The Betrayed Wife's Ruthless Mafia Comeback
For five years, I was the flawless wife to the heir of the De Luca empire, securing billion-dollar acquisitions to prove my worth.
But my husband, Alessandro, still paraded his mistress in our home, publicly humiliating me as a "cold spreadsheet" while she sneered in triumph.
It didn't stop at infidelity. When I dared to cut off her credit cards, Alessandro decided to teach me a lesson.
He allowed his mistress to secretly file down the metal clasp on my horse's saddle right before a massive public equestrian event.
My leg was completely shattered in a horrific, agonizing fall in front of hundreds of elite guests.
While I lay bleeding in the dirt, my husband didn't even glance my way. Instead, he rushed to hold his mistress, shielding her eyes from the gruesome sight.
Later, pretending to be unconscious in the infirmary, I overheard him ordering his guards.
"Get rid of the saddle. It was just a lesson to remind her who's in charge."
He didn't just want me humiliated; he wanted me crippled and broken.
As the sterile smell of the hospital hit me, a horrifying realization set in—I was two weeks late. I was pregnant with his child.
The thought of my baby growing up in this ruthless, toxic family made my blood run cold, and the last spark of my love turned into absolute hatred.
The obedient wife died on that dirt track.
I quietly contacted his family's biggest rival and activated my secret scorched-earth protocol. It was time to burn his empire to the ground.
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Chapter 8
Katarina De Luca POV:
A few days later, I hosted a small afternoon tea in the garden for the wives of neighboring families. It was one of my duties, a tedious but necessary part of maintaining the De Luca facade.
I moved among the guests, a gracious and serene hostess, the picture of domestic tranquility.
Aria was there. Her accounts had been restored, her confidence with them. She wore a new diamond bracelet that glittered obnoxiously in the sun. She believed I had surrendered, and she was eager to press her advantage, to humiliate me in front of my peers.
She approached as I was speaking with the elderly Matriarch of the Falcone family, a glass of champagne in her hand.
"Mrs. De Luca is such an inspiration," Aria said to Mrs. Falcone, her voice dripping with false admiration. "She manages the family's business and the household accounts. So much work. I'm lucky, all I have to do is keep Alessandro happy."
The implication was clear: I was the help, she was the pleasure. The other women exchanged subtle, knowing glances.
I offered a placid smile. "We all have our roles. Some of us are here to create value, and others... are here to consume it."
Aria's face tightened, a flash of anger in her eyes.
Just then, Alessandro appeared, walking across the lawn toward our group.
Seeing her champion, Aria’s eyes lit up with a new, malicious idea. As she moved to pass me, her ankle "twisted" unnaturally. The champagne in her hand flew through the air, drenching the front of my dress.
Simultaneously, she let out a theatrical cry and threw herself sideways, collapsing into a bed of prize-winning roses.
Alessandro didn't see the prelude. He only saw the result: Aria, screaming in a thorn bush, and me, standing over her, looking cold and unmoved.
He rushed forward, his face a mask of concern. "Aria! Are you alright? Are you hurt?"
The tears came instantly, a masterful performance. "My ankle," she sobbed, clutching it. "I think... I think she tripped me."
The accusation, so blatant and absurd, hung in the suddenly silent air.
The guests watched, their faces rapt with the unfolding drama.
Alessandro bought every word. His head snapped toward me, his eyes blazing with fury. My dress was still dripping with champagne.
"Katarina! What the hell did you do?" he snarled.
I said nothing. I just watched the pathetic little play unfold. Any denial would be pointless. His verdict was already rendered.
Aria, nestled in his arms, dialed up the pathos. "It's not her fault, Alessandro, I was probably just clumsy... Oh, but my ankle really hurts."
Her feigned magnanimity only fueled his protective rage.
He scooped her up into his arms, a ridiculous, dramatic gesture, like a hero in a cheap romance novel.
He started to carry her toward the house, but then he stopped. He turned. And in front of everyone, in front of the most powerful women in our circle, he delivered his final, devastating command.
His voice was like a whip crack.
