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  • Old Lady of the Iron Crown novel by Edilaine Beckert

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown novel by Edilaine Beckert

    Blurb

    I was sweating on a stained cot in a rundown clinic, enduring agonizing labor to deliver my twins.

    My boyfriend, Viper, the President of the Raven MC, was right next door. But he wasn’t there to support me. He was buying the whole clubhouse a round of drinks to celebrate his new girlfriend’s birthday.

    Instead of coming to see his newborn children, he sent a thug with a loaded Glock and a legal contract. The prospect shoved the cold steel against my forehead, demanding I sign my parental rights over to the club and walk away with nothing. If I refused, he promised to dump our bodies in the swamp. In the hallway, the club girls laughed, calling me a worthless charity case.

    “Sign the paper, or I leave three corpses in this bed.”

    I clutched my fragile babies to my chest, my heart turning to dead ash. I had given that man my youth and loyalty, only to be discarded like trash. I didn’t understand how someone could be so ruthlessly cruel to his own flesh and blood.

    Before the hammer could drop, a mysterious man in a tailored suit calmly walked in and shattered the prospect’s wrist. He took one look at the faded scar on my shoulder, ran a rapid blood test, and revealed a truth that shook my world. I wasn’t an unpatched stray, but the long-lost daughter of the most feared motorcycle club president in the country. Now, with a two-hundred-bike army at my back, it was my turn to hunt.

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    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 1

    Roxy POV:

    I clamped my teeth into the edge of the yellowed pillow, my back arching as another wave of tearing pain ripped through my pelvis. Sweat soaked the stiff, stained sheets beneath me.

    Beside the metal cot, the old nurse dropped a pair of rusty surgical shears into an enamel tray with a sharp, echoing clang. She did not bother looking at my face. Her bloodshot eyes flicked over my bare left shoulder, sneering at the pale, uninked skin where a patched woman would carry club property marks.

    “Stop crying like a stuck pig,” the nurse muttered, her thick fingers digging brutally into my swollen belly to force the contractions. Her breath reeked of cheap rolling tobacco and stale gin. “Viper has better things to do than watch an unpatched stray ruin good linens.”

    The mention of his road name made my stomach convulse. I forced my trembling hand up and shoved her heavy forearm away with every ounce of strength left in my exhausted frame.

    “Keep your hands off me unless you’re catching these babies,” I rasped, my throat raw from hours of silent labor.

    I sucked in a ragged breath, blinking through the haze of sweat and tears to fix my gaze on the cracked mirror hanging crookedly on the clinic’s water-damaged drywall. I refused to close my eyes. If I closed them, the darkness would pull me under, and I had to keep these children alive.

    From the asphalt outside, the thunderous rumble of heavy Harley-Davidson V-twin engines vibrated through the clinic’s single-pane windows, making the glass rattle against its wooden frame. Bass-heavy thrash metal bled through the shared wall of the Raven MC clubhouse next door, followed by a chorus of drunken cheers.

    Footsteps echoed along the bare clinic hallway. High heels clicked loudly on the warped floorboards, accompanied by shrill, mocking laughter.

    “Did she drop those brats yet?” a blonde sweetbutt drawled from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a half-empty bottle of bourbon in her manicured hand. “Viper said if she isn’t out of this room by sunrise, the prospects are dumping her cot in the alley behind the dumpsters.”

    “She thinks she’s still the Prez’s Old Lady,” another girl snickered, blowing a cloud of sour vape smoke into the sterile air. “She never even earned a bottom rocker. Just a charity case from the Vance house.”

    I bit my lower lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, anchoring my slipping consciousness. My fingernails dug into the rusted iron rails of the cot until the skin around my cuticles split. Let them laugh.

    A fresh contraction slammed into my spine like a sledgehammer. Gasping, I reached toward the battered nightstand where my cracked smartphone lay. My fingers shook violently as I stretched for the lifeline I still foolishly believed in.

    Pain spiked again, turning my arm to lead. My hand slipped, knocking the phone off the edge. It hit the dusty concrete floor with a hollow plastic crack, sliding beneath the bed.

    The old nurse gave a dry, raspy chuckle and kicked the device deeper under the frame with the steel toe of her boot. “Save your battery, girl. Viper is two bottles deep in top-shelf tequila. He won’t answer you.”

    Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and feral. I shoved myself forward, leaning halfway off the mattress, and seized the filthy collar of her lab coat in a death grip.

