THE DON'S SECRET OBSESSION ( His Bride, Her Prison)
I never wanted any part in this. But I have no choice. With a deep sigh, I force down an invisible lump in my throat, looking up at the priest.
I press my fingers tighter into the flower I am holding, hoping it hides how much I am shaking. Dreading the words the priest is about to utter.
"Do you, Ariella Cecilia Boone, take Dermos Salvatore to be your lawfully wedded husband?" The priest asks.
I blink.
I badly want to say it, badly want to scream that I am not Ariella Cecilia Boone.
My lips tremble as I force the truth down my throat, "Yes, I do." I murmur, my voice a little over a whisper.
~~~~
Ariel Hannah Boone didn't know what life had in store for her when she woke up on her twin sister's wedding day, only to find out her sister had run away.
She went into panic when her mother insisted she take her place because Dermos Salvatore was no man to joke with.
Dermos was the most feared Don in the whole of Sicily, one who killed without care. A blood thirsty murderer with no remorse.
In an attempt to save her family from his wrath, she takes her sister's place at the wedding.
Pain, suffering, and betrayal are all she knows the moment she became his. Secrets begin to unveil as she realises her family isn't what it seems.
And when whispers of her sister's disappearance reach her, she finds out the truth.
He never wanted Ariella; it had always been her.
Ariel has to choose between a love built on lies or betraying her sister and family.
She was his bride, and he was her prison, yet he would never let her go.
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Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
"Hey imposter, I know who you really are. And soon I will make sure he does too."
Blood drains from my entire body as I re-read the message over and over again.
Who the hell is this? And how did they know about me? Oh my god, what the heck am I going to do? I can't have Dermos find out about this.
No, it must be a prank. Without letting in too much thought, I press the delete button, and the message wipes off.
I press my hand forward, dragging myself off the floor where I stumbled. I quickly change into my nightwear, crawling into the pink, hideous bed to try and get some sleep.
The keyword being try. Sleep refuses to find me as I toss and turn around the sheets that won't stop itching me.
Thoughts fill my head with question upon question. Who sent me that message? Why did they send me such?
It didn't say anything about wanting something in return, so what was the purpose of the message? To scare me?
No, I don't think so.
If they wanted Dermos to know, then they would have just told him straight, so why send me that message?
And so the torture continued till about two am before I was finally able to fall asleep.
~~
The sound of heavy knocking has me jolting up from sleep.
What the heck?
I pry my eyes open before quickly slamming them shut to prevent the assault of the unholy pink covers everywhere.
Why the hell is everything pink? I hate pink. I love dim, dark colours. I am about to grumble when the events of yesterday come crashing down.
Shit!!
I am Ariella.
"Excuse me, Mrs Salvatore, you have to wake up now. Mr Salvatore requests your presence in the dining room for breakfast." Someone calls from outside the door, banging harder.
Damn, what time is it? I reach forward to my bedside table for my phone.
6:50 am
What the heck? Breakfast at this time? Why? Are they chimpanzees or what?
I push my palm over my lips to stifle a yawn when, once again, a hard bang has me jolting.
"I AM COMING!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET AWAY FROM MY DOOR!" I can't help the scream that tumbles out of my lips.
If there is one thing about me, it is that I hate waking up early; my earliest being ten.
After grumbling and cursing Ariella repeatedly for disappearing and putting me through this, I push my feet over the edge of the bed as I stalk out of the room.
The banging lady is still standing beside my door when I get there.
"I am sorry, Mrs Salvatore, but the don isn't patient." She mumbles, picking nervously at her fingernails.
"It's fine, lead the way." I hiss, using the back of my palm to scrub the last sleep off my eyes.
She nods and scurries off, leaving me to trail behind her. I am really too sleep-deprived to even take in the inside of the mansion, so I just trudge along, hoping for a tour later.
"Here, Mrs Salvatore." She stops in front of a huge door after taking me down a hideous number of stairs.
Urgh! I hate mornings.
I huff as I send my arm forward, pushing the door open.
"Wow!" I can't help the small gasps that tumble out of my lips at the sight of the long table with almost twenty chairs in it.
Did this man literally have a whole freaking room for just eating? Huh, mafia men are weird.
