble, inches from my face. His eyes, a moment ago filled with cold anger, now blazed with a more personal fury. The whispers about his "tastes," a weapon used by his rivals, was now a shield in my hand. He shoved Luca aside without looking at him, his charming gaze fixed on me, and I saw raw murder in it.
But before he could act, my body betrayed me completely. A violent convulsion seized me, and I spewed a foul mixture of black bile and gall. It splattered across the front of his immaculate, thousand-dollar suit, a grotesque stain on the pristine silk.
The blazing rage in his eyes vanished, replaced by something far more terrifying: a chilling, absolute stillness. His expression became a mask of cold calculation. He looked from the mess on his suit, to my face, then to the wreckage of my Ford, as if connecting invisible dots. A conclusion settled in his features, and it was a death sentence. Slowly, deliberately, his hand moved to the Colt holstered at his waist. The click of the safety being flicked was deafeningly loud over the drumming rain. The gas lamp flickered, illuminating the barrel of the gun as he raised it, his aim steady.
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8.1
I was eight years old when my father, Alpha Derek, raided the rogue bunker to save my mother.
I thought I was finally safe.
But because I reeked of the wolfsbane chemicals used to hide my scent, my mother looked at me with pure disgust.
"Get that thing away from me! It smells like him!" she shrieked.
To protect his traumatized mate, my father didn't check my DNA. He threw me into the garage to sleep on oily rags.
For months, I was the true Alpha's daughter, yet I was forced to eat dog food while they pampered a fake orphan named Kylie in my place.
When Kylie ordered the guard dog to tear my arm open, my mother stood at the window.
Instead of saving me, she let the maid close the curtains so she wouldn't have to see the blood.
I only became useful when my father got into a critical car crash.
They drained my rare "Moon Blood" to save his life, then immediately signed papers to ship me off to a labor camp to get rid of the "stain" on their family.
They thought I was a dirty rogue.
They didn't know the chemical smell was masking the rarest bloodline in a century.
I am not a rogue.
I am a White Wolf.
And just as my grandfather discovers the DNA results and falls to his knees in regret, the most powerful pack in the North has already arrived to claim me as their queen.
7.9
On Christmas Eve, the snow fell in relentless sheets.
My grandmother and I were cast out into the snow as if we were nothing by my uncle.
My aunt cursed me as a bad luck charm, while my uncle's boot landed fiercely in my chest.
I knelt in the freezing snow, clutching my grandmother's body as it grew cold, my nails digging into my flesh, convinced that death awaited us tonight.
Suddenly, the blinding headlights cut through the night.
A convoy of Rolls-Royce cars, bearing diplomatic plates, silently blocked the entrance to the rundown neighborhood.
The elderly butler strode directly to my grandmother, who had been "blind" for forty years, and knelt on one knee, "Your Highness, forgive us for arriving so late."
9.6
Antoinette stood on the manicured church lawn, the blinding summer sun stabbing her eyes. The funeral service for her parents had just ended.
A hand wrapped around her trembling shoulder, carrying the sharp, cloying scent of Fabian Cash's cologne. It was the exact same cologne her fiancé wore the night he locked her in a burning house to die in her previous life.
Now, wearing a mask of sorrowful devotion, Fabian tried to drag her to his car to control her parents' massive life insurance payout.
When she shoved him away in pure nausea, his mother Eleanor immediately shrieked to the crowd, deploying her usual guilt trip.
"She's lost her mind! The girl has completely snapped!"
The townspeople whispered and pointed fingers, watching Fabian play the victim as he tightened his bruising grip on her wrist, claiming she was hysterical and needed to be locked away.
Antoinette stared at the mother and son who had conspired to steal her family's estate and end her life. The rage inside her felt like battery acid pumping through her veins.
They didn't care if she lived or died; they only cared about the money. How could she let them strip her of everything again?
She didn't hesitate. She swung with every bit of strength she possessed, slapping Fabian across the face in front of the entire town.
"The engagement is over," she announced coldly.
Then, she turned her back on her greedy ex-fiancé and walked straight toward the terrifyingly powerful billionaire Hiram Graves, ready to let the world burn.
9.5
Janet woke up gasping, the phantom fire of a deadly explosion still scorching her lungs. She had been reborn three years in the past, on the exact day her mother forced her into a marriage contract with Gaylord Bradford, a paralyzed and severely disfigured billionaire.
