Historias cortas de Plot Twists Mafia y novelas con Police

Everyone in the underworld knows that Alessio Muratori is a womanizer through and through. Yet, I love him more than anything in the world. Therefore, it isn't surprising that everyone expects me to cry and crawl back to him when I threaten a divorce after he brings home his mistress. When Alessio signs the divorce papers without so much as flinching, he lets out a mocking laugh. "So, what is it you want this time? Cash? That beach house?" Neither. This time, I move to a new city, change my name, and start a brand-new life. Three years later, I see him again at a club. With a champagne flute in hand, I calmly nod at him in acknowledgment. He's caught off guard for a second. Eventually, he approaches me and stuffs an embossed room key card into my hand. "You've finally gotten over it. Are you here to win me back? Just wait for me in my suite tonight." Unfazed, I turn him down. "I'm afraid I won't be there. If my husband finds out, he's probably not going to let you off the hook." After all, my husband, Luca Lombardo, has been on his case for three years. The goal is to bring him to justice.

At sixteen, I found Owen Hughes in the slums. He was covered in blood—but he stepped in front of me anyway. I thought he was a gift from fate. So I begged my father to keep him close. He became my bodyguard. My classmate. My husband. Ten years later, I learned the truth: it was all a trap. He was undercover. His mission—to take down my father, the mafia don. I walked away. Swore I'd never see him again. Six years passed. Then we met again. His eyes were wet. "Aubrey... is there still a chance for us?"

At 11:00 AM, my husband, Silas Vexille, slowly drowned in our indoor thermal pool. At the time, I was having my usual morning tea with the other mafia wives in the estate's back garden. The pool room was directly above the garden, barely a dozen feet away. Originally, if I had gone back to the main house at 11:00 as usual, I would have had plenty of time to save him. But as fate would have it, Victoria Harrison insisted on inviting us over to her nearby home to see her new pink diamond. At 11:20 AM, my daughter April and I pushed open the doors to the pool room. By then, Silas was already gone. At the lavish funeral, I was devastated, fainting several times. The mourners murmured in sympathy. "Don Vexille and his wife always had such a beautiful marriage..." "Yeah, what is she going to do now that the Don is dead?" Silas's mother, Martha—a tough woman who ran a Texas farm alone after her divorce—flew in overnight. Under the watchful eyes of everyone present, she walked straight up to me. Her expression was stone-cold, and she spat out every word: "You are the one who murdered my son."