My eyes immediately find him at the head of the dining room, those eyes once again piercing my soul like he can see every hidden part of me.
I squirm under his intense gaze, raising my head high as I strut towards him.
Despite the outrageous time, Dermos is dressed in a grey Armani suit. An expensive watch decorating his wrist, my throat runs dry as I run my eyes over his hair part- Damnit, Ariel, no staring at your sister's husband.
I catch myself quickly, shuffling to sit down as a few heads turn to look at me with wide eyes.
Why, though? I am too sleep-deprived to care anyway.
My eyes scan the table filled with different dishes, but what really draws my attention is the peanut butter bagel that is placed directly in front of me as soon as I sit down.
It wouldn't be bad as it's Ariella's favourite, but I am allergic to it.
Shit! I snap my eyes forward, but he is already looking at me.
"Good morning Ariella, how was your night?" He asks, slowly taking a bite from his toast.
"It was very short." I snap, my irritation from being up so early rushing back.
"Oh well. New home, new rules. Breakfast is by seven or no breakfast at all." He states, barely glancing my way as he continues to eat.
Does he even like Ariella? He has barely looked at me or even spoken to me since we got married, except when he came to my–not mine– her room last night.
Wait? Is he pissed about that? Could he-
"Eat, I gather you love peanut butter," he instructs, interrupting my thoughts, still not looking at me.
A lump forms in my throat. Ariella loved peanut butter; there was certainly no way he hadn't seen her eat it once or twice. What would he think when I begin to turn purple in the face after a single bite?
I haven't touched peanut butter since it landed me in the hospital more than a decade ago. I am not about to start now.
I stare down at my plate for too long, only jolted when he clears his throat.
"You're not eating, Ariella." He is frowning slightly.
I bite my lower lip nervously. My hands start to shake slightly. How do I get out of this?
"Uh..."
I have to eat it. He will know I'm not Ariella if I don't.
But I can't. He will also know that I'm not her if I do.
Is this a setup? Did the unknown texter reach out to him also?
"Ariella?"
I snap back to focus. "I would like to have toast too." The words come flying out of my mouth before I can process them.
He raises a questioning eyebrow. "Really?"
"Yes." I breathe deeply, calming down my frayed nerves. "I've had enough peanut butter bagels to last a lifetime. I won't be eating another one any time soon."
The word pours out so naturally, leaving me amazed.
He nods. "Very well."
I find it hard to tell, but there appears to be a faint smile on his face. I blink, and it vanishes.
"As you wish," he adds.
"I'm grateful," I mutter. I reach forward for an empty plate.
I look up to see his eyes studying me. I'm gripped with anxiety and feel the need to explain.
"I don't know if I've said this, but I switch to a new favourite thing every now and then." I force myself into a smile, but I'm afraid it comes out as a grimace. "My system no longer agrees with peanut butter bagels."
"I don't care, Ariella. Just eat." His voice is almost cold.
I swallow. Am I doing a bad job? How did Ariella act when they had dinner together?
Oh God.
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9.4
Michael Carter is an undercover FBI agent on a mission to take down ruthless mafia king Fernando Ramírez-the man he believes killed his sister. But getting close to Fernando means playing a dangerous game, one where seduction and power blur the lines between enemy and lover.
When Michael uncovers a shocking truth, his thirst for revenge turns into a fight for something far more dangerous-his own heart. Now, torn between duty and desire, he must decide: destroy the man he swore to take down or surrender to the one thing he never saw coming.
Love has never been more lethal.
7.6
I was arranging white lilies on the cold marble of my husband's grave when I saw a ghost.
Walking through the cemetery gates was a man who looked exactly like my dead husband, Dante.
Logic said it was his twin brother, Matteo. But a wife knows the slope of a man's shoulders. She knows the arrogant tilt of his chin.
My husband hadn't been blown up in a car bomb three years ago.
He had faked his death to steal his brother's rank, his fortune, and his mistress.
For three years, I had forced our son, Leo, to kiss a photograph goodnight. We lived in a damp, peeling apartment, surviving on the "charity" of the Family.
Meanwhile, Dante was living in a mansion, driving cars that cost more than my life, playing house with another woman.
When he came to our cramped apartment to drop off the monthly "pension" money, pretending to be Uncle Matteo, he didn't look at me with love. He looked at his watch.
