Melodramatic Mafia Short Stories & Independence Regret Novels

My fiancé, Dominic, heir to the Carvalho crime family, vanished for four days. I thought a rival family had put a bullet in his head. Then I saw his ex’s Instagram story. A shot of them in bed. The caption: He still knows every inch of me. His face was hidden, but his hand wasn't. And on it, the ring I gave him, resting on her skin. That night, Dominic came home. He brought me white roses, my favorite. I asked him why. Why he'd lie. Why he'd sleep with her. He brushed it off. Just a "misunderstanding." I was done. I threw the ring in his face. Burned the wedding dress. Told him we were over. He thought I was just throwing a fit. He didn't get it. Not until he realized I was walking away for good. Then he panicked. Begged me to come back.

"Boss... it's so hard, so deep... fill me up, please?" The moans belonged to my former best friend, Tessa. But the man thrusting into her like a wild animal, slapping her ass and groaning about how good she felt, was my husband. Don Killian. The man who made sure all of Chicago knew he loved me. He even implanted a micro-GPS chip in the back of my neck just to protect me. He always knew Tessa wanted him. But he rejected her countless times. He once said publicly that if she wasn't my best friend, he would've dumped a bitch like her in the river. But three months ago, she finally crawled into his bed. And everything changed. Killian got addicted to her body. Three months. Sixty-six times. And they thought I didn't know. I stared at the calendar. Seven days until our wedding anniversary. I made a call and booked two surgeries. One to dig out the GPS chip. The other to give me a brand-new face. Killian, since you betrayed me... In seven days, I'll give you one last anniversary gift. And then I'll disappear forever.

At the candlelit dinner for our tenth anniversary, my husband, Rian Ruthven, ditched me after getting a call from Chloe, a rookie accountant. He left me with a single sentence: "Finish your food and head home." No hesitation, no concern. Strictly business, as if I were just his subordinate, not the wife who had loved him for ten years. A few hours later, I found out he left simply because Chloe's kid had a fever. She had no friends and could only call her boss, Rian. Rian’s explanation to me was: "I just felt bad for her. It's not easy raising a kid alone." I just found it absurd. Since when did the famously ruthless Godfather of the Ruthven family have such a bleeding heart? It suddenly hit me that in the ten years I'd been with Rian, I was his wife in the shadows; to the rest of the world, I was just his CFO. When I ran a 104-degree fever and asked for time off, all I got was a cold text: "Recover quickly. The business needs you." A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I quietly drafted my resignation and divorce papers.

When my mother went into kidney failure and needed a transplant, it was Pauline Maynard—on the brink of death herself—who gave my mom a second chance at life. Just before Pauline passed, she gripped my hand tightly and whispered her final words. "Summer, Ricky is my only son. He's rebellious… and fragile. Please, take care of him. Just three years, please?" I gave her my word. Then I moved into their home and gave Ricky everything he needed—love, comfort, a sense of safety. For three years, I stayed true to that promise. By the third year, Ricky had transformed. No longer the wayward boy he once was, he rose to become the Mafia Don Ricky Lenza. And I was carrying his child. As I busied myself with wedding plans, I overheard something I was never meant to hear—his voice, low and mocking, as he wrapped another woman in his arms. "Summer? She's just pretending to love me for the sake of my mother's inheritance and a stupid deal. A gold digger like her dreams of marrying me? What a joke." A sharp pain pierced my chest, like thorns stabbing deep beneath the skin. On the way to a prenatal checkup, we were hit in a crash. My baby didn't make it. And my mother, sitting in the passenger seat, shielded me with her life. When I woke up, I stared blankly at the date on my phone. Three days left. That would've marked the end of the three-year promise. I realized then—I'd paid my debt to Pauline in full. It was time for me to go.

