Mafia Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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Caged by the Capo, Broken by My First Love
I was forced to marry the most ruthless Capo in New York to save my family from a blood execution. For two years, I endured his psychotic jealousy as he paraded a mistress around the city—not because he wanted her, but because he knew she was connected to my past. When I finally handed him the divorce papers, I discovered a sickening truth. The mistress was the half-sister of my mob lawyer—the same lawyer who happened to be my first love. "I stayed close to try to save you both!" Julian confessed, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. "I thought I could pull her out and break your marriage at the same time!" He claimed his twisted plan was to rescue me. Instead, it pushed his desperate sister to the brink of madness. She lunged at me in my own bedroom, driving a six-inch blade into my side. "You hold the crown and you don't even want it!" she screamed. "I would kill for someone to look at me the way he looks at you!" As I lay bleeding out on the mattress, my husband and my first love fought over me, both screaming my name. I had broken my own heart years ago to save Julian from this violent underworld. I didn't understand why my sacrifice only turned him into a manipulative monster, just like my husband. Why did their twisted versions of love only bring me scars and blood? Waking up in the hospital, I looked at the two men desperately offering me blood-soaked thrones. I calmly signed the dissolution papers, took ten percent of the clean assets, and walked away. This time, I was done being a queen on any man's board./1/111276/coverorgin.jpg?v=c1b3c26b51b5d9775cc9dfe36816cda1&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late For Regret, Mr. Underboss
I caught the white roses at my best friend’s wedding. Everyone expected Nero, the Mafia Underboss I’d loved for eight years, to drop to one knee and propose. Instead, he ripped the bouquet from my hands and gave it to his secretary. “Next time, Siena,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Let Valentina have her moment in the spotlight.” In front of every Capo and soldier in the city, he stripped me of my dignity just to please a girl who played at being a mobster’s muse. To him, I was merely an entry in a ledger—forever pending, never prioritized. I quietly sold our penthouse, packed my bags, and walked away. In seven days, I would no longer be his shadow. I planned to marry his rival Don./1/111034/coverorgin.jpg?v=aa9c3dd13a56b19ef5898e3cfccb9aa6&imageMogr2/format/webp)
After losing my memory, I divorced Don
I woke up to find that I had lost five years of my memory. I was told that I had been married to Caspian, the ruthless Godfather of the New York Mafia, for five years. I had harbored a crush on him for a long time, so marrying him should have been good news. But the terrible truth was, he didn't seem to love me. After losing my five years of memory, he felt like nothing more than a stranger to me. "Break the blood oath, Caspian," I said. "We're getting a divorce." Yet later, he would pace outside my door late at night, refusing to leave: "Darling, just look at me one more time, please?"/0/80559/coverorgin.jpg?v=91a41c41f0acb4e80b9e053cf8488371&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Mafia's Virgin Bride
Liana DeLuca grew up in silence, obeying every rule under her uncle's strict church roof. So when he forces her into marriage with a known mafia playboy, her world flips upside down. Matteo Romano is sin in human form and she wants no part of him. But Matteo isn't used to hearing "no." He's tasted every kind of pleasure life offers... except a woman like Liana. She's untouched, unbothered, and completely unimpressed by his power. He wants her. She wants him to beg. In a world full of secrets, violence, and desire, Liana finds herself pulled deeper into the underworld and deeper into Matteo's arms. But can love survive where lies were the foundation? Or will Matteo's past burn down the only good thing he's ever wanted?/1/116504/coverorgin.jpg?v=6156f406fa49b6ff0338eeb4e4df9529&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Trapped By The Mafia King's Secret Obsession
To pay off my late father’s ruinous mafia blood debt, I took a lethal job: acting as a body double for a cloistered Mafia Princess in an arranged marriage meeting. But the man sitting across the polished table was Felix Falcone, the terrifying Underboss—and the boy I secretly loved for three years at our academy. He didn’t recognize me. To him, I was just a pawn for territory. I swallowed my bitter heartbreak, remembering how he once threw my handmade graduation pastries into the trash without a second glance. I tried to play the perfect fake bride, but my treacherous memory betrayed me. I accidentally revealed intimate details about his habits, from his hatred of dark chocolate to the exact make of his tactical pen. My cover was blown. But instead of executing me for the deception, Felix discovered my true identity. His cold indifference instantly morphed into a terrifying, obsessive possessiveness. He abruptly canceled his mafia marriage, trapped me in his corporate empire as his exclusive secretary, and ruthlessly threatened any man who dared to look at me. I was completely suffocated and confused. Why was this ruthless predator—a man who once publicly despised me and viewed unions only as tools for absolute power—now hunting me with such dark, unyielding devotion? Trapped in the shadows of his armored SUV, he leaned in, his scent of cedar and danger wrapping around me as he sent a message demanding my complete surrender. Knowing I could no longer hide, I made my choice and hit send. “There is no need for a hunt, Felix. I surrender.”/1/104843/coverorgin.jpg?v=3c60e31b25c3507535767491f6bf894e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
