Mafia Mafia Short Stories & Regret Novels

Three years into my marriage with Dominick, Gia, his stepsister, sent me a video clip out of nowhere. I tapped on the video, only to find Dominick tying his stepsister to the bedpost with the tie I had given him. His stepsister lay naked under him, addressing him intimately. After getting their freak on, they shared an embrace, and Gia cozied up against Dominick and uttered, “I don’t like the ring you bought me. Give it to Luna, and tell her it’s a birthday gift from me.” The next day, I sat in an upscale restaurant and stared at the vacant seat across the table. Suddenly, the Underboss wheeled a massive cake toward me. “Don Costa was called away on urgent business. He sent me to deliver your birthday gift.” The box contained his stepsister’s discarded reject. My phone buzzed with new pictures from Gia. Dominick was at the hospital with Gia for a check-up. Without a fuss, I signed the divorce papers and made preparations for a wedding. “Donna Costa, whose names should I put down as the bride and groom?” “Dominick and Gia.” A week from now, I would show the world the kind of filth the supposed solemn Don had been rolling in with his stepsister.

After being dumped for the 99th time for being a “chatterbox,” I finally met my soulmate, Lysander Thorne. As the Mafia godfather, he was a man of few words, but listened to every single word I said with rapt attention. His proposal shattered the curse that had doomed me to a hundred rejections. But, I discovered a fatal flaw in Lysander after we got married. Whatever he spoke to me, he never exceeded ten words. I thought it was his stoic personality until I gave a hand to a girl being harassed by a thug at the bar. At the police station, the girl asked, “Has your husband not arrived yet? My friend will pick me up and you can leave with us.” The next second, I saw Lysander rushing in, looking utterly disheveled. “Elara Thorne! Why do you stir up trouble on your very first day back home? You've got wings of your own now, haven’t you? Did I ever tell you to stay safe firstly when something happened? Stop being so impulsive!” It turned out Lysander could get emotional. How ridiculous! When Lysander entered, his eyes were solely fixed on Elara. I looked at him with a blank expression, and wordlessly walked out of the police station.

Francis Davis gave me the medicine. He said it would save me. I swallowed it and sank into ten years of oblivion. Ten years of loving him. Until one day, he decided he wanted to know whether the sober me still loved him. So he took the medicine away. I never expected hatred and pain to run deeper than addiction. So I jumped from the 18th floor, returning my life to him, and my freedom to myself.

I was eight months pregnant when I slipped in the bathroom. I lay bleeding on the floor, unable to move. My Apple Watch sent a fall alert to my husband, Gabriel, the mafia don. I waited on the cold tiles for forty minutes. He never came. A maid bringing my dinner heard me calling for help. She called the guards, who broke down the door and rushed me to the hospital. When Gabriel arrived, he held my hand. “I’m sorry, Nora. I won’t let this happen to you or our baby again. I promise.” After I came home, he replaced the tiles in every bathroom so I wouldn’t slip again. Everyone said he loved me more than anything. But we both knew where he’d been during those forty minutes. He was at his late brother’s wife Celeste’s house, taking care of her son, Aaron. Before I fell, he’d sent me a text. “Aaron fell. I need to go check on him.” When my alert came through, he tapped to confirm he’d seen it. Then he went back to cleaning his nephew’s scraped knee. He thought I’d forgive him like I always did. A month later, he was about to name Aaron his heir until our son was old enough to take over. He sent the butler to bring us down for the announcement. The butler returned with divorce papers. “Don, I’m afraid Donna has already left for Zurich.”

At our joint engagement party, my best friend and I both left with rings on our fingers. Sabrina Vale was marrying Luca Marino, the boy I’d loved for ten years. I was marrying Adrian Calloway, the man every society columnist in New York swore was obsessed with me. When it was my turn to make a toast, Sabrina brought up an old bet and grinned at the crowd. “Let’s see whether our princess already has her fiancé on a leash.” The guests started chanting for Adrian to smear engagement cake across my face. His hand stalled. For one stupid second, I thought he’d put the plate down and stand beside me like he always promised he would. Then Luca asked if Adrian was whipped before the wedding had even started. Adrian’s jaw tightened. He pressed the cake into my face himself. While the room howled, Luca told me Adrian had only approached me because the three of them had made a bet. Sabrina slipped an arm through mine as if we were still best friends. “No one betrayed you, Elena. You’re making a big deal out of a joke again.” Adrian stood in front of me, absolutely certain I’d forgive him. “The wedding’s still on. What more proof do you need?” They waited for me to cry, demand answers, and give them another chance to explain my own feelings to me. Instead, I wiped the frosting from my eyes and sent one message to my mother in Milan. [Mamma, tell the family I’m ready to come home.]

