Billionaire Mafia Romance Books Novels & Stories

She says with the quirk of her perfectly arched brow. She takes a step towards me. I take one back. “I-I’ll clean this up!” I stutter out just as my back collides with the wall and she steps towards me again with a grin that holds a promise of pain and suffering. “Meera Florence.” She chimes, “the heiress to the biggest mafia empire in the entirety of Europe. Now pushed down to rags.” She says looking me up and down and giving me a feigned look of pity. “Who would have thought?” She wonders out loud, looking up at the intricately carved ceiling for a moment.

Instead, it had turned into a public disaster. Rhea Monroe wasn’t just some socialite. She was the sole heiress to the Monroe Group, the world’s largest automotive manufacturer. Their engagement had been a strategic move, one that had just blown up in his face. And now, his grandmother was going to kill him. She’d been hounding him to settle down for years, using every trick in the book… guilt, threats, even fake health scares. He’d managed to dodge her relentless matchmaking, but when the Monroe deal presented itself, it had seemed like the perfect solution: secure a powerful business alliance and shut his grandmother up in one go.

He averted his eyes from me, his attention still on the photo, his thumb gliding over the glass as if that minor action could calm the turmoil within him. A wave of astonishment coursed through me, and I sensed my heartbeat accelerate. This woman, with her soft smile and piercing blue eyes that reflected his, was the cause of the cold, heartless man facing me? She was his stability, his support, the one who had molded him into who he became—or perhaps, the one whose absence had left him empty. It became evident that Alexander Levi was more than just the formidable mafia leader I had been made to fear and follow. Beneath the cold gaze and the authoritative demeanor, there lay an unhealed scar

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“You say that like it’s a flaw.” Alessandro poured himself wine. “No, little brother. It’s a reminder. Passion makes you reckless.” The way he said it wasn’t about romance it was about war. Elena’s pulse quickened. Every word at this table felt like a move in a game she barely understood. The servers began to bring in dishes roasted lamb, truffle risotto, gold-rimmed glasses of red wine. The meal looked exquisite, but no one seemed to be eating. “You’ve built quite a life outside, Adrien,” Alessandro said, turning his glass slowly. “Businesses in Paris, connections in the East. I almost thought you’d forgotten us.”

No, he’s got no idea who he’s pissing off. I drop onto the sofa, grab my tablet, and type in her real name; Dr. Sareena Morelli.” She is Sareena Morelli, not Christina Moretti. That’s where I cocked it all up before. But now I’ve got her real name, and the search lights up. Multiple articles and mentions. Turns out Miss High-and-Mighty’s some Harvard genius; finished med school before she could legally drink. Mafia princess, too. Italian royalty with a pedigree soaked in blood and bribes. Well, well. That’s a twist. No wonder she thinks she’s above it all.

a deep voice commands. I turn. He walks in like he owns the place. Broad shoulders under a tailored black suit, dark eyes that slice through the chaos. His presence is heavier than the gunfire. Dante Morreti. I know that name. Whispers. Mafia. Blood. Power. The devil of New York. His gaze pins me in place. My chest tightens, breath shallow. “She’s the bride?” he asks, almost amused. “Yes, Boss,” one of his men answers. “Pretty little thing,” Dante murmurs, eyes raking me head to toe. “Shame she belongs to a coward.”

If I can't win this war by resisting him, I'll win it by ruining him. It takes me exactly twenty-seven minutes to unearth the wedding-planner contact sheet in my father's study. He's so proud of himself, organizing this wedding like a proper mafia CEO playing house. I picture him bragging to Oleg over cigars and Scotch. Barf. I scroll through the names of the florist, caterer, venue coordinator, seamstress, designer, and even music director. Each one was handpicked by my father and Oleg, vetted for discretion and Bratva loyalty. Too bad none of them is prepared for a vindictive bride with a burner phone.

I gulped, trying to control the pounding of my heart. “The opening bid starts at five hundred and five million dollars.” The room became noisy. “Six hundred million...” I didn't know how long the bidding was going on, but I zoned out. The numbers continued to increase, higher and higher. Each voice twisted my stomach tighter. I could not force myself to look at the men who were bidding. I already lost my mafia princess status; I was no longer Lucia Romano, one of the most dangerous mafia families in Italy. I was just a prize, a slut, a possession, and another woman in a cage.

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