The Mafia Bride's Lethal Revenge
To save my crumbling family, I was married off to Julian Moretti, the terrifying Underboss of the Chicago mafia.
But he didn't even wait for the wedding reception to end before slipping Rohypnol into my champagne.
I woke up on the cold marble floor of the penthouse, only to see my new husband sleeping with his long-time mistress right in front of me.
He dragged my unconscious body there just to let me wake up to this humiliation, to show me I was nothing but discarded trash.
When I escaped and returned home for help, my father threw a heavy crystal glass at my head.
"You ruined us, you stupid bitch! Go back and beg for his mercy!"
My stepmother cursed me for not knowing my place, while I discovered they had been embezzling my dead mother's trust fund to pay off debts.
Even worse, the mistress in my husband's bed was actually my father's illegitimate daughter.
My own family had served me to a Capo's bed just to beg for scraps, sacrificing my life for their beloved bastard.
They all thought I was just the obedient, fragile Rossi princess they could easily manipulate and feed to the wolves.
They expected me to cry, surrender, and let them bleed me dry.
But the fragile mafia princess they knew was already dead.
In her place, the dormant instincts of "Seraph"—the lethal Mossad operative I used to be—snapped awake.
I wiped my husband's blood off my knuckles, stepped over his groaning body, and made a deal with his deadliest rival.
This time, I'm going to burn their entire empire to the ground.
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Chapter 5
Isabella POV
The half-hour cab ride to the Moretti Estate gave my adrenaline just enough time to cool into something far more dangerous: absolute clarity. When the vehicle finally rolled to a stop before the towering wrought-iron gates, the heavy metal 'M' looming overhead felt less like a warning and more like a challenge.
I stepped out of the cab, the crisp morning air biting at the ruined, blood-stained fabric of my wedding dress. A guard—an Associate I recognized vaguely as Marco—approached the gate. He looked me up and down, a disrespectful, mocking glint in his eyes as he played dumb.
"State your business. We don't take unannounced visitors."
He knew exactly who I was. Dahlia had clearly paid him well to test my limits, to humiliate the new Mafia Lady before she even stepped foot on the property. I didn't have the patience for a pawn's games.
I walked right up to the iron bars, my eyes locking onto his with dead, icy precision.
"You have three seconds to open this gate before I open your throat," I said, my voice perfectly calm but laced with pure, unadulterated malice. "Julian can scrape what's left of you off his driveway. Your choice."
The mocking glint vanished. The blood drained from Marco's face as the sheer, suffocating weight of my threat hit him. His hand scrambled for the control panel, and the heavy gates began to part with a mechanical groan.
I paid the driver, grabbed my small overnight bag, and walked through the entrance. Behind me, I caught the hushed, frantic whisper of Marco speaking to his silent partner, Leo.
"...Miss Vance's orders were to make her wait..."
I stopped dead in my tracks. Slowly, I turned around. I didn't look at the trembling Marco. I fixed my gaze on Leo, my voice carrying the unmistakable, absolute authority of a Don.
"Let me be clear," I said, treating it like a lesson in basic survival. "There is no 'Miss Vance' with authority here. There is only Mrs. Moretti. Me."
I let the silence stretch for a fraction of a second before my eyes snapped to Marco like a physical blow. "A back-alley whore doesn't give orders in this house. She enters through the service entrance, if she's lucky. Remember that, if you value your position... and your tongue."
Marco swallowed hard, his eyes darting away before he practically sprinted off toward the perimeter—no doubt to warn Dahlia that her little stunt had failed. Leo, however, simply lowered his head in a deep, respectful bow.
I turned my back on them and made my way into the sprawling mansion, navigating the labyrinthine halls until I reached the Lady's Wing. The suite was massive, decorated in expensive, soulless Italian antiques. It was a gilded cage, smelling faintly of lemon polish and cold wealth.
In the corner, my loyal maid Elena was clutching my suitcase, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. Standing over her, polishing a silver vase with a cruel sneer, was Sofia—one of Caterina's favorite spies.