    “Pick it up,” I snarled, staring straight into her rheumy eyes with a cold, murderous focus that made the old woman freeze. “Pick it up right now, or the first thing I do when I stand up is break your jaw.”

    The nurse swallowed hard, the cruel smirk fading from her leathery mouth. Without a word, she bent down, hooked the phone with the tip of her boot, and dragged it back within my reach.

    I snatched the phone, swiped my sweat-streaked thumb across the spiderwebbed screen, and hit Viper’s speed dial.

    The line rang. Once. Twice. Four agonizing times while the room spun around me.

    Finally, the line clicked open. The deafening roar of the biker bar poured through the speaker—glasses clinking, pool balls cracking, and men roaring with laughter over an engine revving indoors.

    “Viper…” I choked out, fighting for air. “It’s time. The babies are coming. I need—”

    “Oh, look who decided to call,” a sweet, venomous voice purred through the receiver. It wasn’t Viper. It was Sierra.

    My heart seized in my chest.

    “Sierra,” I whispered, my grip tightening on the plastic casing until the glass creaked. “Put him on.”

    “He’s a little busy, darling,” Sierra chuckled, her tone dripping with mock pity. “He’s buying the whole clubhouse a round to celebrate my birthday. And my new spot on his rear fender. Why don’t you pack your little duffel bag and crawl back to whatever ditch you came from?”

    “Put Jaxson on the phone!” I screamed, using his real name, raw rage tearing through my vocal cords. “They are his children!”

    A heavy rustle came through the line, followed by a deep, familiar gravelly voice that used to whisper promises against my collarbone.

    “Tell that crazy bitch to stop calling,” Viper’s voice cut through the noise, cold and utterly devoid of warmth. “I told her we’re done. I don’t care about her or whatever bastards she’s dropping. If she calls this phone again, I’ll send Axel’s boys to wipe her out.”

    The line went dead with a harsh, rhythmic tone.

    I stared at the black screen, the final ember of hope inside my chest snapping and turning to cold, dead ash. The man who had taken my youth, used my family loyalty, and treated me like a disposable ghost had just signed his own eviction from my soul.

    The nurse tossed a basin of lukewarm, murky water onto the bedside table, splashing cold droplets across my cheeks. “Told you so,” she sneered, regaining her nerve.

    I didn’t wipe the dirty water from my face. I turned my head slowly, looking at her with eyes so hollow and lethal that the woman stepped back, dropping her gauze roll onto the floor.

    A massive, tearing pressure built at the base of my pelvis. The bodies inside me were demanding their freedom.

    “Get your hands ready,” I commanded, my voice dead and steady despite the agony splitting my hips apart. “Because I’m delivering them right now, and if you drop either of them, you won’t leave this room alive.”

    I gripped the cold iron headboard with both hands, muscles straining until the tendons in my neck felt like steel cables, and pushed with everything I had left.

    The world narrowed to the sound of my own ragged breathing, the scent of fresh blood, and the metallic burn in my core.

    With a slick, heavy slide and a sharp cry from the nurse, the first baby arrived into the cold air of the clinic.

    Three minutes later, a second, smaller contraction expelled my second child. Two thin, furious wails rose in unison, piercing straight through the heavy bass rattling the walls from the Raven clubhouse.

    The nurse crudely tied off the cords, snipped them with the dull shears, and bundled the blood-streaked infants into coarse, scratchy gray towels before dumping them unceremoniously against my chest.

    My trembling arms snapped around the two tiny, fragile bundles, pulling them flush against my skin. They were warm. They were breathing. They were mine.

    Out in the hallway, the sweetbutts laughed louder. “Five bucks says she and those runts don’t make it past the state line before they starve,” the blonde shouted.

    I looked down at the tiny faces pressed against my collarbone, brushing my bloody lips against their damp foreheads.

    “Never,” I whispered into their downy hair, tasting salt and iron. “No Raven will ever put their filthy brand on you. I swear it on my life.”

    Dizziness crashed over me in a black, suffocating wave as the blood loss caught up to my pulse. The cracked mirror blurred into gray mist.

    Just as my eyelids grew too heavy to fight, the clinic’s reinforced front door slammed open with the splintering roar of deadbolts tearing through wood, followed by the heavy, measured strike of combat boots hitting the concrete.

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 2

    Roxy POV:

    The world rushed back in a violent wave of cold air and sharp pain. A heavy hand shook my shoulder roughly, wrenching me from the dark haze of unconsciousness.

    My eyes flew open. Instinct took over before my vision even cleared, and I curled my upper body protectively over the two small bundles tucked beneath my thin blanket.

