The Mafia Don's Runaway Heiress Wife
Three years ago, I used my family's tech empire to marry Damien Moretti, a ruthless mafia Underboss. I naively thought my devotion could melt his frozen heart.
But a year ago, he paraded his mistress at our family gala just because she had the face of his dead ex.
When my pathetic jealousy boiled over and I stabbed him with a letter opener, he didn't kill me.
Instead, he banished me to the freezing, decaying West Wing of his estate.
For a whole year, I was locked away like a ghost. He flaunted his mistress, orchestrated a hostile takeover of my family's company, and let his maids treat me like garbage.
When I knelt outside his door begging for a divorce, he just gripped my jaw and delivered a death sentence.
"The only way you leave this family is in a coffin."
The naive girl who begged for his love died in that cold room. I finally realized I was nothing but a profitable ledger entry to him.
When he finally opened my door again, expecting to see a broken prisoner, I slapped him across his bleeding face.
"The deal is done. I want a divorce."
I walked straight out into the freezing Chicago rain, secretly swallowed a bottle of emergency contraceptives to kill any chance of carrying his heir, and prepared to tear up his mafia rules myself.
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Chapter 7
Isabella POV
The transition from the grimy streets of the Polish Village to the suffocating opulence of Countess De Luca’s mansion gave me whiplash. The grand foyer was a blinding display of crystal chandeliers, black-and-white marble, and the heavy scent of expensive perfume masking the underlying stench of mafia politics.
I smoothed my hands down the skirt of my silver silk gown. My stomach churned with a dull, cramping ache—the first harsh side effect of the pills I had swallowed dry in the car.
"Keep your head up," Sofia murmured beside me, her eyes scanning the crowd with the sharp instincts of a born Rossi.
Before I could even take a full breath, Liliana Vance materialized from the sea of tailored suits and glittering diamonds. She wore a predatory, saccharine smile, a crystal glass of dark red wine balanced in her hand. As she brushed past me, her wrist gave a sudden, calculated flick.
The deep crimson liquid splashed across the front of my silver gown, blooming instantly like a fresh gunshot wound.
"Hey!" Sofia snarled, stepping forward with her teeth bared, ready to tear the woman apart.
Liliana gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her chest in mock horror. "Oh, my goodness! I am so clumsy."
"Some people just lack the grace for high society," the woman beside Liliana sneered, eyeing my ruined dress. "No matter how expensive the silk, it can't cover up inherent clumsiness."
I placed a restraining hand on Sofia’s arm. I didn't have the energy for a catfight. I just wanted to survive this night.
Liliana stepped closer, her voice dripping with loud, theatrical pity, ensuring the surrounding guests could hear every word. "Oh, Isabella, I am so sorry. You look so pale. Is it hard adjusting to life outside the Moretti estate? I suppose old habits die hard... I heard Damien was here tonight. It must be so difficult for you to let go."
Her words were venomous little darts, painting me as the desperate, discarded wife stalking her estranged husband.
"Excuse me," I said coldly, turning on my heel to find the powder room.
But my escape route was instantly blocked. Giovanni Rossi stood in my path, a wicked, amused glint in his eyes, with my brother Julian right beside him.
"Bella!" Gio announced loudly, his voice carrying over the string quartet. "Leaving so soon? Damien is waiting in the main ballroom. As Mrs. Moretti, you can't leave the Don unattended."
"He's right, Bella," Julian added, his jaw set in protective, misguided stubbornness. He had seen the wine, seen the humiliation, and his pride demanded retaliation. "Come on. Don't let these people look down on you. Take your place."
I was trapped. Refusing my brother and Gio in front of half the Chicago Outfit would be a public insult to the Moretti name—a death sentence in our world. With a heavy, sinking heart, I let them escort me toward the eye of the storm.
The main ballroom was a gilded cage of Renaissance paintings and white-clothed tables. At the very center, elevated like a judge's bench, was Damien's VIP table.
He sat surrounded by his Caporegimes, his ambitious brother Marco lounging to his left. Damien looked like a dark king holding court. The moment I stepped into the room, his gaze cut through the crowd and locked onto me.
The temperature in my veins plummeted.
There was no fiery rage in his dark eyes. There was only pure, glacial contempt. He looked at me as if I were something vile, something coated in lies and manipulation. I thought he was furious about my defiance in the solarium, about me leaving his house. I didn't know he was looking at my stomach, convinced I was carrying his heir as a calculated weapon to chain him to me. The sheer hatred radiating from him made my breath catch.
