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Mafia Stories

The Mafia King's Obsession (Dark Romance)

The Mafia King's Obsession (Dark Romance)

5.0

Burned by betrayal Vincenzo De Lucas love turned to a double headed sword. Sweet but psycho. ****** "Here. Sign this and you can start immediately. If you have anything important at home, bring it here....I'll provide you with everything. "Clothes, food, whatever you need," he said, the smirk returning to his face. She reached for the file hesitantly, her eyes narrowing slightly. Something felt...off. Too quick. Too intense. Just as she was about to flip through the pages, her phone rang. Tring... Tring... She glanced at Liam. He nodded. "It's okay." She quickly signed the last page without reading. Inside, her instincts itched. Something didn't sit right. But she brushed the feeling off. Maybe he was just one of those flirty, arrogant bosses. "You signed without reading it," he said in a whisper only she could hear. "Bold." "I trust Liam," she replied. Vincenzo smiled, not the kind that made people feel safe. She handed the file back and turned to leave. Vincenzo stood silently, watching her go. The way her hair swayed. The curve of her waist. That innocent look in her eyes. As she disappeared around the corner, he exhaled sharply. "Such a girl," he muttered under his breath. "I never expected someone like her in my life, that face, those lips. Those curves." He laughed, low and full of wicked pleasure. "Oh, Vincenzo De Luca. You are one lucky bastard." He reached for the contract she had just signed and tapped his fingers on the table, a smirk growing on his face. "Welcome to my kingdom, once again" he said. "You just sold yourself to the devil." He ran a finger slowly across her photo again, his smirk spreading. "Such a fucking beauty," he muttered under his breath. "And she walked right into my trap"

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From Mafia Wife to Rival's Queen

From Mafia Wife to Rival's Queen

5.0

After fifteen years of marriage and a brutal battle with infertility, I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. This baby was my victory, the heir that would finally secure my place as the wife of mob capo Marco Vitiello. I planned to announce it at his mother's party, a triumph over the matriarch who saw me as nothing but a barren field. But before I could celebrate, my friend sent me a video. The headline read: "MOB CAPO MARCO VITIELLO'S PASSIONATE NIGHTCLUB KISS!" It was him, my husband, devouring a woman who looked like a younger, fresher version of me. Hours later, Marco stumbled home, drunk and reeking of another woman's perfume. He complained about his mother begging him for an heir, completely unaware of the secret I held. Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number. "Your husband slept with my girl. We need to talk." It was signed by Dante Moretti, the ruthless Don of our rival family. The meeting with Dante was a nightmare. He showed me another video. This time, I heard my husband's voice, telling the other woman, "I love you. Elara... that's just business." My fifteen years of loyalty, of building his empire, of taking a bullet for him—all dismissed as "just business." Dante didn't just reveal the affair; he showed me proof that Marco was already stealing our shared assets to build a new life with his mistress. Then, he made me an offer. "Divorce him," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "Join me. We'll build an empire together and destroy him."

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When Love Rebuilds From Frozen Hearts

When Love Rebuilds From Frozen Hearts

5.0

On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies.

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