Romans & histoires Surprise Attack Synonym

For five years, Marco Falcone was the perfect man. Or so I thought. The illusion shattered on the night of our engagement party, when his mistress crashed it, a five-year-old boy in tow. The boy ran straight to Marco, crying, "Daddy! Daddy, I finally found you!" It had to be some kind of sick joke. But then Marco turned to me, his voice stripped of all warmth. "This is my son, Leo. A… mistake Sofia and I made five years ago." "Leo is the Falcone heir. I have to legitimize them. That means I'll be engaged to Sofia first." "But Lydia, believe me, I still love you. We can have our engagement party in six months. You're going to be the Donna of the Falcone family. I expect you to be generous and understanding. This is non-negotiable." I laughed, a cold, sharp sound, and slid the engagement ring off my finger. My eyes scanned the room and locked on the man in the corner—Lorenzo Moretti, the most powerful Don in New York. He held another title, one only I knew: the man who’d been trying to make me his. "Don Moretti," I called out, my voice clear and steady. "I find myself in need of a new fiancé. Are you interested?"

I was a mafia princess, sick of the life. After my father died, all I wanted was a normal life. I helped my husband, Marco, take his company public. I fought his battles. I took care of his mother. I paid for his sister’s tuition and her addiction to luxury. Then, at our tenth-anniversary party, he gave my mother's bracelet to his childhood flame, Isabella. He even fucked her in our bed. I hired a PI. Found out he knew who I was from the start. He used me. Planned to be a Wall Street hotshot, then toss me aside. He thought my family was wiped out. That no one had my back. That he could walk all over me. He didn’t break until his company was bleeding partners and staring down bankruptcy. He got on his knees, crying and begging me to forgive him.

Alpha Damon was an exiled monster, feared for his cruelty. He chose Selena—an omega from a worthless pack—as his mate. There was just one problem. Our Mating Ceremony, mine and my fated mate Alpha Ethan's, was set for the same day. When Ethan found out, he vanished for three days. I found him just in time to overhear his plan. "At the Mating Ceremony, I'll fake a sign from the Moon Goddess. I'll make it look like she rejected Elara." "Pack law will force her onto that pathetic excuse for a brother, Damon. Then Selena won't have to mate with him." "An outcast like Damon doesn't deserve a true Alpha's fated mate. Once Selena is safe, I’ll just take Elara back." My heart turned to stone. He was throwing me to a monster to save another woman. And he thought he could just take me back? Fine. I would play along with his little scheme. But once his little show was over, I'd be gone for good. Except when Ethan came to "rescue" me, he found Damon's mark burned into my neck. That's when he finally broke.

My anxiety spiked during our wedding photoshoot. A sharp pain stabbed through my chest. My fiancé, Caius—the Falcone family heir—was helping his adoptive sister, Fiorella, try on my wedding dress. He didn't even spare me a glance. He was on one knee, focused on adjusting the lace on Fiorella’s hem. Before we’d even left the shop, Fiorella posted a selfie in the dress. She was all smiles, my fiancé standing beside her, posed like her groom. Calmly, I pulled out my phone. I sent a message to a painter I keep on retainer. "A royal portrait. The two of them. Old-world style. Use the cheapest materials you can find. I want the frame dripping with fake diamonds. Make it look like trash." I'll have it sent to Fiorella. A wedding present. The note will be simple. "A work of art as priceless as your bond. Best wishes on your wedding."

Since I was a kid, my parents drilled it in—you're gonna be a Corleone girl, Giovanni Corleone's property. "This is just an alliance. Don't expect anything more." That's what he said on our wedding night. So I played the part—quiet, polished, dutiful. Then year three hit, and suddenly Giovanni couldn't keep his hands off me. Every night, something new. I thought maybe—finally—he felt the same way I had all along. Then I caught him kissing his stepmom. Funny. Just the night before, he told me kissing me made him sick. "I've been practicing with her—for your sake." So yeah. All that heat? Just rehearsal for her. So I ran. Took back my life—and our unborn daughter. The Don lost his mind looking for me. Begged me to come back—with the kid. But I would not stop for him anymore. I turned and walked straight toward the stage that was always mine.

