Escaping My Mafia Husband Novels & Stories

I say, clenching my fists and she flinches at the graveness in my words. "What do you plan to do now? Will you marry that criminal?" she asks me expectantly. I inhale deeply, "no." I say simply, she goes silent. "I've made up my mind, I'll run away Eva." She gasps loudly.

He sensed that something was amiss and he tried his hardest to uncover it but Nicole was a closed book. "Whatever you are planning, it's not going to work." He whispered in her ear as they prepared to leave the mansion to the venue of the ceremony you. "What pray tell are you talking about dearest husband?" She asked, her smile not faltering for even one second. "I'm glad you know it. I'm your husband, and in a few moments it'll be official. So do well to behave yourself." He replied before proceeding to his own vehicle. The moment He walked away, her smile fell off so fast, an onlooker might have gotten whiplash. She hated him with an immeasurable passion and that hatred only grew with each

the doctor said an hour later, peering over his spectacles. The math was easy. It went back to that afternoon at the Palm Valley Polo Grounds. The day Santiago stopped looking at me like a contract and started looking at me like a man. He hadn't used a thing that night. I thought the suppressants I was taking were enough to keep the plumbing dormant, but the Rivera blood was apparently too aggressive for chemicals. How was I supposed to tell a Mafia King he was having a bastard with a ghost?

That night, beneath a foreign sky and a foreign moon, I made the bravest decision of my life. I stayed. Paris became my sanctuary. A city of stone and shadow, art and rebirth. A place where the scent of Caden Wayne—Alpha of a ruthless pack union, my husband, my mate—could no longer reach me. Here, even the moon felt softer. Kinder. It did not judge me for choosing survival over devotion. I thought about how easily I had sold my wedding ring. Ten million dollars reduced to cold currency, but the weight it lifted from my soul was priceless. With that final symbol of my past gone, I buried Adele Wayne and gave birth to someone new.

On the cover was the wax seal that signified the highest authority in the mafia. He flipped to the first page. The lines accusing him of "damaging family honor and endangering the heir" struck him like a slap to the face. Carter instinctively pulled out his phone to call her, to ask what kind of crazy stunt she was pulling now, if this was just another one of her new tricks to get his attention. But all he heard from the other end was the cold, robotic "The user's phone has been switched off." He stood in the empty hospital room, stunned for a full minute, before he belatedly realized she had blocked him on everything.

The guilt would hit Elena in the mornings when she sat across from Lorenzo at breakfast, watching him drink his coffee and talk about his plans to retire and take her to the Amalfi Coast. She felt disgusted. She felt like a monster. But then Dante would find her in the library, or the wine cellar, or the guest house, and the world would narrow down to the heat of his skin and the way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. But luck in a Mafia house is a finite resource. One morning, nearly a year after Dante’s return, Elena woke up and felt the world tilt.

His lips quivered, his eyes dodging mine. "That... that was an accident... I already made her... handle it. The child is gone. For you, I don't want that child." As soon as the sentence dropped, the whole hall exploded. In the Mafia's code, children are sacred. To murder one's own bloodline for a woman is an unforgivable taboo. Several of the older Family advisors changed their expressions on the spot. A female accountant next to me slammed the table and stood up, pointing at his nose and cursing in Italian:

A smile formed on his lips. “Surprise... it didn’t hurt,” he grinned. Onora’s eyes widened. She tried to run, but he caught her, spun her around, and slammed her against the wall. His grip locked tightly around her wrists, pinning her there. She whimpered. “You punched me, and you must pay.” Pay? “Your husband didn’t tell you? Mafia don’t do free. You can’t punch me for free,” he smirked. Mafia. Her husband was a mafia. She had read many stories about them—dangerous men who manipulated others to get what they wanted.

She clenched her hands as a lone tear escaped her eye. “I will not allow myself to be a puppet of your game, Shan Moretti,” she uttered, her voice filled with utter hate and pain while her eyes were fixated on the man sleeping comfortably on the bed. Her very own husband. “May you suffer the same way the lives you've ruined.” Just like that, Feliza left, leaving behind her renowned cruel of a husband—oblivious of the danger she created herself. After all, Shan is a possessive man... And Feliza Gray-Moretti just happened to be his`.

Jasmine noticed that Kiara’s attention was drifting. She took the opportunity, grabbed Kiara’s leg, and made her fall. Jasmine hadn’t received any combat training, but she knew how to act smartly. As Kiara fell, Jasmine grabbed the pistol from her hand. “You… you can’t kill me!” Kiara warned her in fear. Jasmine rebuked her, “When you can think of ending my world, then I can take your life too. I am now the wife of Mafia King Eric Varghese.”