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 7
Isabella POV
The St. Regis suite was a temporary sanctuary, a place to scrub the sterile, pathetic stench of the hospital from my skin. I discarded the clothes I’d worn like shedding a weak skin. In their place, I donned my armor: a floor-length, midnight-blue silk gown that clung to my curves, paired with stiletto heels sharp enough to draw blood. Tonight wasn't a family dinner; it was a war council.
Downstairs, the rain had settled into a relentless, freezing mist. Damien’s armored Maybach sat idling at the curb, a massive black beast waiting to swallow me whole. Damien stood by the open rear door, his jaw tight, wearing a fresh suit that couldn't hide the violent tension radiating from his broad shoulders.
I didn't look at him as I slid into the cavernous back seat. The scent of expensive cream leather and his lingering, rain-dampened cologne immediately enveloped me. He moved to follow, his large hand gripping the doorframe as he prepared to slide in beside me and claim his territory.
I shifted my gaze to him, my expression carved from ice. "I need my space. Ride up front."
He froze. The streetlights caught the lethal, incredulous flash in his dark eyes. For a split second, the Don of the Moretti family looked ready to drag me out onto the wet pavement and remind me who ruled New York. His knuckles turned white against the doorframe. But he couldn't touch me. He needed me to play my part for the Chairman, and we both knew it.
The muscle in his jaw feathered. Without a single word, he withdrew. He slammed the heavy armored door shut with a force that shook the chassis. A moment later, the front passenger door opened and closed violently.
The engine purred as we pulled away from the curb. Immediately, the thick, bulletproof glass partition glided upward with a soft hum, sealing me in a private, soundproof cage. It physically severed the Don from his wife, reducing the most feared man in the city to a chauffeur's companion.
The darkness of the back seat was absolute, save for the rhythmic flash of passing city lights. I reached into my clutch and pulled out a secondary, heavily encrypted burner phone. My thumb hovered over the screen as I pulled up the contact for my chief Enforcer.
Entering the Moretti den. Proceed as planned. No backup required. Stay dark.
I hit send to Marco 'The Ghost' Bellini.
The screen went black, and I slipped the phone back into my bag just as the city skyline gave way to the desolate, winding roads of Long Island. Through the rain-streaked window, the gothic silhouette of the Moretti Estate loomed into view. The massive wrought-iron gates, bearing the imposing 'M' crest, slowly parted. Two stone-faced Soldiers stood guard in the downpour, their eyes tracking the Maybach as it rolled onto the gravel drive toward the sprawling, dimly lit manor.
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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.