"Tears won't help you in this house, little girl," Sofia mocked, her voice dripping with venom. "This isn't the Rossi's broken-down estate."
I stepped fully into the room. Sofia jumped, her sneer faltering as she took in my cold expression.
"Lady Caterina sent me to take care of you," she stammered, trying to summon a false sense of authority. "She was worried..."
"Caterina's authority ends at the gate," I cut her off smoothly. I walked toward her, forcing her to step back. "In this house, I decide who takes care of me. And I've decided your service is no longer required. You have one hour to pack. If I see your face after that, the family's Enforcers will escort you out. I doubt you'll enjoy the ride."
The mention of the Enforcers stripped away whatever bravado Sofia had left. The weak, submissive Isabella she thought she knew was dead. She dropped the polishing cloth, her face ashen, and scrambled out of the suite without another word.
I watched her flee, knowing this was only the first layer of the rot. I turned to Elena, who was staring at me with wide, tear-filled eyes.
"Dry your tears, Elena," I said gently, though my mind was already racing ahead.
Sofia was gone, but the estate's head housekeeper would undoubtedly be the next to test my boundaries on Dahlia's behalf. I needed to secure this house, and more importantly, I needed to secure my leverage. As soon as I dealt with the staff, I had to get down to the estate's vault to inspect the dowry my father had supposedly transferred.
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8.6
I was the untouchable Mafia Queen, but my reign ended in the blood-soaked depths of a damp dungeon.
My half-sister, Kelsey, drove a rusted, sharpened spoon into my chest, screaming about the unfairness of fate.
In my past life, my father sold me to the ruthless Don Dante Blackwell as collateral to pay off his debts.
To survive, I took a black-market fertility drug, birthed his heir, and clawed my way to the throne through sheer ruthlessness.
But in the mafia world, a pregnant woman isn't a queen; she's a walking target.
I survived countless bombings and poisonings, only to be betrayed and slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand. I had sacrificed everything to secure our survival in the empire. Why did my blood and tears only earn me a rusted spoon to the heart?
Opening my eyes again, I am seventeen, sitting in my father's drawing room.
Two black velvet boxes sit on the mahogany table.
Kelsey greedily snatches the box containing the fertility drug, her eyes gleaming with feverish triumph.
"I'll take this one, Papa."
She thinks she is stealing my golden ticket to the crown, completely unaware that she just chose a death sentence.
I lower my gaze, letting my eyelashes mask the cold, lethal amusement pooling in my eyes as I take the remaining box.
Inside is the detailed psychological profile of the Don's dead fiancée.
This time, I won't be a breeding mare fighting off assassins. I will dissect the devil himself.
7.6
When the Pollard family kicked Alyssa out into the freezing rain, Walter threw a ten-thousand-dollar check into a dirty puddle.
"Take it and get out. Don't ever come back," he sneered.
Her adoptive mother and stepsister stood on the mansion's porch, mocking her as a worthless country girl who tarnished their wealthy name. They laughed, claiming she wouldn't even be able to afford community college and would be begging on the streets in a week.
They looked at her cheap clothes and worn backpack with absolute disgust.
They were completely unaware that for the past five years, Alyssa was the secret mastermind who had built their failing gallery into a multi-million-dollar investment empire.
Every key investment, every fortune they made, came from the anonymous notes she had slipped into their unread books. They genuinely believed they were business geniuses, while treating the true architect of their wealth like a stray dog.
Looking at their smug, arrogant faces, Alyssa didn't feel a shred of sadness, only a cold, sharp irony.
They actually believed they had raised her.
She stepped close, whispered the master code to Walter's most secret offshore account, and watched the blood completely drain from his face.
"I raised you," she said, turning her back on the mansion without hesitation.
Walking into the storm, she pulled out a heavily encrypted phone and gave a single, cold order.
"Initiate a full hostile takeover of the Pollard Group."
It was time to end this little game and step into her true life—as the world's most elusive medical genius, and the long-lost billionaire heiress of the Summers dynasty.
