Tragic Love Mafia 短篇故事與 Bias Countdown 小說

"Amara…I regret it. Spending this life with you was the biggest mistake of my life. If I were given another life…I would choose to be with Planette." I had believed that through sixty years of wind and rain, they had become the inseparable flesh and blood of each other’s lives, waiting only to renew their vows in the next life. But his words were like a venomous dagger. My lifelong pride, the man I had poured my entire soul into loving, had trampled my sixty years of devotion into the mud and shattered it completely, using the most vicious method at the very end of his life. "Puff." A mouthful of blood suddenly sprayed across the pristine white bed sheet. I didn't even have time to let out a complete cry of agony. My pupils instantly dilated and lost focus as I fell rigidly backward. In the end, I couldn't survive the night. When I woke up again, I was reborn back to the age of twenty-eight, the very day after we got married.

The day I went for my final wedding dress fitting, I scrolled past a new video posted by Linsey Hart—my fiancé’s childhood friend. She held up her left hand to the camera, and there was the ring—the one that signified the donna of the Lucciano family. The one that was supposed to be mine. She tilted her head toward the camera and asked, "Salvatore, you’re really giving this to me? Are you sure your fiancée won’t mind?" His voice came from off-screen, lazy, unhurried. "It’s just a ring. Chiara won’t care. I’ll get her something better. As my donna, she’ll need to learn to be generous." My heart sank at those words. All those months of planning, all that anticipation I’d carried—it suddenly felt like nothing. I didn’t want this wedding anymore. I tapped the screen and left a like. Then, I typed a single comment: "Wishing you both a lifetime of happiness." Then I logged out.

I can see a number above everyone's head. It represents how many times we'll still get to meet. When I was ten, my grandmother's number had only one left. She braided my hair one last time, and that night she slipped away in her sleep. By the time I graduated college, my mentor's number read two. After our second meeting, he moved his whole family overseas and never came back. At twenty-five, I married Cardo Falcone, the Don of the Falcone family. Seven years married, and he came home on time every single day. Every dollar he earned went into our joint account. No matter how busy he was abroad, he'd video-call me before bed. And the most important thing: from the very first day I met Cardo, the number above his head wasn't a few hundred or a few thousand. It was "∞," one that would never run out. I thought that meant we were destined to spend the rest of our lives together. Then Cardo started visiting Camilla, the family's advisor, more and more often. When I pressed him about it, he paused for exactly one second, then bent down and kissed my forehead. "After Marco passed, it's been hard on Camilla, raising Ellie all alone. I have to step in for the family." Marco was Cardo's most trusted man. Three months ago, he died protecting Cardo. Cardo swore he'd protect Camilla and Ellie, because Marco died for him. That was the day I watched the "∞" above his head turn into a real, finite number. I told myself a person's life is limited, so of course the "∞" would change. But during those busy days, the number above his head kept dropping, falling faster with every trip he made to her. On the eve of our seventh anniversary, the night I meant to surprise Cardo with the news that I was pregnant, he wasn't there either, because of Camilla. In that moment, I understood. Numbers never lie. Cardo and I had no future left in this life. I hid the pregnancy test report. On the day I made up my mind, the number above Cardo's head turned into a bright red three.

I've always been terrible with directions. No matter where I go, I end up lost. Seraphina didn't buy the whole "born this way" excuse. So she roped in my foster brother Gabriel and my childhood friend Lucas, and they decided to put me through "training." For the border patrol exercise, they drove off with the tactical SUV ahead of time, took my phone, and left me stranded alone at the subway entrance—right in the middle of gang territory. They said it was to sharpen my sense of direction. I opened my bag and found a note from Seraphina: "We've walked this escape route with you twice. I know Carone's blood will find its way to the safe house, Leah!" "We'll be waiting at the mansion." I stared at those words, and suddenly this whole childish "training" felt hollow. Truth is, not memorizing the tunnels wasn't even a big deal. What hurt was being left behind—over and over again. So I went home and applied for Zurich. Ten days later, I was gone. And only when I was already across the ocean did they realize what they'd lost.