It happened on the last shipment run I ever went on. My boyfriend and my best friend left me behind at the transfer station. I waited there for half an hour before they remembered they were one person short. Lawson called me, impatience all over his voice. "Why didn't you get in the truck?" "We're in a hurry for the celebration dinner tonight. We can't turn around." "Stop making a scene. Figure it out yourself." My mouth opened. No sound came out. Beth's voice carried through the line, clear and grating. "We're all adults here. Why does every little thing have to be handled for her?" "She has to grow up sometime." I listened to all of it and hung up without a word. The old me would have apologized on the spot, then done everything I could to catch up with them without causing a single problem. But this time, it all just felt pointless. I canceled every arrangement the family had made for me. I sent my mother a message: [I want to go to Northbay and take over the family business there.] They had always looked down on Northbay for being too small. But I had always wanted to go. I would never have to chase after them again. I would follow only myself.

Two days before our wedding, my fiancé called it off for his childhood sweetheart, postponing everything by ten days. He sighed, "Daisy told me that day happens to be her birthday party. It's her first birthday since she lost her husband, so I can't miss it, or she'd be devastated. Elena, we're going to get married. What difference does a week earlier or later make?" This was the third time he had canceled our wedding for Daisy. The first time, Daisy claimed she was suffering from severe depression, and he dropped everything to rush to her side. He stayed with her for a whole week. The second time, Daisy said she wanted to see the northern lights. He was terrified she might travel alone in that fragile state, so he went with her. They were gone for ten days. And now this was the third. But unlike all the other times, I didn't argue with him. I didn't raise my voice or throw a single accusatory word his way. He thought I was a helpless orphan who'd never leave him. He had no idea that I was the princess of Rossi family, a powerful mafia family. To hide my identity and marry a man outside our world, I had made a three‑month wager with my father—a gamble that I could build a normal life and marry on my own terms. But I had lost. My fiancé still thought this was just another postponement. He didn't know that there would be no next time.

Before I turned eighteen, I was the adored principessa of the Moretti family. That all changed on my eighteenth birthday, when my father brought home an orphan girl named Carina. "She needs a home," my father said. "You will look after her, like a sister." From that moment on, nothing was the same. My brother, who once doted on me, became cold and distant. And my fiancé... his love for me seemed to halve overnight. The family praised Carina for being gentle and obedient, calling her a far better daughter than me, their own flesh and blood. After being cast aside for Carina one too many times, I finally broke and grabbed my father's sleeve. "Does blood mean nothing at all?" My father's fury ignited. He sheltered a tear-stricken Carina behind him, and in front of every member of the family, he struck me across the face. "You selfish waste. I wish I'd never had you." "You bring shame to this family," my brother Marco's voice was as cold as a blade. "Get out." And my fiancé, Vincent, looked at me with disappointment,"If only it had been Carina I was engaged to from the start." They thought I would grovel at their feet, like I always did. But I said nothing, just walked to the family safe, removed the official documents, and drew a single line through my name. I took the engagement ring from my finger and placed it on the table. I gave Carina everything they felt I didn't deserve. After all, I only had a few days left to live. But they had no idea then that amid the ruins of the Moretti family, they would one day kneel in the rain and plead for my return.

For five years, I believed my husband was a mechanic—until the day that belief shattered. On a luxury yacht, I saw him standing there with our son and my best friend, the three of them together like a picture-perfect family. That was when I learned he was the heir to a mafia family. My best friend was his fiancée. And my son called her Mom. I thought that was the worst betrayal I'd ever know. I was wrong. My best friend faked my son's kidnapping, forced me to my knees in a warehouse, and sprayed chemicals on my right hand, trying to destroy the hand I used to design. I left, burning with hatred, and boarded a flight to Milan. When we crossed paths again, my ex-husband begged for forgiveness, drowning in regret. I turned and walked away. Some wounds cut too deep to ever heal. And I would never beg for anyone's love again.