My husband, Dante, is the most untouchable Don of the Vance family in New York. He has one unbreakable rule: After 9 p.m., if he's out on family business, he does not take calls. I understood his devotion to the family, so for five years, I did my best never to disturb him. Until last night, when I was driving alone past the docks and walked straight into an ambush by a rival family's armed men. In a panic, I called Dante, begging him to save me. The phone rang for what felt like forever. When he finally picked up, his voice was ice-cold: "Nora, we've been married a long time. As the Donna of the Vance family, you should know the rules." Then he hung up. That night, I barely escaped the hail of bullets by the skin of my teeth. I spent the night in the hospital. But when I came home the next morning, all I got was a reproachful look. He accused me of interrupting a critical family shipment deal—and of sending a fake distress signal. I knew how hard he worked, so I swallowed my hurt. But later, when I used his computer, I accidentally saw his call log. One contact had been calling him almost every single night—always after nine. For five full years. I knew that number. It belonged to Alexa, the Vance family's Capo. The woman everyone in the family had agreed, for all these years, was the one truly fit to stand beside Dante. In that moment, every ounce of suppressed hurt came flooding back. After I calmed myself, I picked up my phone and found an invitation I'd received a few days ago—to an international art exhibition. And I clicked "Accept." In three days, I would disappear from his world completely.

In New York's Cosa Nostra, girls were lining up to marry Matteo Rinaldi. The Don’s heir. My sister, Stella, and I both attended the selection gala. Stella was the favorite. The future Donna. But she wasn't chosen. The family swarmed her. Comforting her. I stood in the corner with the diamond ring in my hand. The one from Matteo. I wanted to tell them. He chose me. But the words wouldn't come out. Because a nightmare had just flashed through my mind. A vision of my future. In that vision, I told them everything that Matteo picked me. Stella, humiliated, bought a ticket to Europe the next day. I married Matteo. But my family wasn't happy for me. They saw me in my wedding dress at the church. Their first words: "If you hadn't stolen Matteo, Stella would still be here. She wouldn't be suffering in Europe." Later, Stella met Nolan in Europe. The Pakhan of the Russian Bratva. The Rinaldi family's mortal enemy. My parents used me. They spied on the Rinaldis, feeding intel to Stella to help her marry Nolan. Matteo found out. He called me a traitor. Threw me in a dungeon. Ruined my face. I finally escaped. I begged my parents to save me. But they were gone. They had a new life in Russia. That's when I knew they never loved me. And now, I clutched the ring in my hand. A bitter taste in my mouth. I'll give the ring back. I’m not marrying into the Rinaldi family. If they never loved me, then I’m gone for good.

My husband Matteo is the Don of the Moretti family, the kind of man who makes everyone bow their heads. Except when it comes to Chiara, his genius hacker of an adopted sister. She's the one person he can't control. At least, that's what he's always told me. One causes trouble, the other cleans it up. They've been doing it for five years. Until she tampered with my brake system. The car crashed. I nearly died. He didn't show up at the hospital the entire time I was in surgery. After it was over, he rushed in to explain: "Don't blame Chiara. She just thought it'd be fun. She wasn't really trying to kill you." "She knew I'd set you up with the best medical team. She was only trying to scare you." He'd barely finished signing the papers when his assistant told him Chiara was being harassed at a bar. And Matteo rushed off again. What he didn't know was that because of this crash, we'd lost the baby we'd been longing for. But he didn't need to know. In seven days, I was going back to my own family.

I spent ten years by Luca Romano’s side, helping him rebuild after the shooting and seize control of the Romano family. At his lowest, even soft footsteps in the hallway kept him awake all night. Night after night, I held his trembling hands and helped him fight his fears. When he recovered, the first thing he did was cook for me: simple tomato meat-sauce spaghetti. I finished every bite. He said he’d make it for me for the rest of my life, whenever I wanted. But once Luca reclaimed the family, work swallowed him. Coming home needed advance scheduling, and I hardly saw him. On the rare nights he joined dinner, I’d ask for that pasta again. He’d rub his brow and say, “I’ve worked all day. I just want to unwind at home. We have a chef. Tell them if you want food.” I knew how strained he was, so I never mentioned it again. Then Friday, Luca’s right-hand man Mark Rossi came to the house for painkillers. Afraid Luca’s old gunshot wound flared up, I went with him — and found Luca at Selina Bruni’s apartment. In the kitchen, he’d shed his jacket, rolled up sleeves to cook pasta. Selina sat at the counter; her brother, Luca’s former deputy, died saving him. A chef stood nearby, yet Luca plated the pasta himself. He wiped a smudge of sauce off the plate, handed it to her, and leaned down to ask if it was too hot. I thought of the week before: he’d promised dinner at home. I waited four hours, six till ten, only to get a message that he was worn out and going straight to bed. So tiredness wasn’t the issue. He simply no longer wanted to cook for me. I left the painkillers there and walked away. That night, I took a London magazine job offer and messaged my lawyer. As I slipped off my wedding ring, my phone lit up. Luca texted: “I’ll come home for dinner this weekend. I’ll make your favorite pasta.” I stared long and sent no reply. He’d already made that pasta for someone else. There was no reason left for me to wait at the table.