At the Moretti family banquet, Don Cesare Moretti won a two-person package to a private island resort. The host asked with a teasing grin, "Don Moretti, who are you taking with you?" Every pair of eyes in the room turned to me. The crowd began chanting my name, their voices rising with gleeful anticipation. "Adriana! Adriana!" My heart hammered against my ribs. I smiled at Cesare, hope blooming warm in my chest. But Cesare didn't even glance my way. His gaze had drifted past me, settling on his secretary sitting near the front. His voice was casual, almost indulgent. "Give it to her. The girl's been working late lately. She deserves a break." His secretary's face went scarlet. Those soldiers paused for just a beat—then someone shouted, "The Don is so thoughtful," and the laughter swelled again, smoothing over the moment. My best friend Bianca leaned in, whispering through clenched teeth, "We planned to get married together on the island this year. How could he forget something like that?" I smiled and forced back the tears. Then I reached over and straightened her collar. "Don't worry. The plan stays. The wedding happens." Then I called my father and said yes to the family arrangement. I would marry the Don of the Romanov family—Cesare's biggest rival. If Cesare didn't want to marry me, that was fine. I'd just find myself another groom.

While I packed Jack’s briefcase, I found a marriage certificate tucked inside. The official seal had been stamped across the document. In the photo, Jack and another girl smiled at the camera, looking happy and perfectly at ease. My hands trembled as I grabbed the certificate and placed it in front of him. Jack only glanced at it. His expression did not change as he calmly continued eating. “Layla Watson. You know her. She’s the daughter of a minor business associate. “She was attacked last year. Her parents happened to be away, so I stepped in and helped her. Her family’s business has been struggling lately, and they wanted to force her into an arranged marriage to secure some money. She refused. With nowhere else to turn, she came to me. “I’m the Godfather. Once she registered the marriage with me, her parents wouldn’t dare interfere in her life again.” He spoke between bites. His voice stayed calm, as though he had done nothing more than help someone in need. However, the marriage certificate on the table kept stabbing at my eyes. I tried to hold myself together, yet the tears kept falling. Jack and I had been together for eight years. In all that time, I had never heard him say he wanted to marry me. I waited for eight years. I never thought that, after all that waiting, some young girl would reach the altar before me.

My husband, Cillian Burke. King of the New York underworld. He runs his life on strict orders. Every second counts. Break his rules for more than three minutes? He strips my access. Instantly. Not a single second of grace. Today is our anniversary. I walk into the core lab three minutes late. Morning sickness. And just like that, I lose the purity test for my new drug. Liliana Croft is already sitting at my station. Taking my place. This is the fourth time. I fall one step behind. He punishes me without hesitation. He gives my world to Liliana. The first time. A Family meeting. I was two minutes late checking the books. He flew to the Vegas underground trade. He took Liliana instead of me. Second time. Prenatal checkup. Five minutes late. He took Liliana to our lakeside safe house. We were supposed to spend the weekend there. Third time. Morning sickness. Ninety seconds late coming downstairs. He left with Liliana. They went to a family dinner. Only core members were allowed. "You always ruin my schedule, Ava. I gave you a time. You are my wife. You are also a Burke. Obey my rules. Absolutely." I stand alone outside the lab. A sudden cramp hits my stomach. My hands shake. I call Cillian. No answer. I call again. No answer. Third time. He finally picks up. "The alarm terrified Liliana. She is unstable. I am not leaving her. Call the Family doctor yourself. Ava, listen to me. Stop wasting my time with petty drama." I look down. Dark blood spreads at my feet. I drop my phone. Cillian. Your ironclad rules never bend for me. Not once. Fine. My turn. I am cutting you out of my world. Forever.

When Dante postponed our wedding because of Nadia for the fourth time, I accepted it silently as usual. But after hanging up, I immediately had my private lawyer draft a divorce agreement. I placed the agreement on the last page of our postnuptial agreement, then asked Dante to sign it. He was rushing pick up Nadia, so he signed his name without reading it at all. "The agreement will take effect 7 days after signing." Seven days. Seven days later was the exact wedding date Dante had promised me. The countdown began.