When Leo ran to hug him, shouting "Papa," Dante peeled the boy's small arms off his expensive suit like he was removing a piece of lint.
"Don't call me that," he snapped. "I am your Uncle."
My grief turned into ice. He chose another woman's comfort over his own son's hunger.
I grabbed Leo's hand and walked out the door.
"You walk away, and you get nothing!" Dante shouted after me. "You'll be on the street!"
I didn't stop. I walked straight to the black SUV idling at the curb.
The window rolled down, revealing Salvatore Vitiello. The Don. The most lethal man in the city.
"Get in, Elena," he commanded.
I opened the door and slid onto the leather seat next to the devil himself.
As we drove away, leaving my husband in the dust, I realized I had just traded a liar for a killer.
And I didn't regret it for a second.
8.1
Trigger Warning: This book is extremely dark, containing themes of obsession, strong sexual content, abuse, and psychological manipulation. Read at your own risk.
"I'll delete the pictures depending on how obedient you are. You have to do everything I say. If I want you to become a dog, you get on your knees and bark. Do we have a deal?"
Pierce leans down to Malakai's height, his lips brushing the shell of his ear, close enough to taste his fear.
"You don't want her to know what a dirty little creep you are, do you?"
Malakai Kreston is the preacher's perfect son. Quiet. Obedient. The kind of boy no one looks at twice.
But Malakai has a filthy secret. And he'll do anything-anything-to keep it buried.
Enter Pierce Masterson.
Wealthy. Attractive. Pierce doesn't just want Malakai's secret. He wants Malakai. All of him. His fear. His obedience. His body. His mind.
Pierce wants to own it, and lock it away where no one else can ever touch it.
Kai has always been the hunter-watching from the shadows, obsessing in silence, taking what doesn't belong to him.
Now someone is hunting him.
And Pierce doesn't play fair. He plays dirty.
How far can you run when the devil already knows every dark corner of your soul?
In a game of predator and prey, the lines blur. The roles reverse. And the most dangerous thing isn't the boy who holds the blackmail-
It's the moment Malakai stops wanting to be free.
7.6
My ex-husband, Reese Beaumont, sent me divorce papers on our anniversary, five years after I walked down the aisle to join him. I signed them with a red lipstick and sent them back to him, with a short note which read: "I am not going to give you the liberty of thinking you still own me."
Now, one year later, he is standing in my office, the smug look in his eyes gone, and for some reason, still wearing our wedding ring.
"You're still mine, Roxanne. You didn't sign the divorce papers, and you seem to forget that you're nothing without me."
A soft chuckle escape my lips, right as my fake fiancé walks in, holding our one-year-old son. The son Reese never knew I was pregnant with.
"Funny," I mutter. "Because I don't remember you being in control of the game."
Now, he's everywhere, showing up at my gallery and outbidding my fake fiancé at my auctions. Telling the media we are on the road to reconciliation.
But I am not the same woman who cried for him one year ago.
I am the woman he never expected to walk out the door. And the one he'll always regret letting go.
9.2
I was sold to Damien Russo, the ruthless Don of Chicago, as collateral in a shipping route transaction. I was expected to be a silent, obedient bride in a cold, loveless marriage.
But the moment I stepped into the Russo estate, I realized my new family wanted to completely destroy me.
My mother-in-law, Eleonora, and her arrogant relatives immediately targeted me. They set traps in the solarium, mocked my late mother's heritage, and tried to force me into humiliating submission using their strict mafia traditions. They wanted to break my spirit so Damien would replace me with the bride they actually wanted—a purebred mafia princess. They expected me to cower in fear, isolated and helpless, while the whole family watched my public humiliation and waited for my downfall.
Did they really think I was just a fragile girl who would cry and run away? They completely underestimated the survival instincts of a woman who grew up in this bloody world. I learned long ago that tears are worthless.
"My rules are simple. Vendetta is a two-way street."
Instead of breaking, I smiled. I weaponized their own legendary ancestors and the sacred promise of an unborn heir to trap the Matriarch in her own rules, forcing her into a suffocating silence. If they wanted a war for the throne, I would gladly show them exactly why I am the undisputed Mafia Queen.
9.2
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.