icon 0
icon TOP UP
rightIcon
icon Reading History
rightIcon
icon Sign out
rightIcon
icon Get the APP
rightIcon
closeIcon

Claim Your Bonus at the APP

Open

Mafia Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
The Syndicate Heir Begs For My Love

The Syndicate Heir Begs For My Love

I loved Julian Falcone for eighteen years. He was the future Don of the Cosa Nostra—ruthless, calculating, and the only man who could dismantle an entire cartel with a single phone call. I was the daughter of his family's Consigliere, raised in his shadow, molded into the perfect mafia princess. When his mother announced our betrothal at a syndicate dinner, I held my breath and looked across the table at him. Julian turned his head. The look he fixed on me was one of profound, physical revulsion. He dragged me to a club that night—not for a dinner, but to use me as a human shield against his mother's surveillance. He ignored me for hours while his crew laughed and drank. He gave my most treasured possession to another woman. He left me standing alone on a curb after his convoy drove away without me. And on a mountain retreat, hidden behind the pines, I heard him tell his crew he was relieved to finally be rid of me. So I took a pen to my university applications. I scored out the life I'd planned around him until the paper tore beneath the pressure. I secretly enrolled at a local college—somewhere he would never set foot. Three years later, I had built a fortress around my broken heart. A new life. A new name in circles he didn't control. Then I discovered the truth. Julian Falcone never went to his prestigious university. He spent thirty-six months at the exact campus I had abandoned—waiting for a ghost. And now he's found me. ---
You Cannot Afford Me Now,Fabiano

You Cannot Afford Me Now,Fabiano

Tomorrow, I am supposed to walk down the aisle and marry the most lethal mafia boss on the East Coast. But right now, I am trapped inside a locked glass conservatory. His childhood friend turned on the industrial ceiling sprinklers, laughing as the cold water rapidly filled the room. She knew about my crippling phobia of drowning. I looked through the glass at my fiancé, Fabiano, begging him to save me. Instead of helping, he just leaned against the terrace railing, sipping his bourbon while his men recorded my terror on their phones. “Stop making a scene and embarrassing me,” he warned through the intercom, annoyed by my panic. Then, his childhood friend smiled and whispered a truth that froze my blood. “I didn't just guess your little phobia. Fabiano gave it to me.” For three years, I laundered his dirty money, secured his legitimate supply chains, and loved him with my life. I had confided my deepest trauma to him in the dark, and he had turned it into a parlor game for his mistress. How could the man who promised to be my shield watch me drown without an ounce of pity? The fear of the rising water was suddenly burned away by a cold, clarifying rage. I picked up a heavy iron stand, smashed the bulletproof glass with my bleeding hands, and triggered my private tactical team. Since he thought I was just a disposable accountant, I would show him what happens when you cross the woman who actually owns his empire.
The Disposable Bride's Deadly Secret Identity

The Disposable Bride's Deadly Secret Identity

My debt-ridden uncle sold me to the Romero mafia family to save his own skin. I was forced to marry Emiliano Romero, a man known to the underworld as "The Ghost"—a rumored monster who supposedly tore his last two caretakers apart. My aunt and cousin delighted in my misery. My cousin came at me with a razor, leaving a nasty bruise on my face, while my aunt bleached my hair to make me look like a cheap, disposable doll. When the Romeros arrived, they didn't even pretend to want a daughter-in-law. "The Family needs a nobody whose death won't start a police report." They just wanted a clueless victim to sign a pre-nup and die quietly. They shoved me down a sterile hallway and locked me inside a fortified, padded cell with a man wrapped in heavy chains. They all thought they were sacrificing a helpless, terrified lamb to a madman. They laughed at my tears, completely convinced I was just gutter trash waiting to be slaughtered. But they had no idea I was a highly trained undercover operative. Listening to their arrogant whispers, the pieces finally clicked. Emiliano wasn't a deranged killer—he was a prisoner being drugged and framed by his own blood. I drained my uncle's bank account to buy a neurotoxin antidote, dropped my pathetic, trembling disguise, and stepped calmly into the monster's cage. I wasn't here to be their victim. I was here to save him.