Too Late, Don Moretti

I took a bullet to the chest to save Julian, the ruthless Don of the New York Syndicate. For five years, I laundered his millions, intercepted his enemies, and was meant to be his wife.

But seven days before our wedding, he allowed his young ward, Isabella, to steal my matriarchal betrothal ring and flaunt it on the dark web.

When I demanded he postpone the wedding until it was returned, he called me theatrical and took her to his private coastal safehouse. To punish my defiance, he ordered my emergency heart medication removed from my safe.

"I merely wanted to test if you were feigning your little illness for attention."

That was the text Isabella sent me. But I wasn't feigning. My chest seized, and I collapsed on the hardwood floor. I flatlined twice in an off-the-grid clinic. While doctors used defibrillators to violently restart my failing heart, Julian was in an underground arena, publicly sliding a massive diamond onto Isabella's finger.

I had spent every drop of my blood to build his dominion, yet he left me to die just to humor a spoiled girl's games. I finally understood that my lifelong devotion was nothing but a cheap convenience to him.

When I woke up, I didn't shed a single tear.

I printed a meticulous ledger of my blood debts, marked the balance as zero, and vanished to Europe. This time, I would build a mafia empire of my own.