Before she could even process her second chance, her cousin Kandy kicked the bedroom door open, flaunting a massive diamond ring. Kandy, who had also been reborn, smugly announced she had stolen Janet's Wall Street golden boy fiancé, Jax Adler.
"You're going to marry that paralyzed monster," Kandy spat, gloating that she would build a billionaire dynasty with Jax while Janet wiped drool off a rotting corpse. Kandy expected Janet to have a complete mental collapse, completely unaware that Gaylord's own medical team was secretly injecting him with lethal neurotoxins to finish him off.
But Janet only felt a cold, clinical pity. Kandy's "prophetic" memories were a polluted lie. Jax was actually sterile and dying of irreversible kidney failure, while Gaylord wasn't a dying freak—he was a dormant god whose body was merely in a high-dimensional hibernation. Why would Janet mourn losing a doomed fraud?
Leaving her delusional cousin behind, Janet packed her bags and headed straight to Gaylord's maximum-security military cell. She physically tackled his corrupt doctor, drove three bio-electric silver needles into the crippled king's spine to awaken his deadened nerves, and looked him dead in his glacial blue eye.
"Sign the marriage contract," Janet whispered. "I will make you walk again, and we will take back everything."
9.7
Charity woke up in a hellish, acid-rain-soaked slum, trapped inside a bloated body covered in festering, toxic sores. She was the exiled Grand Princess of the Empire.
But the real nightmare wasn't her ruined body. It was the fact that the original owner had used her royal authority to force genetic marriage contracts onto four top-tier, powerful men.
Now, she was bound to them, and they absolutely loathed her.
Hjalmar, chained to a bed in her filthy room, smiled like a feral beast and promised to rip her head off the second his chains snapped.
Braden, a ruthless military officer, saved her from a mutated rat only to look at her with pure disgust.
"If you want to die, go die somewhere else. Don't dirty my patrol sector."
Even the locals mocked her fallen status, and a wealthy heiress publicly framed her for stealing a hundred-thousand-coin energy core just to see her rot in a dark cell.
She was universally despised, physically repulsive, and a lethal biological toxin gave her exactly 59 days left to live. How was she supposed to survive this absolute hell when her starting affection with her partners was at negative 100?
Then, a mechanical voice echoed in her skull, activating a survival system. To purge the poison, she had to harvest emotional energy by making these four men fall for her. Charity accepted the mandate, unlocked a top-tier culinary skill, and grabbed a rusted meat cleaver to start her counterattack.
8.7
I had been Adrian Conway's executive assistant for five years, serving as the perfect, invisible shadow to the coldest billionaire in Manhattan. But a single night of weakness after a high-stakes charity gala left me staring at a positive pregnancy test in the office restroom, my heart hammering with a fear I couldn't escape.
I tried to keep the secret and maintain my professionalism, but a freak accident in the lobby sent the test sliding across the marble floor-straight to the feet of Adrian's mother. The terrifying matriarch didn't offer a hand; she offered a cold, calculated ultimatum that turned my life into a high-stakes business transaction.
Adrian didn't even look at me when he heard the news, his voice cutting like a scalpel as he called our night a "mistake" and an "irrelevancy." Within days, I was forced into a hollow marriage at City Hall, wearing a diamond that felt like a shackle and moving into a penthouse where I was treated like an unwanted intruder. The nightmare deepened when they slid a new contract across the table: I would carry the child to term, hand it over to the Conway family immediately after birth, and sign away all parental rights for five million dollars.
"Don't expect me to play the loving husband. You are an employee who got a promotion," Adrian sneered, his eyes filled with pure loathing. He believed I had trapped him for his fortune, and his sister publicly branded me a "gold-digging parasite" while trying to force a DNA test. When I hesitated to sign the paper giving up my baby, Adrian leaned in with a terrifying calm, threatening to stop the life-saving medical payments for my dying mother.
I was surrounded by unimaginable wealth but had never felt more impoverished, realizing that to the Conways, I was nothing more than a vessel for an heir. I couldn't understand how a man I had respected for years could be so monstrously cruel, holding my mother's life hostage just to steal my child.
As I looked at the cold, clinical man who was now my husband, the desperation in my chest turned into a hard, freezing resolve. I picked up the pen and scrawled my name on the contract to save my mother, but I made a silent promise to the tiny life inside me. I had nine months to find a loophole, nine months to gather their secrets, and nine months to make Adrian Conway regret the day he ever thought he could own me.