    Standing over my cot was a thickset man wearing a faded leather cut emblazoned with the Raven MC raven-and-skull back patch. Stale beer, cheap weed, and grease rolled off him in suffocating waves. He was one of Viper’s enforcer prospects.

    “Wake up, charity case,” the man grunted, slapping a stack of crinkled legal papers and a cheap ballpoint pen onto my chest.

    The papers fluttered across the blanket. The bold header at the top read: Irrevocable Surrender of Parental Rights and Termination of Old Lady Affiliation.

    My stomach twisted into a hard, cold knot. I swept my arm across the blanket, knocking the papers to the filthy concrete floor.

    “Get out,” I rasped, my throat raw and burning.

    The prospect sneered, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest. “Viper is being generous, Roxy. You sign the brats over to the club as property of the chapter, and you walk away with fifty bucks and your skin intact. You refuse, and I toss you into the swamp behind the salvage yard.”

    I looked down at the papers on the floor, where Viper’s messy, arrogant signature was already scrawled across the witness line. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my cracked lips.

    Reaching down with trembling fingers, I hooked the edge of the nearest page, brought it to my chest, and tore it cleanly down the middle.

    “Tell Jaxson,” I said, meeting the thug’s gaze, “that he can burn in hell.”

    The prospect’s face darkened with ugly rage. With a curse, he reached behind his hip, whipped out a black Glock 19, and shoved the cold muzzle hard against the center of my forehead.

    “You don’t make demands, bitch,” he spat, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Sign the backup copy, or I leave three corpses in this bed.”

    I didn’t blink. I didn’t flinch. I tilted my chin up against the steel barrel, keeping my arms locked tightly around the sleeping twins behind my ribcage. If I was going to die, he was going to have to look me in the eye while he pulled the trigger.

    Before the hammer could drop, the squeak of hinges cut through the tension. The clinic door swung open smoothly.

    A tall man stepped into the dingy room. He wore a crisp, tailored black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, dark trousers, and wire-rimmed gold glasses perched on his straight nose. In his left hand, he carried a heavy silver medical case.

    He moved with the terrifying, silent precision of an apex predator walking into a sheep pen.

    The prospect jumped, spinning the Glock toward the newcomer. “Who the fuck are you? This is Raven territory! Turn around and—”

    The tall man didn’t waste a single breath on words.

    He didn’t drop his silver case. His right hand blurred forward with blinding speed, his gloved fingers clamping around the prospect’s gun wrist like a hydraulic vice.

    A sickening crack echoed through the room as bone splintered under pure brute force.

    The prospect shrieked, dropping the Glock onto the floor as his hand dangled at an impossible, grotesque angle.

    The tall man kicked the weapon under the metal sink with a clean flick of his polished boot. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm, melodic, and cold enough to freeze boiling water.

    “Get out,” the man said softly through the quiet room. “Or I will sever the radial artery in your other arm and watch you bleed out before you reach the hallway.”

    The prospect clutched his shattered wrist against his chest, whimpering, and scrambled backward out the door like a kicked dog, stumbling over his own boots.

    The heavy clinic door clicked shut. Silence descended.

    The man turned toward my cot. The sterile yellow light glinted off his gold-rimmed glasses, obscuring his eyes for a second before he looked down at me and the twin bundles in my arms.

    I shoved myself deeper into the corner of the iron frame, baring my teeth like a cornered wolf. “Who sent you? If Viper sent a clean-up man, you’d better kill me right now.”

    The man set his silver case on the stainless steel tray, popping the latches with two crisp clicks. He pulled out a pre-filled syringe of clear fluid.

    “You can call me Doc,” he replied, his deep, resonant baritone vibrating in the small space. “And Jaxson Vance doesn’t have the rank or the bloodline to command me to do anything.”

    He stepped closer, his broad shoulders blocking out the harsh fluorescent light above. “You’re hemorrhaging. Lie back.”

    “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, thrashing my arm out to strike the syringe away.

    The violent movement dragged the collar of my torn, oversized hospital gown down my left shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of my collarbone and the pale, mottled skin beneath.

    Doc’s hand froze in midair.

    Behind the gold rims of his glasses, his pupils contracted into pinpoint needles. His gaze locked onto the faint, irregular burn scar etched deep into my shoulder blade—a faded, jagged mark shaped like a rearing stallion surrounded by an iron ring.

    The air left his lungs in a sharp, ragged hiss.

