Too Late To Beg, Mr. Mafia Don
For two years, I played the perfect, silent wife to Damien Moretti, the ruthless Don of the New York mafia.
But tonight, he threw a thick manila envelope onto our nightstand. It was an annulment.
"Giuliana is back. She's dying, and I am done playing house with you."
His first love had returned, supposedly sick with terminal cancer. He demanded I sign the papers and leave the penthouse immediately so he could rush to her side. He looked at me with absolute disgust, expecting me to break down and beg. When she later staged a fake assassination attempt to frame me, Damien blindly believed her pathetic tears. He dragged me to the hospital, ready to unleash his murderous wrath on me for daring to touch his precious white rose.
I looked at the man I had shared a bed with for two years. He was supposed to be a powerful, calculating leader, yet he was completely blinded by a cheap liar and a forged medical report. He actually thought I was just a weak, greedy socialite who would quietly take the fall.
He had no idea that behind my docile mask, I was 'K', the digital underworld's most elusive hacker.
I calmly signed the papers, took his millions, and pulled the real security footage of his perfectly healthy ex.
At tonight's family dinner, I am going to shatter her fragile facade and make the Don choke on his own stupidity before I walk away for good.
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Chapter 3
Isabella POV
The morning sun over 5th Avenue was blinding, but the espresso on the cafe terrace tasted like victory. I watched the gilded doors of Bergdorf Goodman across the street, tapping my new encrypted burner phone against the table.
It was time to put on a show.
I dialed a number I knew by heart. Rocco, the Moretti family's Underboss, answered with a gruff bark. "I'm busy, Isabella."
"Bergdorf Goodman. Ten minutes," I ordered, my voice perfectly flat.
"The Don is in a virtual sit-down with the Chicago Outfit," Rocco growled, his patience already fraying. "I'm not playing bag boy for your divorce tantrum."
I smiled, ice-cold. "Ten minutes, Rocco. Or I walk straight into Damien's study, interrupt his little meeting, and tell the Chicagoans the Moretti Don can't even leash his ex-wife. Let's see how that inspires confidence in your new gun-running routes."
A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the line. In our world, a threat to the family's business and the Don's honor was a lethal offense. Rocco let out a vicious curse. "Ten minutes."
When Rocco arrived, he was practically vibrating with suppressed violence. He stood behind me, a hulking shadow of fury, as I dropped the heavy, matte-black AmEx on the glass counter. It was the ultimate symbol of the Mafia Queen, and I was about to weaponize it.
"I'll take all the exotic leathers," I told the clerk. One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I knew Damien's phone was currently screaming with top-tier fraud alerts, right in the middle of his delicate Chicago negotiations.
Next, I pointed to a half-million-dollar diamond necklace. "It's beautiful," I murmured, glancing at Rocco's murderous reflection in the mirror. "Like a collar he could never put on me."
Rocco's jaw ticked, but he remained silent, his hands full of designer bags.
Finally, we moved to the men's department. I selected a Patek Philippe watch and raised my voice just enough for the surrounding Moretti shadows to hear. "Have this couriered to the Falcone estate. A gift for a Don who actually understands the value of Loyalty."
As the clerk—one of Topo's Associates in disguise—handed me the receipt, our fingers brushed. A micro-USB drive slipped seamlessly into my palm. My strategic objective was complete.
Suddenly, Rocco pressed two fingers to his earpiece. His broad shoulders stiffened. The irritation in his eyes vanished, replaced instantly by the cold, dead stare of an executioner.
He lunged, his massive hand clamping down on my bicep like a steel vice.
"Hey!" I snapped, dropping a shopping bag.
"We're leaving," Rocco snarled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now."
"Let go of me, Rocco."
"Giuliana's transport was just ambushed on the way to the hospital," he hissed, dragging me toward the exit with terrifying force. "Professional hit. The Don wants you at Mount Sinai. He wants you to see exactly what your fucking Vendetta has done."
My blood ran cold. An ambush? Now? The timing was too perfect. The precision, the lack of traces—it was a textbook Falcone Enforcer strike. But I hadn't given the order.
Someone else had. A puppet master had just used my perfectly timed shopping spree as a smokescreen, framing me for a hit I didn't commit, and pointing the full, murderous wrath of the Moretti Don directly at my head.
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9.7
Prostitution wasn't exactly the future Ariella pictured for herself. But a series of unfortunate events landed her in a brothel she couldn't escape. Until he came in.
His name is Killian Morozcov. He moved liked he owned the world and planted bullets in the heads of men who looked at him the wrong way. He came into the brothel and left with her, and no matter how much she pleaded, he refused to tell her why.
In Ariella's experience, she's learnt that you either stab someone in the back or they'll do it to you. Yet Killian showed her a side of humanity she'd never seen before and her defences fall, leading to a love that they both knew couldn't last.
he was an heir to a Mafia kingdom, and she was a girl from a brothel with no familial backing.
their love was doomed the moment Killian saved her.
especially since he saved the wrong girl. he'd gone to the brothel thinking Ariella was his lost sister, Stella Morozcov.
he'd been wrong and in the process of continuing his search for Stella he grew attracted to Ariella. so much that he felt that he couldn't breath without her.
Their love is built on nothing but pain and deceit...skeletons rotting in their closets. They both have secrets that could tear them apart.
