Italian Wife Beater Mga Nobela at Kwento

Harshly, but royally he pulled out the chair for himself to sit as Danica gently pulled her, with her shaky hands. She was strictly ordered to sit beside him and act like his wife since they were married tor almost 9 months. The maids quickly served them the dinner as Zeke and Danica started eating. The maids stood aside shaking, everyone feared Zeke. Of course why shouldn't they? Zeke is a mafia boss. Being cruel, heartless, brutal and rough was what he was taught to. Everyone had to think multiple times before doing anything because they knew, one wrong step and they're gone.

If what kind of a mistake have I ever done in order for him just to hide me as a wife, but until now the answer remains blank. I was back in my sense when his door suddenly opened. He stood and stared at me seriously while wearing nothing other than his boxer shorts. I immediately took my eyes off of him and then continued walking. Even before I could get away I heard him call his men and ordered to dispatch the woman he had slept with. I laughed softly as I walked down the stairs. Yes, it is also not new to me to hear such a command from him. He is a mafia boss after all, a ruthless one. And I, Jazzie Zamora, am his wife.

“What the f*ck…I mean, what are you doing in the kitchen?’ he demanded roughly, “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?’ Proserpina slammed down the spatula as a very startled Beatrice turned to look at her, her eyes moving from the one to the other in puzzlement. His little wife waddled over and as she moved, he realized that her gait had also altered. It was just that he had never taken notice, he thought ashamedly. Coming closer to him, she said in a low undertone, almost threatening him, “I do not want to create a scene in the kitchen before the staff.’ And stepping closer so that only he could hear, ‘But you can get one thing straight, Mr. Mob Boss. I AM NOT GOING TO LIE ON THE BED ALL DAY L

Vittoria stopped by the door and turned to look at him. Their eyes met and he dropped his phone, stood up and strolled towards her. “How many times would I warn you that I have a reputation to protect. For a married Italian woman like you, at least wear a dress that covers a large chunk of skin.” He said in a commanding tone while Vittoria battled him with her eyes. “You have a reputation to protect?” Vittoria mocked. “Or you don't know that? You suddenly forgot that you're Mr. Alessandro's wife first before you are Buccolini's daughter.”

One after another, names and titles unfolded like a list of credentials. “I am Giulia,” said a woman with sleek black hair and diamonds at her throat. “My husband is Capo DeLuca. He controls the northern routes.” Another spoke, her accent clipped, her smile practiced. “Teresa. Wife to Bellini, the consigliere.” Rose listened carefully, filing the names away. Each woman seemed to measure herself by the power of the man she represented. Then the brunette in emerald silk leaned in, her posture elegant, her smile perfectly rehearsed. “Caterina,” she said, her English was clear and deliberate, “Luca’s wife.”

I now stand as Capo Dei Capi as my husband did, only this time it is in Italy instead of New York. Still, some people doubt me and refuse to bow just because I am a woman, just like this idiot at the end of the heel of my stiletto. “You are not my queen!” he cries out in Italian, spit flying against my heel. I shake my head and give him a sweet smile. “You will bow to me in death, buscetta,” I say, digging my heel deeper into his throat and watching him trash around, looking at me wide-eyed. “And you’ve ruined my fucking shoe.”

More being my wife, she will be an easy target for my enemies, who will know that by killing her, they will destroy me. And I must not allow that to happen; she must be strong and accept who I am and what I am, I will not change for her, and she must assimilate her role now in our family, in the Italian Mafia because now, whether she wants to or not, she is the Devil's wife. As such, she will have to learn how to behave.

Victoria crossed her arms, her tone turning vicious. "Ethan, I have had enough of you. You can't get your act together, fine, you drag me down—fine. But now your whole family's pulling the same crap? Showing up in rags to crash my IPO, then trying to pin it on my employees to squeeze money out of us?" "Jason works for me, and I will not let you defame him! And now you want money? You're out of your mind!" I looked at her—polished face, perfect makeup, dripping in jewelry, completely indifferent to the fact that her own father was lying out there bleeding out. Whatever was left of what I'd felt for her finally died.

I stared at him, wide-eyed, silent. “I did some digging,” he continued. “Not just on Sierra’s assassination attempt—but on you.” He nodded toward the desk. “Your past life. Elena Moretti. Daughter of Matteo Moretti. Wife of Dante Russo. Allegedly jumped to her death from a balcony two years ago during a private party.” My blood ran cold. He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek black tablet. He tapped the screen, and within seconds, images filled it—Dante and Viviana.

That night, Vittoria messaged me on the sly. “Is everything set?” I replied, “All systems go.” The next morning, Juliana shared a selfie. “On my way out. Marco, you’d better not be late.” A text popped up right after her photo. “Mr. Tutti’s wife will be there as well. The more, the merrier.” The message was from Vittoria. I added Cassandra to the group. Cassandra was the wife of the consigliere and the daughter of Don Colombo’s underboss. She held a level of authority that was unquestionable.