    I caught the strange intensity in his stare and yanked the fabric back up over my shoulder, wincing at the flare of pain in my pelvis. “I said get away from me!”

    Doc took a slow, deliberate breath, his jaw clenching so hard that a muscle ticked beneath his bronze skin. When he looked back at my face, the clinical detachment in his demeanor had shattered, replaced by a dark, volatile storm of restrained fury.

    “Be still, little bird,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a strange, reverent tremor. “I am going to stop your bleeding. And then I am going to take a single drop of your blood.”

    Before I could fight, his gloved hand clamped gently but immovably around my bicep, pressing the needle smoothly into my IV port. The cool analgesic flooded my veins, instantly blunting the knife-like edges of my labor pains.

    My limbs grew heavy. My eyelids fluttered as the exhaustion of thirty hours of labor dragged me downward.

    Through the thickening fog of my vision, I watched Doc take a sterile lancet, prick the tip of my ring finger, and press a bead of crimson blood into a glass micro-vial fitted with a gold circuit chip.

    He slotted the vial into a portable black diagnostic analyzer resting inside his case.

    Ryder POV:

    The analyzer’s digital sequence bar crawled across the LCD screen with agonizing slowness.

    10%… 45%… 88%…

    My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped beast. My knuckles turned stark white where I gripped the edge of the rusted clinic table, denting the thin metal under the pressure of my fingers.

    Beep.

    The screen flashed solid, blazing crimson.

    GENETIC MATCH: CROSS BLOODLINE. DIRECT DESCENDANT: 99.98% PATERNAL CORRELATION (RICHARD “IRON” CROSS).

    I closed my eyes for three brutal seconds, swallowing the roar of sheer, unadulterated madness clawing at my throat.

    Twenty years. Twenty long, bloody years of tearing through every state line from California to Maine, hunting for the lost daughter of the IronHorse mother chapter.

    And here she was. Lying on a blood-soaked rag of a mattress in a rundown back-alley clinic, discarded like trash by a two-bit, bottom-feeder MC Prez who wasn’t fit to shine her boots.

    I turned back to the bed. Roxy was fast asleep now, her pale, sweat-sheened face peaceful beneath the grime, her arms still locked around her newborn twins with the ferocity of a mother who would burn the world down before letting them go.

    The Cross blood ran pure in her veins. She was royalty in an empire built on asphalt and iron, and these bastards had treated her like roadkill.

    I reached inside the breast pocket of my custom leather vest, pulling out the encrypted satellite transceiver.

    I flipped the toggle to the emergency override frequency and keyed the red button.

    “Prez,” I whispered into the mic, my voice steady, low, and deadlier than a hollow-point round. “Code Red. The princess is found. Send the horde.”

    Old Lady of the Iron Crown Chapter 3

    Roxy POV:

    A sharp crackle of static broke through the heavy haze of medication, pulling me back to consciousness.

    I blinked against the dim light. My head still felt heavy, but the throbbing pain in my abdomen had dulled to a manageable ache.

    Doc stood by the reinforced clinic window, his broad back turned toward me. The satellite radio in his hand let out another high-pitched beep before a burst of static cut through the receiver.

    “Coordinates locked,” Doc said into the mic, his baritone dropping to a cold, predatory hum. “Bring everything. She is intact, but they owe a blood debt.”

    A chorus of savage, distorted roars exploded from the radio’s speaker, accompanied by the crashing sound of heavy wooden furniture being smashed to splinters on the other end.

    My pulse jumped. My hand instinctively slid under the flat pillow, searching for the dull surgical scissors I had spotted earlier.

    The line clicked dead. Doc turned smoothly on his heel, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the dim glow of the hallway bulb. His eyes instantly tracked the slight tension in my shoulder, knowing precisely where my hand was hidden.

    He didn’t draw a weapon. Instead, a faint, dark smirk touched the corner of his lips.

    He walked over to his medical kit, reached beneath the false bottom, and lifted out two black M1911 pistols equipped with long cylindrical suppressors. He racked the slide on the first one with a crisp, practiced motion.

    “What are you doing?” I asked, my voice dry and rough. “If you’re not with Viper, who are you? The ATF? A rival crew?”

    Doc stepped up to the edge of my cot, holding the second M1911 by the slide, offering the checkered grip directly to my open hand.

    “If I were your enemy, little bird,” he murmured, leaning down until his warm, cedar-and-leather scent filled my lungs, “you wouldn’t have lived long enough to touch those dull scissors.”

    I hesitated for a split second before gripping the heavy steel frame. My wrist wobbled from weakness, but I leveled the barrel straight at the center of his chest.