On the night before the Moretti succession ceremony, I found a post in the Confessional of the Dead that had been sent from ten years in the future. “If you could rewrite your blood oath, whom would you erase from the family tree?” The anonymous reply read: “Leon Vita.” “If not for that adopted son who used a life-debt to secure his place—a man destined to become my husband and consigliere—I could have had Matteo at my side years ago.” The poster’s icon was a black iris. Viola Moretti had used it as her private seal for seventeen years. I stared at the profile of a Viola ten years older than the woman I knew, and all warmth slowly drained from my fingers. Every time she had laced her fingers through mine in front of the elders, she had been thinking about how to break free of me. Every time she had said, “The family needs you,” she had never meant, “I need you.” I removed the obsidian ring from my right hand and placed it beside the succession contract. Then I signed the departure agreement offered by the North Sea Mercantile Association. If she saw me as a blood debt she could never repay— then I would grant her one last freedom and settle that debt for good.

Ten days before I was supposed to marry my mafia fiancé, Edoardo Marino, my best friend Ambra Costa suddenly called me. "Valentina, which church are you getting married at, the one in Sicily or the one by Lake Como?" I frowned. "You already knew that. The one in Sicily. Why?" The moment the words left my mouth, Ambra burst into laughter. "I knew it! I told you she still hadn't found out! Victory is mine, Edoardo!" Before I could process what she meant, a man's low laugh came through the speaker. "You really are clueless, Valentina! How could you not even know where your wedding is when you're about to be my bride?" Edoardo's voice was teasing, almost affectionate."If you still want our wedding to happen, you'd better fix your flight now." I stood frozen, a chill crawling up my spine. It wasn't the first time Edoardo and Ambra had turned my wedding into a game. They had been doing it ever since I started planning every detail of my wedding. Three months ago, they bet on whether I'd notice that the handwritten wedding vows I had spent weeks writing for Edoardo had been replaced with a different set of vows Ambra had written. Two months ago, they bet on how long it would take me to notice that my wedding dress had been changed from the vintage style I chose to the haute couture style Ambra preferred. Now, even the church where I was supposed to marry Edoardo had become another bet in their silly little game. This time, I didn't ask them why they had done this to me. I opened a contact I hadn't touched in years and typed out a message. "My wedding is in Sicily in ten days. Will you be there?" I stared at the screen, a slow smile curving my lips. It was my turn to play a bet. Let's see how long it takes them to realize that the groom has changed.

Bianca is dying. Acute myeloid leukemia, stage three. The family doctor told me on the phone—bone marrow transplant, only option, perfect match. Identical twins share ninety-nine percent compatibility. I crushed the diagnosis report. My name was at the top: Gemma Blackwell. But the doctor trembled, whispering apologies. A clerical error. The sick twin was Bianca. The cure was me. I had to get home. Rain lashed the taxi windows. I rehearsed the scene: Father setting down his cigar, Mother gasping, me explaining the mix-up. The report has my name, but the blood work is Bianca's. I can fix this before it's too late. My phone lit up. Family group chat. Father's message was short: [Gemma is terminal. Bianca forbidden from donation. Family decision.] My blood turned to ice. They had seen the misdelivered file. They thought I was the one dying—and they had voted to let me rot. When I pushed open the door and saw Father, I felt it— the temperature drop, the world freezing around me. Tears burned my eyes. I couldn't stop them. "Father," I said, my voice barely steady. "I have a question for you." He looked up from his cigar, annoyed. "If it were Bianca dying," I whispered. "Would you have made me give her my marrow?" The room went silent. He set down the cigar. A long pause. "No," he said finally. "Of course. We have resources. We would find another donor. We would never ask you to take that risk." I smiled a little. Just a small, sad smile. "Good," I said softly. "That's exactly what you said. Don't regret this."

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.

My father called me to his study to deliver an order. I, Victoria Castellano, was to take my illegitimate half-sister Isabella’s place, to marry the comatose heir of the rival Moretti family and secure a truce. I didn’t cry. I laid my kid gloves on his polished desk and made my three demands. Sever all ties. My mother’s entire legacy. And give my bodyguard, Nicholas, to Isabella. Everyone knew my obsession with him. I loved him until I overheard the truth. He was the hidden Rossi heir, undercover only to protect his precious Isabella. Every time he’d saved my life, he was just guarding his link to her. So I let him go. I won’t tell him I’m marrying someone else. And I’ll never tell him that three years ago, in Lake Tahoe’s freezing depths, the lips that breathed life back into a drowning man—the memory that haunts him—weren’t Isabella’s. They were mine.

Five years into our secret marriage, Alex finally agreed to give me a wedding. But the day before the ceremony, I was the one who called it off. The Castellano Family butler asked me, stunned, "Ma'am, the ceremony is tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want to wait for Mr. Castellano to come home?" I picked up my packed suitcase. My voice came out light, almost relieved. "He isn't coming. Right now he's in a church in New York, saying his vows with his adopted sister."