7.5
I was the adopted daughter of the wealthy Ruiz family, but the moment their true heir appeared, I was thrown away like trash.
Not long after being kicked out, my adoptive father and uncle hired a hitman to stage a fatal car crash on Mulholland Drive.
Pinned under an overturned Porsche with a shattered leg, I watched the hitman point a suppressed pistol between my eyes.
"The Ruiz family sends their regards."
Before this, my reputation had already been completely destroyed by a director, a pop idol, and a reality TV star, leaving me blacklisted and universally hated.
My adoptive family didn't just want me ruined; they wanted me permanently silenced to tie up loose ends.
The hitman pulled the trigger, and the original Alicia died in despair, tasting only rain and blood.
Until her last breath, she didn't understand.
Why did the family she loved treat her like a disposable object? Why did those three men maliciously frame her and turn the world against her?
Opening my eyes again, the fear was gone, replaced by an ancient, cosmic indifference.
I, the Arbiter, had taken over this deceased vessel.
Moving faster than the human eye, I crushed the hitman's steel gun with my bare hand and turned his soul into dust.
Looking at the memories of those who wronged this girl, I signed a contract for the very reality show they were starring in.
Since I borrowed this body, taking out the trash is a required courtesy.
7.1
For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne.
But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.”
My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love.
He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter.
They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."
7.5
He wasn't supposed to notice her.
She wasn't supposed to want him.
And her daughter definitely wasn't supposed to fall in love with him first.
"He's not just dangerous," she whispers to herself . "He's the kind of man who ruins your life slowly... and makes you thank him for it."
He rides loud.
He loves hard.
And once he wants something, he doesn't let go.
"You don't get to look at me like that," she tells him.
His smile is slow. Predatory. Certain.
"I already did," he says. "And now you're mine."
She's a single mother barely holding it together.
He's a biker king with blood on his hands and loyalty carved into his bones.
Their worlds should never touch.
But they collide anyway.
"You think I don't know what you're doing to me?" he growls.
Her back hits the wall. His body cages her in.
"You think I'd touch you if I didn't plan to keep you?"
This isn't a sweet romance.
It's raw. Possessive. Unforgiving.
The kind of love that marks you.
"Mummy," her daughter says softly, holding his hand.
"Can he stay forever?"
He shouldn't want them.
But the idea of leaving them hurts worse than any knife.
"I don't share," he tells her in the dark.
"Not my bike. Not my club. And definitely not my woman."
One kiss turns into hunger.
One night turns into obsession.
And one choice could burn everything down.
"If you climb on my bike," he warns, voice low and lethal,
"you don't get off unchanged."
7.4
I was only fifteen when my venomous family orchestrated my doom by forcing me into an arranged marriage with mafia heir Javier Velasquez.
On our wedding night, Javier paraded strippers into our suite to show his absolute contempt, turning me into the ultimate joke of the underworld overnight.
But being a joke was a luxury compared to what came next.
Three years later, Javier needed to be a widower to marry into a heavily armed family and secure their backing for a coup.
He didn't grant me the mercy of a bullet.
Instead, he dragged me to an abandoned underground safehouse, locked me in the damp, rotting dark, and told the world I had been assassinated.
For six months, I starved in that dungeon, surviving only on the desperate hope that my family was safe.
Then, on the day of his lavish new wedding, a cruel maid kicked a plate of spoiled food onto my floor and delivered the final, fatal blow.
"Annabel is dead. Pined away and died of a broken heart two weeks ago."
My gentle mother was dead, all because she actually believed his lie about my tragic murder.
Driven by pure agony and an all-consuming hatred, I shattered crates of smuggled chemical solvents and struck a match, letting the roaring inferno turn their bloody wedding into my funeral pyre.
I thought the fire was the end.
But when I opened my eyes, the suffocating smoke vanished, replaced by the biting chill of a Long Island winter.
I was standing in the snow, back on the exact day my descent into hell began.
This time, the terrified girl was dead, and I would use their own ruthless rules to tear their empire apart.