    Doc didn’t step back. He didn’t even blink. He reached out with gloved fingers, wrapped his hand around the hot slide of the weapon, and pulled the muzzle firmly against his sternum, directly over his heart.

    “Hold it tight,” he instructed softly, his dark eyes burning into mine with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. “From this second forward, anyone who opens that door without my permission gets a bullet. Understood?”

    The sheer, unflinching certainty in his voice knocked the breath out of me. Slowly, I let the gun lower by an inch, though my finger stayed rested against the trigger guard.

    Doc straightened his spine and turned toward the door. “Stay with your children.”

    He stepped out into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

    Through the crack, I heard his voice turn from dark intimacy to pure, terrifying authority.

    “Clinic is closed,” Doc announced down the hall. “Evacuate the perimeter. Now.”

    The old nurse’s shrill voice rose in protest, followed by the vulgar shouts of the two sweetbutts from earlier.

    “Who the hell do you think you’re ordering around?” the blonde shrieked. “This is Raven property!”

    A sudden, wet thud echoed through the corridor, followed by the sound of boots scraping desperately across the floorboards.

    Through the opening, I caught a glimpse of Doc lifting the blonde woman entirely off the ground by her throat with a single arm, his expression utterly detached as he hurled her out the shattered double doors into the alley like a bag of wet laundry.

    A heavy steel security shutter groaned as Doc dragged it down, locking the deadbolts into the concrete threshold.

    The clinic fell into complete, heavy isolation.

    I let out a shaky breath, resting my free hand over the blanket covering my twins. They were sleeping side by side, their tiny chests rising and falling in rhythmic peace, oblivious to the violence swirling just beyond the plaster walls.

    My cracked phone, sitting on the metal nightstand where Doc had placed it, lit up with a harsh blue glow.

    A club-wide broadcast text message from Raven MC was displayed on the lock screen:

    OFFICIAL NOTICE: ROXANNE VANCE IS STRIPPED OF ALL PROPERTY STATUS AND CLUB PROTECTION. TERMINATED AS OF MIDNIGHT. ANY MEMBER HARBORING HER WILL FACE MAYHEM VOTE.

    I read the words twice. A bitter, cold smile curled on my lips.

    I powered the device completely off, dropped it into the rusted metal trash can beside the bed, and watched it disappear beneath dirty gauze. Jaxson Vance had officially cast me out into the dark.

    Doc re-entered the room. He saw the empty nightstand, glanced at the trash bin, and gave a slow nod of approval.

    He pulled a wooden chair up to the bedside, sat down, and began methodically wiping down his spare magazines with a clean white cloth.

    Minutes stretched into an hour. The silence inside the clinic grew thick and suffocating.

    Then, the iron frame beneath me began to hum.

    It started as a microscopic tremor in the floorboards. On the bedside table, a half-full plastic cup of water began to form concentric ripples, splashing tiny drops over the edge.

    I sat up, gripping the M1911 tighter. “What is that?”

    Doc stopped cleaning his magazine. He stood up, pushed his gold glasses up the bridge of his nose, and looked toward the boarded-up windows. A fierce, predatory grin spread across his face.

    The hum deepened into a low, chest-thumping vibration that shook the plaster loose from the ceiling.

    Then the roar hit.

    It wasn’t two bikes. It wasn’t ten.

    It was an apocalyptic, earth-shattering wall of sound—hundreds of heavy, straight-piped Harley V-twins rolling in tight military formation, tearing down the main strip like a thunderhead tearing across the desert.

    High-powered LED spotlights cut through the cracks in the window boards, flooding the dingy clinic room with blazing, blinding white light.

    Panic surged through my chest. “Is that Viper? Did he bring the whole chapter to kill me?”

    Doc walked to the window, grabbed the edge of the wooden blind, and ripped it clean off the wall with a single wrench of his arm.

    He turned back to look at me, framed by the blinding halos of a hundred motorcycle headlights.

    “Jaxson Vance is a gutter rat,” Doc said, his voice cutting clearly through the roaring iron storm outside. “Those aren’t Ravens, Roxy. Your real family has come to take you home.”

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Not His Old Lady Anymore novel by Lian Lian

    Not His Old Lady Anymore novel by Lian Lian

    Blurb

    I was the President’s Old Lady – and the only reason his MC was still breathing.

    For three years, I ran every legal business the Serpents of Redemption owned. While Craig chased road glory across state lines, I turned a failing auto shop and a tattoo parlor into the money that kept the brothers fed, the bikes fueled, and the clubhouse lights on.

