The Badboy Meets The Mafia Princess Novels & Stories

“You have to promise you won't tell anyone, Mia.” She squeezed my hand even harder as she stared into my eyes. “You know me very well, Nyssa. I don't need to prove myself to you. If you think it's dangerous, then you can decide not to tell me. I'm just happy to see that you're alive and well, that's all.” Her honesty did the trick. “Adrian Giovanni, Roman's rival and the Mafia lord of the Giovanni family, asked me to work for him. I accepted.” Mia stared at me, her mouth open, the dumbfoundment all over her facial expression.

What a waste of beauty. She acted smart, I knew the moment she walks in at the VIP section that she doesn't look like a regular whore, and her perfume is too expensive for a street girl. Her nails look perfectly done. Her body language made me know she was sent here as a trap. Everything made sense when I saw the omerta symbol tattooed on her breast. An Italian Mafia mark. I played along all the while. “La famiglia oscura should know me better than to send a lady to me. They will end up crawling to my toes begging for a taste of my joystick.”

she murmured to herself angrily. Heaving a sigh, she threw her designer handbag onto the velvet chaise lounge and collapsed onto the king-sized bed, arms spread like a queen resting after a tiresome affair. The silk sheets whispered beneath her, but they offered little comfort. Beatrice Sandoval was the crowned jewel of the Sandoval family, a model whose beauty graced the covers of international magazines. The cameras adored her, the world admired her, and the underground world feared her. But behind the flashes of the paparazzi, beyond the high-fashion runways, Beatrice exerted power in the shadows. She was a Mafia princess, a woman who bent fate to her will.

Sandra listened intently, her expression softening with each passing moment. 'I'll help you, Annabella,' Sandra said finally, her voice firm. 'But you have to do something for me,' her expression is flirtatious enough for Isabella to guess what she's getting at. 'Sandra, can't you at least...' She cut her off completely. 'If you don't want me to help you, just leave. I'm not forcing you at all,' Sandra told her, she lit a cigar to smoke. She's a baddie, which is obvious, a transformed one because Sandra changed into this bad form due to her financial problem which led to the death of her sister.

"Maybe I'm just a Roglas. That seems to be enough." "No." Rafael shifted to face her fully. "This isn't about your family name. I've dealt with the Roglases before. They're small-time, barely worth my attention. But tonight, I watched the Bratva, the Calabrians, and a private military contractor all try to grab you. That level of interest doesn't come from being a minor mafia princess." Cassandra's face had gone pale. "I don't understand." "Neither do I. Yet." The car pulled into an underground garage. Rafael's safe house, a renovated warehouse he used for situations exactly like this. Secure, private, impossible to find unless you knew where to look.

I was a mafia princess in hiding. I gave my husband everything. Then, right after his company went public, he cheated on me at the party I threw for him. With his childhood sweetheart, Isabella. “Elena, you can’t even iron an Hermès scarf? Look at these wrinkles. It’s a cheap rag.” I stopped. The steam from the iron—or maybe my own rage—blurred my vision. Marco’s mother, Amelia, threw the expensive scarf back at me, her face full of contempt.

Then sharply, as if on instinct, she turned to take a good look at the van which was hiding her, boldly on the van was written; The Mambas Organisation. Holy moly! She gasped. Mambas Organisation? Crap! That was one of the mafia gangs in their street if not the whole of New Jersey, not just one, it was the leading gang, the most powerful mafia organisation, being headed by the most fierceful mafia Lord ever known, Lord Lucario. She had heard so much about him and his mafia gang, heard from her grandma and from the ‘johns’ she serviced. They always talked about him, and his gang, and how powerful they were.

Two of Vitale's men were behind me before I could move. One of them dropped two duffel bags on the dining table in front of my father and he opened the bag before nodding at Roman. "Take her to the car" Roman instructed and his men gestured for me to follow them. "Mom?" I called as it dawned on me what they were about t o do, she refused to meet my gaze. They aren't forcing me to marry him. They are selling me to him.

“He looks like a goddamn accountant.” In our world, the Moretti family ruled the city’s underground. Adrian wasn’t just another soldier. He was the family’s most trusted enforcer—cold, precise, untouchable. And I, Isabella Russo, the spoiled mafia princess, was not about to take orders from him. So I fought him. On his first day, I set fire to his lavish villa, watching flames devour the marble walls and glass ceilings until the estate collapsed into ashes. He only looked at me once, his voice flat and merciless:

This is a mafia club. We stopped in a open area near the center, where clusters of men gathered around low tables, drinks in hand. Their conversations paused as I was deposited on a velvet chaise like merchandise on display. "Look what wandered in from the cold." They circled. Vultures scenting weakness. "God, look at her. Face like a virgin saint. But that dress..." He let out a low whistle. "That dress says she's begging for it." "I'm not—" I tried to push myself upright, but my arms shook. "Please, this is a mistake. I was drugged. My boyfriend left me here—I don't know why—"