"Katarina. Apologize to Aria."
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8.6
"What do you think people would say if they found out you don't have a dick?" Christian asked, his voice low and dripping with seduction. His hand pressed firmly against my crotch, fingers exploring the flat, unfamiliar emptiness there. A devilish smirk curved his lips. "Or if they discovered these voluptuous breasts you've been hiding so well?"
A strangled moan slipped from my throat as his hand slid under my shirt, his fingers brushing over my hardened nipples, teasing them with slow, deliberate strokes.
"Which do you think they'd call you?" he murmured, eyes gleaming. "A boy with tits... or a dickless little fraud?"
I stared into his hungry blue eyes, words failing me.
"The term you're looking for is 'girl,'" came Xavier's smooth voice from the bathroom doorway. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, his gaze raking over me with open interest. "So tell me, little girl... what the hell is someone like you doing in an all-boys dorm?"
Christian's smirk widened. "She wants to be devoured by boys like us." His fingers gave my nipple one last firm pinch before he leaned in closer, breath hot against my ear. "And I'll be more than happy to give her a taste."
8.8
I am the best esports jungler in the league, but I've been hiding a severe wrist injury just to keep my team alive in the semifinals.
Right in the middle of the crucial tie-breaker game, our mid-laner deliberately walked into the enemy team and died without casting a single defensive spell.
He was match-fixing for offshore betting sites, throwing away our entire season for a massive payout.
Because of his betrayal, we had to sub in two terrified rookies, and we were absolutely slaughtered. The stadium crowd booed us out of the arena. The internet exploded with pure vitriol, trending hashtags calling me a washed-up fraud who hid on the bench to save my own stats. The media demanded I retire immediately. My physical therapist gave me a grim ultimatum: my shredded nerves only allow me four hours of playtime a day before my right hand completely locks up.
I destroyed my own body for this team, only to be sold out by a coward and crucified by the very fans I bled for. Why should my legacy end in total disgrace because of someone else's greed?
I refuse to step down. I forced the traitor out, ignored management's safe roster choices, and locked my eyes on the most toxic, universally hated streamer on the platform.
"He's a walking PR nightmare," my coach warned.
I don't care. He is an arrogant, unhinged killer in the game, and I am going to make him mine.
8.1
Samira James has two weeks left.
Two weeks until she turns eighteen.
Two weeks until everything changes.
And a few months left trapped in high school with the boy she hates most.
Calvin Simms has been her enemy for as long as she can remember. Popular, untouchable, and the living reminder of a childhood misunderstanding neither of them ever corrected. Their interactions are sharp, heated, and carefully controlled.
Until they aren't.
As months pass, tension replaces silence.
Jealousy replaces indifference.
And lines blur where hatred once lived.
With rivals watching, secrets resurfacing, and temptation growing harder to ignore, Samira must decide if sticking to her rules is worth denying what her body and her heart are already choosing.
Because some mistakes feel too good to stop.
And sometimes...
you don't fall for the person you want.
You fall for the one you swore to hate.
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."
8.1
I'd lived as a mafia queen, ruling with quiet strength, only to discover my entire life was a lie. My husband, Dante, secretly divorced me three years ago, then married our timid nanny. I wasn't just betrayed; I was a dead ex-wife walking, a ghost in my own home.
A mafia daughter, I expected routine at Rossi's law firm. But Rossi, pale and sweating, handed me an envelope: Dante's divorce judgment, signed three years ago, and his marriage certificate to Gia, our nanny.
Truth slammed me: Gia poisoned me for years, causing infertility, making her bastard son the sole heir. Hidden, I watched her force Dante, the Underboss, to kneel, drink hallucinogenic tea, and profess devotion. She smirked.
This was calculated murder: my existence, my legacy. Rage burned, but clarity struck: disappear, or vanish into the Long Island Sound.
From a hidden phone, I called Luca, the underworld's elite cleaner. "I need a top-tier scrub. Target is myself," I commanded. "Get me out of this hell. I'd rather die than be his taxidermy specimen."
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.