But the past is a funny thing... no matter how much you run from it, it always guns you down in the end.
7.9
Alicia needed money. Three days before eviction, she walked into an underground auction believing she would walk out free. Instead, she was sold to the most powerful man in the city.
Dmitri Hunt is a mafia don feared by humans and an Alpha feared by wolves. He claims her, controls her, and hides secrets that could destroy her life.
Alicia must choose between running from her fate or standing beside the man who may have planned everything from the start...
8.1
A slow-burn romance about love, loss, and becoming worthy of the heart you almost lost.
Julien Moreau has everything-money, charm, and women who fall for him too easily.
What he doesn't have is the ability to stay.
In Paris, he is known for loving without commitment and leaving without explanation. Hearts break behind him, and he never looks back.
Until Amélie Laurent.
She is different.
She doesn't chase him.
She doesn't beg for love.
And when she realizes Julien isn't ready to love honestly, she does the one thing no woman before her has done-
She walks away.
What follows is not a chase, but a reckoning.
As Julien is forced to face the emotional damage he has left behind, he learns that love isn't about desire or charm-it's about responsibility. And Amélie learns that loving someone should never cost her self-respect.
In a city where romance is everywhere, two hearts must decide:
Is love something you run from...
Or something you grow into?
Hearts Don't Break in Paris - They Teach is an emotional, slow-burn romance filled with self-discovery, redemption, and a love that chooses honesty over fear.
8.1
I replaced my twin sister in a marriage contract to the ruthless Mafia Don, Donovan Blackwood.
For three years, I was a ghost in his home, silently enduring his coldness while he flaunted his mistress, Chloe.
On the very last day of our contract, Chloe staged an accident.
Donovan didn't hesitate.
He forced me to drain my blood to save her life.
Then, to prove his loyalty to her, he drove me to the cliffs and pushed me into the freezing ocean.
He even locked me in a cellar infested with spiders—my deepest phobia—because she lied and said I threatened her.
He thought he was punishing the spoiled, arrogant Isabella.
He didn't know he was breaking Ava, the woman who had silently memorized his allergies and waited up for him in the dark every single night.
When I finally took my fifty million dollars and vanished, I left behind nothing but the divorce papers and a photo revealing the truth.
He tore the city apart, destroying my family to find me, only to realize he had tortured the wrong woman.
Now, he is standing on my porch in the pouring rain, staring in horror at the simple wooden ring on my finger given to me by another man.
He falls to his knees, begging for a chance to love the wife he tried to destroy.
I look at him, feeling absolutely nothing.
"It's too late, Donovan," I say, locking the door. "You killed her."
7.8
Seven years. That was the price tag attached to my father's life.
When my father gambled away money he didn't have, Michael Vance paid the debt.
He bought my father's safety, and in return, he bought me.
I was nineteen then. A peasant girl he polished up to look like a mob wife.
I was reapplying my lipstick in the vanity mirror of his armored SUV when I found a diamond choker tucked behind the sunshade.
It was a million-dollar piece of jewelry that wasn't mine, engraved with a date that wasn't my birthday.
That night at the gala, Michael threw his mistress's heavy fur coat at me.
"Hold this, Sarah. Jessica gets hot easily."
I stood there like a servant, buried under the scent of another woman’s perfume, watching my fiancé hold her on the dance floor with a tenderness he never showed me.
When I stumbled from hunger, he called me a liability to his image.
But when Jessica faked a crisis, he abandoned me at the venue to rush her home.
I walked to the nearest trash can and shoved the expensive fur down past the half-eaten caviar.
As the sugar from a cheap candy bar hit my bloodstream, the fog lifted.
I realized I wasn't a wife-in-training. I was a debt that had been paid in full.
I left the penthouse, the ring, and the life.
But Michael wouldn't let his property go.
He cornered me in a parking garage, screaming that I belonged to him, threatening to start a war.
He didn't expect me to be standing next to David Chen, the Underboss of the rival Triad faction.
And he certainly didn't expect me to take off my Louboutin stiletto and use it as a weapon.
"I don't love you, Michael," I said, looking him in the eye as he knelt on the concrete.
"And I'm not for sale anymore."
7.5
I spent five years laundering my family's wealth and buying military-grade weapons to crown my husband, Alistair, the Don of the Chicago Mafia.
But the night before his coronation, he drove an Italian stiletto into my stomach.
He sneered that a Don needed a true Mafia Queen, and that was always meant to be his "fragile" friend, Kylie.
As I bled out on the Persian rug, he revealed the sickening truth.
The night I was found in a rival Irish boss's bed two years ago wasn't a setup by our enemies. Alistair had ordered his own mother and sister to drug and frame me.
He just needed me terrified enough to sign over my merchant trust fund to prove my loyalty.
My entire marriage, my sacrifices, and my stolen wealth were just stepping stones for him and his mistress.
I had bled for him and won him the city, only to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb so he could hand my empire to another woman.
Before the flames I started consumed us both, I swore I'd drag his entire family to hell.
Opening my eyes again, the suffocating smoke was gone, replaced by the scent of lavender and the bitter taste of chloral hydrate.
I was back on the exact night of the frame-up two years ago.
Outside the door, my sister-in-law was whispering, waiting for the Irish boss to arrive so they could ruin me.
This time, I was going to make sure she was the one in that bed.