His Discarded Gem: Shining In The Ruthless Don's Arms
For four years, I traced the bullet scar on Chace’s chest, believing it was proof he would bleed to keep me safe. On our anniversary, he told me to wear white because "tonight changes everything." I walked into the gala thinking I was getting a ring. Instead, I stood frozen in the center of the ballroom, drowning in silk, watching him slide his mother's sapphire onto another woman's finger. Karyn Warren. The daughter of a rival family. When I begged him with my eyes to claim me, to save me from the public humiliation, he didn't flinch. He just leaned toward his Underboss, his voice amplified by the silence. "Karyn is for power. Ember is for pleasure. Don't confuse the assets." My heart didn't just break; it incinerated. He expected me to stay as his mistress, threatening to dig up my dead mother’s grave if I refused to play the obedient pet. He thought I was trapped. He thought I had nowhere to go because of my father’s massive gambling debts. He was wrong. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and texted the one name I was never supposed to use. Keith Mosley. The Don. The monster under Chace's bed. *I am invoking the Blood Oath. My father’s debt. I am ready to pay it.* His reply came three seconds later, buzzing against my palm like a warning. *The price is marriage. You belong to me. Yes or No?* I looked up at Chace, who was laughing with his new fiancée, thinking he owned me. I looked down and typed three letters. *Yes.*/0/99234/coverorgin.jpg?v=d4d85591c244d81b1eaa6fe4e928cfec&imageMogr2/format/webp)
He Betrayed Me, Now He Begs
For seven years, I was the architect of my fiancé's criminal empire and the strategist behind his every move. I was Dante Gallo’s unofficial Consigliere, his partner in everything but name. Tomorrow, I was finally supposed to marry him and take my place as the queen to his throne. But on the eve of our wedding, a single text message sent by mistake detonated my life. It was a photo from Dante, showing a platinum wedding band on his hand. The message read: “Married this morning. She’s safe now.” My gaze fell to the engagement ring on my own finger. It was the identical band, just smaller. The engraved initials ‘D.I.’ didn’t stand for Dante and I. They stood for Dante and Isabella—his childhood sweetheart. My entire relationship was a lie; I was just a shield to protect his one true love. He dismissed my discovery as a "tantrum." Then, his new bride began taunting me, sending a picture of them tangled in bedsheets with the caption: "Loser." They expected me to break. They thought I would shatter. They were about to find out just how wrong they were. I forwarded the picture to Isabella’s fiancé, a man far more dangerous than Dante. "Your fiancée is in Suite 8808 at the Grand Hyatt," I told him. "I'll meet you downstairs. We're going to crash their party."/1/111275/coverorgin.jpg?v=584f0729444445d2ab73da2b80d101cf&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Rising From Ashes: The Don's Lost Queen
I gave up the peace of a civilian life to marry Dante, the most cold-blooded Don this city has ever known. For years, I managed the chaos of his life and respected his lethal secrets. But everything changed the moment he took a young soldier named Tess as his private secretary. He let her sit in the passenger seat of his armored SUV—a spot strictly reserved for me—and even allowed her to answer his encrypted burner phones. When I found her lipstick in his car, he simply said, "Don't be so paranoid." I knew then that we were over. So, on our fifth wedding anniversary, I left my wedding ring on his desk alongside a signed set of divorce papers. I packed a single bag and walked out of his gilded cage, finally choosing to live for myself./1/103521/coverorgin.jpg?v=37a2e125f935284408cef7ee78a9aaef&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway
I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit. The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window. He didn't bother to read a single word. He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business. In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet. He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years. "Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me. "Business is concluded, Elena. We leave." Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone. His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly. "Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared. He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home." He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom. I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years. By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco. And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret./0/94138/coverorgin.jpg?v=5ffc4e8e360db86ce79026010e779025&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late, My Mafia Heir Ex