Everyone in New Volka's underground world knows that the young Don Lorenzo Corsi is a cold-blooded lunatic. He only shows his gentle side to me. Seven years ago, Lorenzo saves me from an underground casino that belongs to the Corsi family. He also pays off my sickly Padre's astronomical medical bill on my behalf. He slips the family heirloom diamond ring that identifies me as the Donna of the family on my finger. When the heads of the family oppose his decision, he declares that he will only accept me as his wife in his lifetime. I once believed I was the only one he favored, but everything changed when his childhood friend, Viviana Rossi, returned to New Volka and became the family's new Consigliere. Lorenzo silently allows her to sit next to the main seat during family banquets—the spot that used to exclusively belong to me. "The Rossi family took a heavy blow for my sake in the past, Clara," he says. "I have to compensate her. However, my heart and the position of 'Mrs. Corsi' will forever belong to you." I believe Lorenzo's words, giving in time and time again as I remain by his side through seven bloody and turbulent years. On our seventh wedding anniversary, a rival family bombs our estate in the suburbs. Lorenzo rushes into the collapsing banquet hall and picks Viviana up. Although I'm three months pregnant, he says, "You're the strongest, Clara. Just hold on for three minutes. I'll come back for you once I send her to the bulletproof car." Three minutes pass, but Lorenzo still hasn't come back. The baby is gone when I regain consciousness. I also lose the ability to become a mother for the rest of my days. I calmly withdrew my hand and looked at Lorenzo, who had sunk to one knee beside the bed, overcome with remorse. Seven years ago, he saved Papa's life on my behalf. I've already paid off my debt to him with the seven years I spent with him and my child's life. I will leave his empire completely and live the rest of my life without him.

My husband was the Don of Sicily's largest Mafia family. He owned more than 100 casinos and controlled every smuggling and gunrunning route through Sicily's docks. I lived on his lavish estate and spent his money. I'd been his Donna for seven years. His first love had a heart condition, and he spent three days a week with her. Every time he left, I raised hell. Then I'd have a private investigator track where he went. Before each visit, he'd try to appease me by depositing money into my account and signing over another piece of his territory. I held on to every fund and share transfer agreement he gave me. Once I had 108 agreements, I stopped fighting him and asking where he'd been. I waited until he was on his way out. Then, for the first time, I calmly handed him a carefully chosen agreement transferring one of his gunrunning routes to me. He looked up at me through a haze of cigar smoke. His expression softened, and he signed without hesitation. "When I get back, I'll take you to the jeweler. Your ring is getting old." I forced a smile and nodded like a good wife. As I looked at his signature on the agreement, my heart sank. He'd signed 108 transfer agreements, never imagining the last one would be our divorce agreement.

From the age of ten, every dollar my parents spent on me became a debt. Tuition. Clothes. Food. Even medical bills. By eighteen, I had signed one hundred and ninety-nine promissory notes. But Camilla—the daughter of the man who died protecting my parents—received everything for free. They gave her my bedroom, my inheritance bracelet, a Manhattan apartment, a Maserati, and eventually even the attention of my fiancé, Nick. My parents called it repaying her father’s sacrifice. They called my suffering “heir training.” On the eighteenth birthday Camilla and I shared, I was seriously injured in a car accident. While my family celebrated her aboard a Caribbean yacht, I begged them for three thousand dollars to pay for emergency surgery. They accused me of inventing the accident to ruin her party. Then Mom told me to sign another promissory note. That became number two hundred. I finally understood that no amount of obedience would make them choose me. So I gave myself seven days to repay every cent, surrender the DeLuca name, and end my engagement.

When Vivienne Carter married Sebastian Cross at twenty-two, everyone said how lucky she was. He was ten years older, a mafia Don with terrifying power in his hands, and yet for three years he doted on her alone. He indulged her in everything, kept her sheltered under his wing, tender and attentive down to the smallest detail. Only in the dead of night did he turn possessive and overpowering, taking without limit, never once relenting even when she begged him through tears. She had always been certain she was the one thing he loved. Then her father died without warning. Drowning in grief, she called him ninety-nine times, and every call was cut off. In an instant, a single photo shattered every illusion she had. On a Paris street softened by dusk, the man she'd loved for three years was bending to hold another woman. That woman, gentle-featured and faintly resembling her, was her cousin.

My boyfriend, Luca Moretti, heir to New York’s most feared mafia family, had my name removed from the college recommendation written for me. He replaced it with Bianca’s. When I called him, he didn’t even deny it. “You have perfect grades. You can get into Columbia without that letter. Bianca can’t. She has nothing else to fall back on.” He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. My grip tightened around the phone. “And if I don’t get into Columbia?” “Then you’ll go somewhere else in the city. I’ll still be here. We’ll still be together.” He said it like that settled everything. Luca had to stay in New York to inherit his father’s empire. I had promised to stay because I loved him. Somehow, that had become permission to decide how much of my future I could afford to lose. “Bianca doesn’t have anyone else,” he added. “You have me.” I looked at the MIT acceptance letter open on my laptop. “Are you listening?” Luca asked. “I’m not going anywhere.” For three years, those words would have been enough to make me forgive him. This time, I didn’t answer. I just clicked Accept Offer. “You’re right,” I said. “You’re not.” Then I hung up and booked a one-way ticket to Boston.

