Owned By The Mafia King

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Roderic Penn

I stood at my mother’s open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest’s voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone—he brought Charla with him. He claimed she’d had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

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The room smelled of money and danger. Gold chandeliers hung above the crowded hall, their light reflecting off glasses of expensive wine. Men in black suits sat in leather chairs, whispering about women as if they were talking about cars or jewelry.

I didn't belong here.

I sat in the corner, my wrists tied together with a thin silver chain. My heart raced as I looked at the stage where a man with a scarred face was shouting numbers. Girls were being sold to the highest bidder.

I was next.

"Name?" the scarred man barked at me, yanking me toward the stage.

"Isabella Romano," I whispered, my voice shaking.

Laughter filled the hall.

"Romano? Oh, that's rich," one man said. "Isn't that the family who owes half the mafia their lives?"

I bit my lip hard, holding back tears. This was my father's fault. He lost everything in a bad deal with the wrong people, and now they were using me to pay his debt.

The scarred man grabbed my chin, forcing me to face the crowd. "Twenty years old. Untouched. Daughter of a man who couldn't pay his debts. Starting bid-one million."

The crowd came alive.

"One million."

"One-point-five."

"Two million!"

The numbers rose fast, and my chest tightened with panic.

Then, a deep voice cut through the chaos.

"Ten million."

The room went silent.

I turned my head, and that's when I saw him.

He sat in the back row, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit. His hair was dark, his jaw sharp, and his eyes-God, his eyes-were cold and dangerous. He didn't look like the other men. He looked like he owned them.

The scarred man stammered. "Ten million? A-Are you serious, Mr. Moretti?"

Moretti.

I had heard that name before. Dante Moretti. The ruthless billionaire who ran half of New York's underground. People whispered his name like it was a curse.

"Yes," Dante said calmly, not even looking at anyone else. "And no one will outbid me."

No one dared.

The scarred man grinned nervously. "Sold! To Mr. Moretti."

My knees weakened as the chain was removed. Two men in black suits pushed me toward him.

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream. But something about the way he looked at me froze me in place.

I stood in front of him, my head down, my heart pounding so loud I thought he could hear it.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice deep and commanding.

I looked up, meeting his dark eyes.

"Do you know who I am?"

I nodded, my lips trembling. "Dante Moretti."

"Good. Then you know what happens when you try to run from me."

I swallowed hard, saying nothing.