My fiancé of seven years, the heir to a mafia dynasty, claimed amnesia three weeks before our wedding, forgetting only me. Then I overheard him laughing on a video call, calling it the perfect "hall pass" to sleep with an influencer before he was tied down. He flaunted his affair, abandoned me with a broken arm after a staged car crash to save her from a scratch, and planned to leave me homeless. He called me his "property," a doll he could play with and put back on the shelf when he was done. He thought I’d be waiting for his "miraculous recovery." Instead, I disappeared, leaving behind his ring and a simple note: "I remember everything. Me too."/0/94876/coverorgin.jpg?v=9dd15a1002316ad769fda54b1bb8898f&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Love Rebuilds From Frozen Hearts
On the night of my career-defining art exhibition, I stood completely alone. My husband, Dante Sovrano, the most feared man in Chicago, had promised he wouldn’t miss it for the world. Instead, he was on the evening news. He was shielding another woman—his ruthless business partner—from a downpour, letting his own thousand-dollar suit get soaked just to protect her. The headline flashed below them, calling their new alliance a "power move" that would reshape the city. The guests at my gallery immediately began to whisper. Their pitying looks turned my greatest triumph into a public spectacle of humiliation. Then his text arrived, a cold, final confirmation of my place in his life: “Something came up. Isabella needed me. You understand. Business.” For four years, I had been his possession. A quiet, artistic wife kept in a gilded cage on the top floor of his skyscraper. I poured all my loneliness and heartbreak onto my canvases, but he never truly saw my art. He never truly saw me. He just saw another one of his assets. My heart didn't break that night. It turned to ice. He hadn't just neglected me; he had erased me. So the next morning, I walked into his office and handed him a stack of gallery contracts. He barely glanced up, annoyed at the interruption to his empire-building. He snatched the pen and signed on the line I’d marked. He didn’t know the page tucked directly underneath was our divorce decree. He had just signed away his wife like she was nothing more than an invoice for art supplies./1/116774/coverorgin.jpg?v=c188c1cb18ad35fa55a80321df816b13&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Dying Unloved: My Cold Family's Bitter Regret
I made one phone call on my tenth birthday, and it cost me everything. I just wanted my brother to come home for cake. They never found his body after the car bomb. So my parents buried their grief in me. Eight years of kneeling in freezing rain. Eight years of being told my existence was a debt I could never repay. Tonight, on the anniversary of his death, I'm going to die. And the people who should have saved me won't even pick up the phone./1/100248/coverorgin.jpg?v=b1dec4753a5c9ea677f050c0b517bc01&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Contract With The Devil: Love In Shackles
I watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away./1/100381/coverorgin.jpg?v=e375925b1fad72d8fa2d14504dc63758&imageMogr2/format/webp)
He Chose The Mistress, Losing His True Queen
I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed./1/104657/coverorgin.jpg?v=9114a98c057e303eea6c37c56e8b3898&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Protected By The Enforcer: My Ex-Husband's Regret
The rejection letter from the private security school arrived on a Tuesday. It stated clearly that the single slot allocated to my son, Danny, had been filled by another boy. My husband, a high-ranking Capo, had signed away our son’s protection to make room for his mistress’s bastard. He sneered at me, calling Danny "soft," and sent him to an unguarded cabin in the north to toughen up. Three days later, the Russians took him. When the courier arrived, there was no ransom demand. Just a package containing a shred of blue cotton with a green T-Rex, soaked in black, stiff blood. Tom didn't shed a tear. He poured a scotch, stepped over me as I wept on the floor, and blamed me for coddling the boy. Overwhelmed by the silence of a house that would never hear my son's laughter again, I swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills to escape the pain. But the darkness didn't last. I woke up gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs. Sunlight hit my face. "Mommy?" Danny stood in the doorway, wearing his dinosaur pajamas, whole and alive. I looked at the calendar. It was May 15th. The day the letter arrived. The grief in my chest calcified into cold rage. I knew about the skimming. I knew about the fake widow status. I knew exactly how to bury my husband. I picked up the phone and dialed the one number no wife was ever supposed to call directly—the Enforcer. "I have evidence of treason," I said. "And I'm bringing the proof."/0/96394/coverorgin.jpg?v=1c658151d6984acf5a1df9673906504e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Mafia Princess: Escaping His Deadly Lie