    Then he rode home from a two-month run with a sweetbutt on the back of his Harley – and her son.

    Ginger, he said, had saved his life on the road. So he put her in the main residence, in the room directly across from our bed. He handed her my ledgers and called it repayment.

    When her son dumped a cup of scalding coffee over my hand, Craig never checked my burns. He scooped up the boy and blamed me. His grandmother – the club’s Matriarch – stood before every patched brother and accused me of hurting “family.”

    That night, Craig told me Ginger held a place in his heart I could never reach. A debt of blood he’d honor above me.

    Three years. My family’s fortune. My scarred hand. All of it – worthless next to his roadside savior.

    So I did the one thing a President never expects his Old Lady to do.

    I gave back his patch.

    Now they can keep their empty ledgers. They can play happy family in a clubhouse I built.

    And when this motorcycle club burns – I’ll be the one holding the match.

    👉 READ NOW

    Not His Old Lady Anymore Chapter 1

    Fiona POV:

    My fingertips traced the neat columns of figures in the ledger.

    Outside, the familiar roar of a Harley engine grew louder, cutting through the afternoon quiet.

    It was a specific sound, a deep, gravelly rumble I knew better than my own heartbeat.

    Beast.

    Craig’s bike.

    He was back.

    I closed the ledger, my heart giving a few hard, unwelcome thumps against my ribs.

    He’d been on this run for nearly two months, far longer than usual.

    I stood, smoothing the fabric of my dress out of habit.

    I walked out of my office.

    It was my duty as his Old Lady to greet him in front of the brothers, a display of my position.

    The front yard of the Clubhouse was already dotted with Prospects and hang-arounds, their eyes fixed on the cloud of dust kicked up by the approaching bikes.

    My gaze locked onto the lead bike, a massive black Harley, and the broad back of the man wearing the iconic Serpents of Redemption cut.

    Craig.

    The President of the Serpents of Redemption.

    My husband.

    Then my steps faltered.

    There was someone on the back of his bike.

    A woman.

    Craig brought the bike to a halt, then turned with a fluid motion, offering a hand to help her down.

    The gesture was steady, patient in a way I hadn’t seen from him in a long time.

    The woman’s fiery red hair was a torch in the California sun.

    She wore plain clothes that didn’t belong here, and she clung to Craig’s arm like it was a lifeline.

    A small boy, maybe seven or eight, slid off the side of the bike and hid behind her legs.

    The blood in my veins turned to ice.

    The whispers from the brothers nearby were like a thousand tiny needles against my skin.

    Craig finally saw me.

    The smile on his face froze for a second before he started walking toward me, deliberately ignoring the woman.

    “Fiona,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Road was bad. Got back late.”

    I didn’t answer him.

    My eyes went past him, settling on her.

    The woman met my gaze.

    The corner of her mouth lifted in a smirk so faint I almost thought I’d imagined it.

    Then, just as quickly, it was replaced by a look of pure, helpless fear.

    I understood instantly.

    This wasn’t an accident.

    It was a challenge.

    Craig followed my gaze and frowned, pulling me a few steps to the side.

    He lowered his voice.

    “Her name is Ginger. She ran into some trouble on the road. I helped her out. She and her son, Cody, have nowhere to go.”

    “Helped her out?” I repeated the words, my voice so cold it didn’t sound like my own. “Helped her out all the way back to the Clubhouse?”

    “Fiona, don’t be like that,” he said, a sharp edge of impatience in his tone. “In front of all the brothers, show me some respect.”

    His words were a slap.

    I was his Old Lady, and he was asking me to give him face for a sweetbutt he’d picked up on the road.

    I took a deep breath, swallowing the lump in my throat.

    When I looked at him again, my face was calm.

    “Your guests, of course, must be welcomed.”

    I turned to the gawking Prospects.

    “What are you staring at? Don’t you see we have guests? Go get them something to drink.”

    My composure seemed to relax him.

    He thought it was over.

    Ginger approached slowly with her son.

    Cody glared at me with open hostility.

    She gave me a fragile smile.

    “Hi, I’m Ginger Burke. Craig saved us on the road. He’s such a good man.”

    She emphasized the words “saved us.”

    I looked at her and smiled back, a smile with no warmth in it at all.

    “I’m Fiona Brennan. Craig’s Old Lady.”

    The words “Old Lady” made her smile stiffen.

    Craig cleared his throat, trying to break the tension.