On what should have been our wedding day—for the eighth time—Luca Romano was called away yet again by his childhood sweetheart, Vivian Marino. I didn't argue or make a scene. I even smiled and wished them well. Everyone stared at me in shock as I calmly announced that the wedding was canceled. No one knew I had been reborn. In my previous life, I instinctively grabbed Luca and tried to stop him. After hesitating for a moment, he stayed and went through with the wedding. But Vivian was heartbroken. In a fit of despair, she agreed to a marriage alliance in Moscow, only to die in a car accident on the way there. From that day on, Luca hated me. I was still his Donna, seemingly blessed with the status, power, and man everyone envied. But in reality, he ignored my feelings and shut me out for twenty years. Until a rival Family laid an elaborate ambush for us. The moment the bomb went off, Luca pulled me tightly into his arms and shielded me with his body. Warm blood smeared across my cheek. He gave a faint laugh as he wiped away my tears. “Diana, I've repaid everything I owed you in this life.” “If there's another life, let Vivian and me be together.” I eventually died, consumed by grief. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the day Vivian agreed to the marriage alliance out of spite. This time, I would give him what he wanted. So why did he lose his mind with regret after I left?

When I was ten, my mother married into the Corleone family, and I followed her into that house. Before Vincent Corleone learned to hate me, he had once treated me like a real little sister. Later, he became the one who hurt me most. He believed my mother had driven his own mother to her death, and from that day on, he made sure I paid for it. Humiliation, contempt, cruelty—he never spared me any of it. Then Leo Moretti, Vincent’s closest friend, confessed that he loved me. I thought he was my way out. I was wrong. The morning after I gave him my first time, I overheard him speaking to Vincent behind a half-closed door. “I got the photos from her first night,” Leo said quietly. “Are you really going to make them public?” Vincent’s voice was cold enough to freeze my blood. “She owes my mother a life. If I can’t take that, then I’ll make sure she pays another way. I want her ruined.” That was the moment I understood. The tenderness had been fake. The love had been a trap. And the man I had trusted most had been waiting all along to destroy me. What they didn’t know was that two weeks earlier, I had already received an invitation from Professor Evans at the world’s top international medical research institute. So this time, I left first. And I was never coming back.

04:00 AM. JFK International Airport. I switched off airplane mode, and my phone lit up. The first notification was an Instagram story from my husband, Donovan Valentino, Don of the Valentino family, posted at 3:30 AM: a photo of Seraphina Moretti’s back, captioned, “Run 50 completed. Package delivered safe.” An hour before that, my flight had hit catastrophic clear-air turbulence, dropping two thousand feet in seconds. I’d clung to my seatbelt until my knuckles turned white, the crumpled threat letter from a rival crew pressed like a blade against my ribs. In those blind, falling seconds, one thought burned through the panic: If I live through this—if Donovan is waiting at arrivals—I’ll tear up my transfer papers to Dubai and stay. But there were no missed calls. No messages. He’d been too busy collecting Seraphina. He knew my flight details. He just didn’t care. Four years of marriage. 50 fully armed security details for Seraphina. For my 112 long-haul flights over those same four years? The most I ever got was a driver in an unmarked sedan. Even the night Gambino’s crew tailed me from Manhattan, and I spent six hours locked in a diner bathroom. He didn’t pick up until dawn, after the twelfth try. My transfer to Dubai was confirmed. The signed divorce settlement was in my bag. This was the last time I’d ever come back for him.