In New York’s Upper East Side, there were two heirs. One was a speed-obsessed daredevil dominating the racetracks, the other was a brilliant actuary who controlled the flow of capital. Born into powerful families and polar opposites in temperament, yet they grew up side by side as each other’s only best friend. They had fought over girls and bickered endlessly over racing bets. However, at fifteen, there was one thing they did in perfect unison. They each put on the same roughly carved bronze badge. They were trinkets Mia had idly made during a craft class, marked only by a faint “M” scratched on the back. Back then, Mia was seated in the last row of the classroom. Her background was a complete mystery to everyone. Yet they wore that badge for ten whole years. Whether standing on the F1 podium or locking in billion-dollar trades at the exchange, the cheap little badge on their chests never changed. Until Ella showed up. She was the cherished daughter of a rising conglomerate family. She hand-stitched two gold-thread fabric patches and gifted them to them. The patches looked so ordinary they looked like the kind of trinket you would find three for a dollar at a flea market. And yet, they both replaced their bronze badges with her plain patches. Mia did not say anything. She simply folded away an old newspaper clipping with a photo of the three of them smiling together. That night, she called her father in Sicily. Her voice was emotionless. “Papa, I accept the marriage arrangement.”

I had just gotten back from the hospital when Mom pulled me into the walk-in closet and held a pale pink couture gown against me. "Try it on. It's from the designer's new collection. We have a major event this weekend, and as the Wellman heiress, you need to look your best." Heat crept into my cheeks. The pregnancy test results were still tucked inside my bag. How could Mom already know? I smiled and nodded. "But Mom, wouldn't white be better?" I ducked my head, a shy smile playing on my lips. The news of my pregnancy was right on the tip of my tongue. "White does look prettier. Soren has such good taste, picking that white wedding gown for Daisy. You're the maid of honor, so pale pink is perfect." The smile froze on my face. Just then, Daisy called up from the living room. "Vivian, are you home? I brought my fiancé!" I picked up my phone and stared at the good-morning message Soren had sent me yesterday. "My dearest Vivian, you are the only bride I will ever have." I turned around and saw Soren and Daisy standing in my doorway, wrapped in each other's arms. Tears spilled down my cheeks. Soren, you lied to me.

In the New York Mafia, everyone knows that Cassian, the ruthless Don of the Valeriano family, loves me. His devotion is practically a legend. A cold-blooded killer like him spends a month every year at his family's estate in Sicily, praying for my health. I always thought I was the only queen in his empire. Until the day I saw an encrypted video. My best friend Bianca was holding a little boy, smiling at the camera. "We couldn't keep our hands off each other at the villa back then. That's how Nico was made." "So every year, we come back to thank God for this gift." A second later, a man's hand reached into the frame to tuck her windblown hair behind her ear. Gentle and practiced. But the man's collar was slightly unbuttoned. It revealed the cross necklace I designed for him—the one holding the fatal bullet I took for him years ago. I sat in a room with a roaring fireplace, but my blood froze. Right then, my private doctor called. "Miss Aria, I have bad news and worse news." "Your fetus has a rare genetic defect. It requires a high-risk in-utero surgery. The success rate is under thirty percent." I looked up blankly. My face was wet with tears I didn't even know I shed. My voice trembled, but it carried a newfound coldness. "Cancel the surgery. I'm not keeping the baby."