I had loved my Mafia Boss Alexander in silence for ten years. I was the only woman he fucked. Almost every night he would pin me down and pound me until I was screaming his name, filling me with his seed. He never touched anyone else. I thought I was special to him. I was wrong. To appease his fiancée Sophia’s family, Alexander dangled my mute little sister from a helicopter. I begged. I knelt. I offered my life for hers. "Enough, Ivy. The show is over," he scoffed, wiping the blood from my lip with his thumb. "It was just a silicone doll. Did you really think I would kill your sister over this? I just wanted to show you what happens when you defy me." But he didn't know that it really was Lily. I risked my life to take revenge on Sophia, only to be shot into the Mediterranean by Alexander's bullet. But why did the high and mighty Don go completely mad, searching the world for my body?

The Mafia circle in New York City was a tangled web, where power shifted in the blink of an eye. The Dusk family, once a powerful force in the underworld, was now reduced to nothing more than a pawn in the game. Their only hope for survival was to marry off their daughters, securing the support they so desperately needed. I, Seraphina Dusk, was sadly one of those daughters. In my past life, I had managed to secure myself a powerful marriage. I married Silas Vane, the head of the most influential mafia family in the country. My sister, Lila, was less fortunate, ending up with Jaxon Westmore—whom she believed would save her. I gave Silas a son and a daughter, and in return, my family was gifted wealth and power. But my sister? She was not so lucky. Jaxon wasn’t the man she thought he was. Instead of honoring the marriage or alliance, he squandered his time on models and strippers, leaving Lila discarded by both him and our father. One seemingly ordinary day, Lila invited me to lunch—never did I expect that she would kill me, drove a knife into my heart. Then she killed herself. And now here I was, reborn, back when our father first told us that Lila and I have to marry for the family. And this time, Lila called her shots on Silas Vane. That’s when I knew. She was reborn as well. Let her have him, then. She had no idea what kind of man he really was.

Leonardo's adoptive sister pulled off a new trick, and this time, it was threatening to slit her wrists. So, like second nature, he handed me the divorce papers. I didn't even read it and let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Leonardo, this is the eighth time. In the entire history of Siciliana, no mafia Don has ever abandoned his partner as frequently as you." He yanked at his tie in frustration, a pleading look surfacing in his eyes. "Bianca, I have to do this. You know Gia's mental state. I can't just leave her to fend for herself, can I? "Move out for a few days first. Don't worry. Once I calm her down, I promise we'll get remarried right away!" I signed in silence. He had already repeated those exact words to me eight times. We finalized the paperwork in family lawyer's office. Pushing up his glasses, the family lawyer, Luca, teased lightly, "When are you guys coming back to sign the ninth marriage contract?" I put away the divorce papers stamped with the Corleone family wax seal and shook my head. "There won't be a next time."

The day before the family purge order was issued, I saw my own name on the Bellini family’s internal network. In the field marked Recommended Executor, the name written there was Adrian Bellini. The current Mafia Don. And my fiancé. When I called him, his voice was flat. “Relax, Vivian. Celine submitted the exit request for you. It was just a joke.” “Go explain it to the council yourself. They’ll cancel it.” Celine. The assistant who followed him everywhere, always in expensive little skirts, the one who adjusted his tie for him in public as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I held the phone in my hand, I had nothing left to say. So the place I had nearly killed myself to protect for three years was, to him, nothing more than a joke. I didn’t withdraw anything. I completed the handover as usual. Signed the papers as usual. Left New York as usual. It wasn’t until much later that Adrian finally realized something was wrong and asked me, “Vivian, I told you to get your name taken off the list. Why didn’t you go?” “Why should I?”

As the only daughter of the Rossi family, I had three exceptional men handpicked and raised by my mother as potential husbands. Once, they had gone to extraordinary lengths to win my affection. One bought me a centuries-old watchtower on the Sicilian coast. Another presented me with a one-of-a-kind black diamond ring. Then Blair, the daughter of our longtime butler, returned from boarding school, and all three men became obsessed with her. They adored her kindness, her innocence, and her delicate nature. Meanwhile, they condemned me for the coldness and ruthlessness I had developed after growing up in a world of blood and violence. Once they had broken my heart beyond repair, I washed my hands of the three ungrateful bastards and agreed to marry Vito Capello, the Don of the Capello family, who had been left in a vegetative state. The news shattered their pride. What I couldn’t understand was why they still thought I was playing hard to get—even after I became Vito’s Donna.