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 7
Isabella POV
The morning sun did nothing to warm the main courtyard of the Moretti estate. The sprawling space was paved with blinding white marble, centered around a multi-tiered fountain carved with mythical beasts. It sat bone-dry and silent, a monument to the lifeless perfection of my new prison.
I stood near the manicured cypress trees, breathing in the crisp air. After my ultimatum to Antonio last night, the heavy dread in my chest had been replaced by a cold, sharp clarity.
The crunch of footsteps on gravel broke the silence.
Julian was walking toward me, his jaw set in a hard line. Clinging to his arm was Dahlia Vance. She wore a provocative, flowing white dress—a deliberate, mocking insult to a bride. She leaned into him, her eyes scanning the grounds with the entitled gaze of a queen surveying her kingdom.
"Darling," Dahlia cooed, her voice carrying easily across the open courtyard. "I think the roses here should be changed to white. It’s so much more pure, don't you agree?"
She looked at me then, a sickly sweet smile playing on her lips, waiting for me to break.
I didn't blink. I simply let my gaze drag over her, from her expensive shoes to her carefully curled hair, stripping away her elegant facade until she was nothing but the parasite she truly was.
"A whore doesn't get a vote in how this house is decorated," I said, my voice slicing through the morning air like a straight razor. "In fact, she doesn't get to speak unless spoken to."
Dahlia’s smile vanished. The color drained from her face, leaving her looking pale and suddenly very small. She gasped, her eyes welling with immediate, practiced tears as she shrank against Julian’s side.
"Julian," she whimpered.
Julian’s eyes darkened with a violent fury. He stepped forward, shielding her. "Watch your mouth, Isabella. You think because you terrorized a few maids you have power here? Dahlia is moving into the main house today. She will have the exact same status as you, and you will treat her with respect."
I let out a low, humorless laugh.
"Do it," I challenged, stepping into his space, forcing him to look down at me. "And I will request a meeting with your father. I'll play for him the recordings from our wedding night. I'll tell him, and the entire *Commissione*(Commission), how you married me not for an alliance, but to hide your pathetic affair with the bastard daughter of a Vescovi."
Julian froze. The rage in his eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden, dawning horror.
"You brought an enemy into this family, Julian," I whispered, making sure every word landed like a physical blow. "That's not just a scandal. That's treason. You'll be lucky if they only strip you of your rank and don't put a bullet in your head."
The word *treason* hung in the air, heavy and lethal. In our world, it was an automatic death sentence. Julian’s fists clenched at his sides, his chest heaving, but he didn't move. He was completely paralyzed by the realization that I held the match to his entire future.
Sensing the catastrophic shift in power, Dahlia tugged urgently at his sleeve. "Julian, let's just go. She's crazy."
Julian swallowed hard, his jaw ticking. Without another word, he turned and stalked back toward the garage, leaving Dahlia behind in his wake.
Dahlia watched him abandon her, her mask of the helpless victim slipping away. She turned back to me, her expression hardening into something desperate and calculating.
"We both have a common enemy in Caterina Rossi," she said, her tone suddenly serious, dropping the fragile act entirely. "My father... Antonio... he tells me things. I can help you destroy her."
I looked at her, genuinely amused by her audacity.
"You want me to be your weapon?" I tilted my head, offering her a smile devoid of any warmth. "So you can take your mother's place as my father's official whore? No, thank you. I'd much rather watch you two tear each other apart. It's far more entertaining."
Dahlia’s face contorted with a mix of profound humiliation and raw hatred. She opened her mouth to speak, but I had already turned my back on her, walking toward the heavy oak doors of the main house.
I had won the courtyard, and Dahlia would undoubtedly scramble to find a new, more powerful ally to save her sinking ship. But as I stepped into the foyer, I knew words and blackmail would only protect me for so long. If I was going to survive the war I had just started, I needed men who answered only to me.
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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.