For three years, a rare liver disease has been killing me. Through it all, my husband Julian has been my rock. Our last hope was a black-market liver, secured through a life-debt owed to my family, the Volkov Bratva. But from my hospital bed, I overheard him promise that very liver to another woman. It was for his mistress's mother. I soon discovered he had a four-year-old daughter with her. Their family was established; I was just the placeholder. On a hidden security feed, I watched him in my dead parents' penthouse—a sacred place he forbade me from visiting—bouncing their child on his knee. Then he fastened the diamond necklace he'd bought for my birthday around his mistress's neck. The final blow came when I heard her whisper, "Just a little longer... the fever will do the rest." He wasn't just leaving me. He was actively trying to kill me. The love I had for him didn't just die; it turned to a cold, hard stone in my chest. The man whose devotion I never questioned now made my skin crawl with revulsion. The next morning, I signed myself out of the hospital against medical advice. I left my wedding ring and the signed divorce papers on the entryway table, blocked his number, and walked out of our house without looking back./1/105887/coverorgin.jpg?v=786b06bbad278b98d1a8a2ce80de6ea0&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Too Late To Beg: The Don's Regret
I was still bleeding into the mesh underwear the hospital gave me when the photos hit the internet: my husband, the Don, forcing his tongue down his mistress's throat. Three days ago, that very mistress had shoved me off a yacht. I lost the baby. I lost my uterus. I was left completely barren. Yet, when my husband finally called, it wasn't to ask if I was alive. "The press is eating us alive," Dante barked through the phone. "Send a gift basket to Sofia. Fix this mess." To make matters worse, his grandmother stood at the foot of my bed, holding the hand of the daughter they had stolen from me at birth. "Mommy looks like a ghost," my daughter said, her voice devoid of love. That was the moment the last ember of affection died. I realized I wasn't a wife to them; I was just a broken vessel. So, when they sneered that I was useless, I didn't cry. I pulled a black USB drive from under my pillow and threw it on the bed. "Divorce papers," I said calmly. "And the complete security blueprints of the Moretti Fortress. Every blind spot. Every tunnel I designed." "Sign the papers and let me go, or I sell this drive to your enemies for one dollar." I left the country with nothing but the clothes on my back, vanishing into a freezing attic in Paris. I thought I was finally free. But three weeks later, Dante kicked down my door, looking at my poverty with horror. "Come home," he begged, tossing a box of diamonds onto my drafting table. "We can be a family." I looked at the man who had destroyed me and opened the window. "You're looking for the girl who loved you," I whispered, throwing the diamonds into the trash alley below. "But you killed her."/1/105886/coverorgin.jpg?v=9865f71ef70b99a18efbe3462c8f954e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Real Boss Was His Neglected Wife
I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress. "You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail. "Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick." I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid to me. Economy. Middle seat. Three layovers. Then I looked at the sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased specifically so his crime family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by their rivals. "Amber is fragile," he whispered, his breath smelling of the expensive scotch I bought. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook." My mother-in-law was already on board, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had curated, refusing to look at me. They treated me like a glorified ATM with a medical degree. They forgot that five years ago, when the Feds froze everything, I was the one who bought their lives with a five-million-dollar tribute. They forgot that the hand that writes the checks can also close the account. As the engines roared to life, leaving me stranded on the tarmac, I didn't cry. Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies. I pulled out my phone and cancelled the Uber he had called for me. I wasn't going to the airport. I was going to the safe to retrieve the "Blood Contract." The five million dollars wasn't a gift. It was a callable loan. And the collateral was everything. I dialed my lawyer. "Burn it to the ground."/1/100383/coverorgin.jpg?v=c125c31cace55ba319ae985ae7ee3148&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Left To Drown: The Heiress's Cold Departure
I was the fiancée of the Chicago Outfit’s heir, a bond sealed by blood and eighteen years of history. But when his mistress pushed me into the freezing pool at our engagement gala, Jax didn’t swim toward me. He swam past me. He scooped up the girl who pushed me, cradling her like fragile glass, while I struggled against the weight of my gown in the murky water. When I finally dragged myself out, shivering and humiliated before the entire underworld, Jax didn’t offer a hand. He offered a scowl. "You’re making a scene, Eliana. Go home." Later, when that same mistress shoved me down the stairs, shattering my knee and my dance career, Jax stepped over my broken body to comfort her. I overheard him telling his friends, "I’m just breaking her spirit. She needs to learn she’s property, not a partner. Once she’s desperate enough, she’ll be the perfect obedient wife." He thought I was a dog that would always return to its master. He thought he could starve me of affection until I begged for scraps. He was wrong. While he was busy playing protector to his mistress, I wasn't crying in my room. I was packing his ring into a cardboard box. I cancelled my transfer to UCLA and enrolled at NYU instead. By the time Jax realized his "property" was missing, I was already in New York, standing next to a man who looked at me like a queen, not a possession./1/100382/coverorgin.jpg?v=98eca9353a7f43dce1fbab16dfc5e227&imageMogr2/format/webp)
