My Mafia Husband Novel Novels & Stories

"Alright. I'll cancel it for you, then." I ended the call. No one needed to know about my funeral either. All of a sudden, footsteps came from the other side of the door. I looked back, only to see Zachary Hood standing at the doorway. He wore a flawlessly-tailored black shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tattoo on his wrist—the symbol of his mafia family, nicknamed "The Falcons." He held control over the underworld in this city, and he was also an ally of the Gardner family. More importantly, he was my husband.

In my previous life, my mafia husband conspired with his mistress to let me burn alive. I never expected God to give me the chance to live again. This time, I would make the complete opposite choice. I would escape far away and live well. "Mr. Marino said no one from the Moretti family is welcome at his celebratory party." I looked at the burly bodyguard in front of me. His hand rested on the gun holster at his waist, his tone dripping with obvious contempt.

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.

I said making my voice sound tough. " Good girl." He said and after then there was silence. I heard the door shut and I knew that they had left. I crawled onto my bed and cried. *** Robert's POV. We drove into the Martinez family house, there were security guards at every corner. Rico, who used to work as a right hand gun man for the Martinez family had given us a glimpse of what their record looked like. They ran the most dangerous mafia group in this side of the country. They had lots of enemies that was the reason they had so much security.

Five guards step out of it, and fall into step behind me instantly. With my phone in a pocket, and a pistol in my hand; eyes filled with deathly fury as we approach. The moment I step in, the sight before me makes my heart stop. Not because its new, I've seen thousands of dead bodies, it was worse after an all out war between two ruthless mafia Lords. What made my heart stop is the implication. "This is a lot." I mutter, noting the extent of damage that had been done. The thought of innocents being murdered, and killed for something they didn't do or had no idea of; makes my heart ache.

"Spread her legs. I want to see if she's as tight as they say." The lewd jeers, mixed with the acrid smell of cigar smoke, made me want to vomit. I tried to cover myself with the pitifully small scrap of fabric, but my hands were roughly forced behind my back and cuffed to the gilded railing of the circular display platform. Tears blurred my vision, but I finally found the familiar figure. My husband, the king of New York's underworld, Alessandro Santoro, sat in the seat of honor. He wore a perfectly tailored Italian suit, his long legs crossed elegantly.

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.

He had completely lost his former elegance, his eye sockets sunken and cheekbones protruding as if he had not eaten properly in days. However, his eyes burned with a frightening intensity, filled with obsessive love and desperation. I had not expected to see him at this moment, and I felt genuinely surprised. He stumbled forward, his voice trembling. "Aurelia… You can't marry him... You're my wife..." The guests began whispering among themselves, some shocked. Members of the Moretti family rose to their feet, hands moving toward the weapons at their waists.

I tell him, flashing a smile at the onlookers as we swayed to the music. "They are looking for some action, you know. We are supposed to be happily married, mia moglie." The accents rolls off of his tongue as he calls me 'my wife' and directly tickles me in the core. We are going to have a problem if his accent turns me on when it appears only when he lies. "Everyone in the high society knows how arranged and business marriages work." I roll my eyes. "Trust me, these people cannot wait to have the cake and go home and gossip about how Paige Mathewson, the crazy bitch, ended up with this catch." I nod in his direction.

I knew he only said it because I looked so much like Riley, but I chose to believe him anyway. On the first day of our marriage, he told me that to escape the bloody underworld, his accounts had to be frozen. He couldn't touch a cent of the family's dirty money. I was so in love with him, I never cared about his status as a mafia heir. Starting over was fine. As long as it was with him, I was willing to do anything. So during what he called his "downfall," I lived in a basement, ate stale bread, washed clothes for mobsters in the dead of winter, and gave birth to Luca in a back-alley clinic.