At the Nightwood Clan's feast celebrating our victory over the hunters, I was accused by Julia—a fledgling freshly turned from a blood servant. The charge? Stealing fifteen crates of mana crystals and hundreds of vials of the finest rare bloods. She pointed a finger at me, her voice ringing with self-righteousness. "Are we going to let a selfish thief like her continue to control this clan's lifeblood? I propose she be thrown into the Silverwater dungeons immediately!" I looked to Joseph, the Earl of Nightwood, the man I had loved for a hundred years. He knew damn well all of it—the blood, the crystals—was mine. My gift to the clan. I needed those crystals to heal the wounds I took in the fighting, and the rare blood was the only way we could call on our allies. But the man who'd been tangled in my sheets just last night now stared at me coldly. "Julia has records of you stealing clan resources. What do you have to say for yourself?" A smirk touched my lips. "I have nothing to say." So, they thought I was some fool they could just push around. They had no idea I was a descendant of the most powerful Vampire Prince of all, Valerius. If they wanted to play games with me, they’d better be prepared for my revenge.

I caught my fiancé, Nico Falcone, in bed with my own cousin, Bianca Rossi. Right before our wedding. When I confronted him, he just called the whole thing off and ran me out of New York. I didn’t see him again for five years. Then came the charity gala for the New York Families. There he was. Nico. He pulled me aside, saying he felt bad for the state I was in. He offered to make me his mistress. I told him to go to hell. He got ugly. The whole room was laughing. Whispering how an outcast like me had no business showing my face in New York. I clenched my fists, the sound of their mockery ringing in my ears. Just then, the entire ballroom went dead silent. Every head bowed in respect. Don Lucas, the most feared man in New York, was walking slowly toward us. He stopped right in front of me. With the whole room watching, he dropped to one knee. He took my hand—the one Nico had squeezed red—and kissed it. His voice was dangerously low. “Who hurt my future wife?”

Three years ago, Lucas’ mother paid me ten million dollars to play his fated mate with the help of a potion. Lucas believed I was hopelessly in love with him. What he didn’t know was that I was nothing more than a hired actress. By day, I stood at his side during training. By night, he paraded a she-wolf through the mansion. He once sneered, “Don’t delude yourself into thinking the mate bond can change me.” I only smiled, silently counting my money. “Funny, because I never planned on giving you my heart, either.” On the day the potion wore off, I walked away with the fortune, while he spiraled into madness. Three years later, I returned victorious as the youngest S-class strategy consultant. There he was, on his knees, murmuring, “I was wrong.” Little did Lucas know that his arrogance, handed out like charity, had carried a hefty price tag of ten million. Now, even if he lost everything, it still wouldn’t be enough to buy my forgiveness.

Five years into my marriage to the Don, Ives Moretti, he left me for dead during a shootout to get his mistress, Isabella, to safety. I woke up three days later in a private hospital room. No apology. Ives was cold. “You’re my wife. You knew the risks. Stop being so dramatic.” Then, he added, “Isabella’s different. She’s fragile. She needed me.” That was followed by three months of the silent treatment. Like always, he expected me to be the one to break, to come crawling back begging for forgiveness. Three months later, I handed the Irish deal to Isabella on a silver platter. The big one I’d spent half a year building myself. Ives thought it was a peace offering. He smiled, a rare, genuine thing these days. “I knew you’d come around. As a reward, we’ll go to Vegas. I know you’ve always wanted to go.” The next day, Isabella whined about being bored, and he broke his promise. He took her to Vegas instead. Told me it was “urgent family business.” This time, I didn’t cry. Didn’t make a scene. Ives was pleased I was being so understanding. He had no idea I was already cutting all ties to the Moretti family. That he’d already signed the divorce papers. I was free.

In the middle of the night, my husband started talking in his sleep. "My little treasure, Daddy's taking you and Mommy to the new house tomorrow." But we were using protection. Where the hell did a kid come from? So I opened his phone. I saw the money transfers to another woman—spent on all kinds of luxury shit and a house. The photo album had pictures of her in a skimpy stripper outfit, a little bump in her belly. The last one was an ultrasound. Four months along, it looked like. I didn't make a sound. Just saved the evidence. They were about to learn the price of betraying a mafia princess.