    “Alright, it was a long ride, everyone’s tired. Fiona, why don’t you go…”

    I cut him off before he could finish.

    “Ricky!” I called to a young hang-around.

    Ricky Foster jogged over immediately.

    “Fiona, what do you need?”

    “Take Ms. Burke and her child to the guest quarters. Find an empty room and get them settled.”

    I made sure to stress “guest quarters”—the area for temporary visitors, separate from where patched members and their families lived.

    Craig’s face darkened instantly.

    “Fiona, I said…”

    He was about to object, but I spoke first, my voice low but sharp enough to stop him.

    “Craig,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “The club has rules.”

    Without another look at him, I turned and walked back into the Clubhouse, leaving him and his ‘prize’ behind me.

    I could feel his furious gaze burning into my back, but I didn’t turn around.

    Not His Old Lady Anymore Chapter 2

    Fiona POV:

    I walked quickly down the cool hallway, the sound of my heels clicking on the concrete like a frantic heartbeat.

    Heavy footsteps followed, and then Craig’s hand clamped around my wrist.

    His grip was tight enough to bruise.

    I was forced to stop and face him.

    His face was a mask of fury, his light brown eyes burning.

    “Fiona, what the hell was that?”

    “What do you think it was?”

    I tried to pull my arm free, but his grip was like steel.

    “The guest quarters? That place is for outsiders!” he snarled, keeping his voice low, clearly worried about the brothers outside.

    “Isn’t she an outsider?” I shot back coldly. “A sweetbutt with no patch, and you want her in the main residence? On the same hall as your Old Lady?”

    The word “patch” was everything in our world.

    It separated us from them.

    “She’s different!” Craig’s voice rose. “She and Cody saved my life on the road! They’re homeless because of me! I promised Cletus I’d take care of them!”

    Cletus Burke.

    I’d heard the name.

    A homesteader who had, in fact, saved a wounded Craig during a clash with a rival club, The Vipers.

    “So, to repay a man’s kindness, you bring his daughter—or whatever she is to you—home to live with me?”

    My voice dripped with sarcasm.

    “I’m not asking her to live with you!” he snapped, finally letting go of my wrist to rake a hand through his short blond hair. “I just want to give them a safe place! A decent place!”

    “And the guest quarters aren’t safe or decent? They have private bathrooms and daily cleaning. It’s better than what some of the brothers have.”

    “It’s not the same!” he insisted stubbornly. “I want her in the empty room by the pool.”

    My heart stopped.

    The room by the pool.

    The one directly across the hall from our bedroom.

    This wasn’t a challenge anymore.

    It was a declaration of war.

    I looked at him and almost laughed.

    I managed all the club’s businesses, the clean and the dirty, for him.

    And this was my reward.

    He was moving another woman and her child in across the hall.

    “No,” I said, the word clear and final.

    Craig’s expression turned dangerous.

    “Fiona, don’t push me.”

    “Am I pushing you, or are you pushing me?” I stepped closer, meeting his gaze. “Craig Griffin, don’t forget that I am your Old Lady, recognized by the Serpents of Redemption. What you’re doing is a slap in my face, and a slap in the face of this club.”

    I used the club’s name, knowing it was the one thing he cared about most.

    His anger wavered for a second, but he didn’t back down.

    “This is my decision. I’m the President of this club , and I have the right to assign a room in this Clubhouse.”

    “But you don’t have the right to put a sweetbutt in the main residence. That’s an unwritten rule, and you know it.”

    We were at a stalemate, the air thick with tension.

    Just then, footsteps echoed from the end of the hall.

    It was Ricky.

    He saw us and froze, looking awkward.

    “Fiona… Craig…” he stammered.

    “Ms. Burke is… she’s asking if her room is ready.”

    The question was a spark in a room full of gasoline.

    Craig didn’t look at me.

    He spoke directly to Ricky.

    “Go clean out the corner room by the pool. For Ginger and Cody.”

    Ricky stared, his eyes flicking to me for help.

    A sheet of ice formed around my heart.

    In front of an underling, Craig had just completely dismantled my authority, my word.

    I didn’t look at Ricky.

    I didn’t argue with Craig anymore.

    I just looked at him calmly and nodded.

    “Fine. Have it your way.”

    My surrender surprised him.

    He hadn’t expected me to give up so easily.

    I turned and walked back toward my office.

    “Fiona, where are you going?” he asked, his voice suddenly uncertain.

    I didn’t turn around.

    I just kept walking.