We reached the table. Gio smirked, gesturing grandly to the empty chair directly to Damien’s right—the seat of the Mafia Queen. Liliana had followed us and was hovering just a few feet away, her eyes burning with jealousy and anticipation.
Everyone watched me. Waiting for me to claim my throne. Waiting for me to beg for my husband's scraps.
I looked at the empty chair. Then, I turned my gaze to Liliana.
"You look like you've been standing a long time, Liliana," I said, my voice ringing out clear and ice-cold over the sudden hush of the table. "Take the seat."
Without sparing Damien a single glance, I walked past his throne, past his Capos, and took a seat at the absolute furthest end of the long table, right next to Julian.
The entire ballroom seemed to plunge into a dead, suffocating silence. Gio’s smirk vanished. Liliana froze, caught between triumph and utter bewilderment.
At the center of the table, Damien didn't move, but his knuckles turned bone-white around his crystal glass.
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7.1
I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York.
To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen.
But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table.
It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test.
"Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture."
I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking.
He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago.
He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy.
He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go.
He was wrong.
I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don.
And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy.
I wanted to erase him.
I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built.
Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa."
It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul.
On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial.
When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth.
He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife.
Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.
8.5
"And that is the reason why I said those words. I like your fear, not because it is a normal thing. I love it because deep down you are a monster like me, schiava. You fear me on a primal level, you can feel my power and dominance, and you know you aren't the strongest here. So you don't fear Renzo Valentino the human, you fear the monster that lurks inside."
My life changed the night of my birthday. What started as a funny dare ended with blood and having a price on my head.
I thought Renzo was the hero who saved me that night, but he was the devil who owned me forever.
I, Misha Yakov, princess of the Russian mafia became Renzo Valentino's slave.
He broke me, tortured me, and molded me into something new, something I hated and craved at the same time.
I, Misha Yakov became my master's pet.
8.5
went to sleep a nobody. I woke up a Queen.
One night I was just a broke, exhausted college girl. The next, I opened my eyes in silk sheets, with strangers bowing and calling me Luna Queen. The face in the mirror is mine. The body is mine. But the life isn't. The bruises on my wrists tell a story I don't remember, and the King I'm bound to doesn't love me-he loathes me.
They whisper that his mistress rules the palace. They say the Queen was weak. Silent. Broken. But that was before me.
Now I must survive a palace that wants me dead, a King whose touch burns as much as it scars, and a kingdom waiting for me to fail. The old Luna Queen bowed to cruelty.
I am not her.
And if this King thinks I'll kneel, he's about to learn what a true Queen is made of.
8.7
My little brother's heart monitor was screaming its final warning. I called my husband, Dante Volkov, the ruthless underworld king whose life I'd saved years ago. He had promised to send his elite medical team.
"I'm handling an emergency," he snapped, then hung up. An hour later, my brother was dead.
I found out what Dante's "emergency" was from his mistress's social media. He had sent his team of world-class surgeons to deliver her cat's kittens. My brother died for a litter of cats.
When Dante finally called, he didn't even apologize. I could hear her voice in the background, asking him to come back to bed. He even forgot my brother was dead, offering to buy him a new toy to replace the one his mistress deliberately crushed.
This was the man who had promised to protect me, to make my high school tormentors pay. Now, he was holding that very tormentor, Seraphina, in his arms. Then came the final blow: a call from the clerk's office revealed our seven-year marriage was a sham. The certificate was a forgery.
I was never his wife. I was just a possession he was tired of. After he left me to die in a car crash for Seraphina, I made one call. I texted a rival mob heir I hadn't spoken to in years: "I need to disappear. I'm calling it in."
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.
7.3
While I was pregnant, my husband held a party downstairs for another woman's son.
Through a hidden mental link, I overheard my husband, Don Dante Rossi, tell his consigliere he was going to publicly reject me tomorrow. He planned to make his mistress, Serena, his new mate.
An act forbidden by ancient law while I carried his heir.
Later, Serena cornered me, her smile venomous. When Dante appeared, she shrieked, clawing her own arm and blaming me for the attack.
Dante didn't even look at me. He snarled a command that froze my body and stole my voice, ordering me from his sight as he cradled her.
He moved her and her son into our master suite. I was demoted to the guest room at the end of the hall.
Passing her open door, I saw him rocking her baby, humming the lullaby my own mother used to sing to me.
I heard him promise her, "Soon, my love. I'll sever the bond and give you the life you deserve."
The love I felt for him, the power I'd hidden for four years to protect his fragile ego, all turned to ice.
He thought I was a weak, powerless wife he could discard. He was about to find out that the woman he betrayed was Alessia De Luca, princess of the most powerful family on the continent.
And I was finally going home.