For love, I followed Harrison, the underboss of the Moretti family, from halfway across the world. But for five whole years, my permanent residency application had gone nowhere. Several key steps required Harrison's personal involvement, but he always claimed he was too swamped with family business to find the time. Yet Cathy, my so-called stepsister, who was living on our estate, got her residency in just two short weeks. I only found out through the servants' gossip that Harrison had personally stepped in, pressuring a top immigration lawyer to rush it through. With my hopes completely shattered, I told him I wanted to go home. Harrison, a man who was always so proud, panicked. He pulled me into a fierce embrace, kissing my hair. "Aurora, you're my wife. Getting your permanent residency is just a matter of time." "But Cathy is different. She has no family to protect her. Without legal status, she could be deported at any moment." "Just do it for me. Stay. Okay?" Once again, I gave in to his tender words. Until today. I went to the immigration office alone to check on my file. The clerk stared at the screen, her face a mask of confusion. "Ma'am, the system clearly states that Mr. Harrison Moretti's legal spouse is... a Ms. Cathy." "Did you perhaps fill out your form incorrectly?" My world froze. So, the five years of waiting had all been a lie. I wasn't just denied permanent residency; my very marriage was a fraud. I didn't go back to the estate. I went straight to the airport and flew home. Before I boarded, the last message from him read: "Stop throwing a tantrum. Come home." But Harrison, we didn't have a home anymore.

I'd been married to Dante Vitale, the Don of the Sicilian Mafia, for three years. Everyone knew it. I was the woman he'd carefully protected and cherished since we were young. When I was fifteen, a group of thugs cornered me. Dante stepped in to protect me and ended up with several broken ribs. Three years ago, in front of the entire Mafia, he swore before my late father's portrait that he would love me and take care of me for the rest of our lives. Then I accidentally spilled coffee on our marriage certificate. When I took our marriage certificate to get it reissued, the clerk told me it was fake. Isabella was his real wife. And Dante didn't even seem to think it was a big deal. "Dante says you're as pure as the moon, meant to shine where everyone can see you. I'm the blade he keeps close to his side. He wants us both. But, Marie, I'm the one who's actually his wife, aren't I?" I closed the message without responding to Isabella's taunt and replied to my friend's email instead. "Book me a flight to Paris for next week."

Every Christmas Eve in Port Saint Giovanni, the Camerlano family hosts the Claiming Rite at Saint Giovanni Manor. Twelve girls stand in a line. Whoever receives the white-gold signet pin becomes the heir’s publicly acknowledged bride candidate. I am Grace Sorrento, the bastard daughter of the Sorrento family. If I do not receive that signet tonight, by sunrise I will be put on a plane to Chicago and married off to a Rizzo, a man rumored to have killed two former fiancées. Adrian Camerlano, the boy I grew up with, swore to me in blood three days ago that the signet would be mine. But when the moment came, his hand turned. With a smile, he pinned it on Lucia, the orphan his family had sponsored. Then he leaned close to my ear. "Let Lucia have her moment. No one has ever really looked at her before. Don’t worry. This is my estate. No one will dare arrange your marriage without my say." I grabbed his sleeve, but he removed my fingers one by one. "Lucia has no roots and no last name. Tonight is all she has. But you are a Sorrento. Even without the signet, no one will touch you." That phrase, no last name, drew every gaze in the ballroom toward me, full of pity and quiet mockery. The next morning, I boarded a flight to Chicago. When Adrian heard, he made one call to Port Saint Giovanni Air Control. "Ground every plane. Nothing leaves today!"

My fiancé had spent the past two weeks planning an extravagant birthday party for me. But when I finally arrived at the ballroom, I discovered that everything had been decorated to suit my younger sister’s taste. Even the three-tier birthday cake was made with mangoes, which I was allergic to. When the servers wheeled out the cake, I had barely closed my eyes to make a wish when my sister took it upon herself to blow out the candles. “Claire, you’re always so unlucky. Let me make a wish for you instead. I guarantee it’ll come true!” Julian smiled indulgently as he helped her remove the candles. “Mia’s just a kid at heart. Why hold it against her?” When it was time to cut the cake, my sister once again stepped in ahead of me, taking Julian’s hand and guiding it to make the first cut. Our friends started teasing them. “You two are the real stars of this birthday party, aren’t you?” Mia ducked shyly behind Julian, who immediately came to her defense with a laugh. “Eat your cake and leave her alone. Mia’s shy. Stop teasing her.” Everyone crowded around Julian and Mia, while I was reduced to little more than a background prop. I turned to leave, but just before I reached the door, I heard my sister call out in alarm. “Where’s Claire going? Is she upset?” Julian paused for a moment before answering casually, “It’s nothing. She’s always been the jealous type.” With that, the last shred of hope I had left finally died. I accepted an offer from VELMONT, one of Milan’s leading fashion houses, and booked a flight to Milan for three days later. My engagement party with Julian was supposed to take place that day, but I had no intention of showing up.