My best friend, Maya, flew in from Miami for my bachelorette week. My last days of freedom. She insisted on a girls' night in to celebrate, ordering all my favorite takeout. She asked me to hold her mobile phone and wait.Then her phone lit up. A message from some guy. A shirtless pic. Text: I need you tonight. Another photo buzzed through. Sex toys. Bondage gear straight out of a movie. My face burned. My heart hammered against my ribs. I’d just stumbled into her secret life. But the next image made my blood run cold. A close-up of the man's chest. A jagged scar I knew better than my own reflection. It belonged to my fiancé, Luciano Carbone.

On the day I was supposed to get matching tattoos with Zach Cross, I waited at the studio from sunrise until nightfall. The tattoo artist glanced at me nervously. “Miss Annie, is the Godfather still coming? Maybe we should reschedule.” I lowered my eyes and forced a smile. “He promised he’d be here. I’ll wait a little longer.” Two hours later, Zach finally arrived. He was not alone. Julie Williams walked in behind him. She was carrying his jacket. When she saw me sitting in the tattoo chair, she offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Annie. I had no idea you two had a tattoo appointment today. Otherwise, I would’ve never asked Zach to pick me up from the airport.” Zach walked right past me. He glanced around the empty studio and said, “Let's begin.” Before I could say a word, he pointed at the tattoo chair and turned to Julie. “You first.” Julie froze for a second. She glanced at me, then reluctantly took the seat. The tattoo artist turned to look at me. Standing off to the side, I overheard Zach’s men whispering among themselves. “After all these years, Miss Julie is still the perfect match for the Godfather.” “Yeah. It’s a shame things didn’t work out back then.” I looked at Zach. I knew he had heard every word. However, instead of denying it, he turned to me and said coldly, “Julie’s here today. Watch your attitude. Don’t embarrass me.” My gaze drifted to his left hand’s ring finger. It was still bare. He once told me he would hide my name inside the petals of a rose tattoo—a secret only the two of us would ever know about. I worked with the tattoo artist through seven different revisions to get the design just right. When he proposed, he held my hand and said, “The most painful mark I’ll ever wear will belong to you alone.” I put on a bitter smile. Unfortunately, none of the marks he carried had ever truly belonged to me.

When I was three months pregnant, Stella Falcone, the principessa of an allied family, was also carrying another man's child. To preserve the alliance, my Mafia lover, Matteo Gallo, had to marry her. "Stella is Don Falcone's only daughter. In our world, alliances are worth more than sentiment." "Ava will understand." What Matteo forgot was that I had no one but him, and that the child I carried was the true Gallo heir. Later, as everyone mocked my unborn child, calling him a bastard who would taint the bloodline, Matteo stood by with his new bride and did nothing. That was when I learned that in this world of blood and secrets, love was the most worthless currency of all.

My fiancé, Orlando, was a mafia captain. Three years ago, he got caught in a shootout, and someone tried to kill him. I took the bullet for him without thinking twice. The wound left me so weak that I spent most of my days stuck at home. Afraid I'd get hurt again, Orlando brought in a maid named Cecilia to look after me and act as my stand-in. Whatever was meant for me, she tried it first to make sure it was safe. Little by little, she got everything before I did. First to break in my heels. First to sleep in my wedding bed. Even the trip to Iceland I'd waited years for—she went with Orlando first, in my place. When the accident happened at the shopping center, Orlando still carried Cecilia into the emergency stairwell first. A falling stone column crushed my ankle. Lying in that hospital bed, I finally lost it. Orlando only frowned at me. "Nadia, stop making a scene. Cecilia is just your stand-in. She faces the danger first so you can stay safe." He sounded so sincere. He took my hand and pressed it to his lips. "Nadia, try to understand how hard this is for me. I can't let you get hurt again. I just can't." That devotion of his made me give in one more time. I never imagined that even at my own wedding—the day that mattered more to me than anything—Cecilia would wear my wedding dress before I did. I can make do with something secondhand. But I don't want a secondhand man.