    “If you’re so capable,” I said over my shoulder, “then I’m sure you don’t need me handling the club’s finances anymore.”

    Not His Old Lady Anymore Chapter 3

    Fiona POV:

    I returned to my office and began stacking the ledgers, contracts, and bank statements on my desk.

    These papers represented three years of my life’s work.

    I had taken the club’s legitimate businesses—a failing auto shop, a tattoo parlor—and made them profitable, giving the Serpents a respectable source of income.

    The door flew open and Craig stormed in. He slammed his hand down on the stack of files. “What did you just say?”

    “Exactly what it sounded like,” I said, looking up to meet his furious gaze. “I’m handing all of this over.”

    “Handing it over? To who? Fiona, stop this childish game!” He clearly thought I was just throwing a tantrum.

    “To whoever is capable of managing it.” I pulled my hand from under his. “Perhaps your Ginger can give it a try. After all, she faced death with you. She must be more trustworthy than a woman who just sits in the back counting money.”

    “This has nothing to do with Ginger!” he roared. “Why do you have to drag her into this? She’s just a poor woman who needs help!”

    “A poor woman?” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Craig, do you really think I can’t see it? The way she looks at me is full of triumph and hostility.”

    For a split second, his expression faltered, but he quickly defended her.

    “That’s because she’s scared! She’s in a strange place, facing a powerful Old Lady like you. Of course she’s nervous!”

    Powerful.

    I closed my eyes, a wave of exhaustion washing over me.

    Three years of dedication to him, to this club, and all he saw was ‘powerful.’

    He saw my silence and softened his tone. “Fiona, listen to me. In the Arizona desert, I was ambushed by the Vipers. My bike was wrecked, and I was shot. Cletus saved me. I spent a month recovering at his home. Ginger and Cody took care of me.”

    He continued, his voice low with a genuine sadness, “Then the Vipers came looking for me. Cletus was killed trying to help me escape. Before he died, he made me promise to take care of his only daughter and his grandson. I had no children of my own. From the day I carried that boy out of the desert, I called him my son—blood or not.”

    “I swore I’d give them a good life, that I’d protect them from anyone who tried to hurt them.” He looked at me, his eyes pleading. “Fiona, I owe them my life. I can’t go back on my word.”

    It was a noble story, full of a biker’s honor and promises.

    But I was the one expected to pay the price for his code.

    “So your protection means bringing her into another war? Letting her challenge my position?” I asked.

    “No!” he argued, agitated. “I just want to give her a standing, a status so she can belong here!”

    “What kind of status?” I pressed.

    Craig hesitated, avoiding my eyes.

    He mumbled, “A… a respected status. I want the brothers to respect her, just like they respect you.”

    I understood.

    I finally, completely understood.

    He wanted Ginger to have the same status as me.

    In this club, a patched member could only have one Old Lady.

    He wanted two.

    It was a blatant violation of club tradition and the ultimate insult to me.

    I started to laugh.

    Not a cold laugh, or a mocking one, but a genuine, absurd laugh.

    My laughter made Craig uneasy.

    “Fiona, what are you laughing at?”

    “I’m laughing at your naivety, Craig.” I stopped, looking at him. “I’m laughing because you think you can have it all—loyal brothers, a dutiful wife, and the ‘true love’ you picked up on the side of the road.”

    “She’s not—” he started to argue.

    “It doesn’t matter what she is,” I cut him off. “What matters is that I will never accept your idea.” I shoved the stack of files hard into his chest. “Take them. From this day on, the finances of the Serpents of Redemption have nothing to do with Fiona Brennan.”

    The files hit him and scattered, fluttering to the floor like dead leaves.

    Ledgers, contracts, all of it.

    Craig stared at the papers on the ground, then back at me in disbelief, as if seeing me for the first time.

    “You’re serious?”

    His voice held a trace of panic.

    I didn’t answer.

    I just walked around him, heading for the door.

    I needed fresh air, away from this suffocating room and this man who had just killed the last bit of hope in my heart.

    At the doorway, I paused without turning back.

    “Craig,” I said. “You can’t have it both ways. You chose your ‘honor.’ Now you have to live with the consequences.”

    I pulled the door open and walked out.

    The door closed behind me, shutting him in and shutting me out, severing the last possibility between us.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel by Janna Lemay

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel by Janna Lemay

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    I was about to marry Dante, a ruthless New York Mafia boss.
    However, just three blocks away from the cathedral, his ex-wife sent a text message saying their son was coughing up blood.
    This was the third time, and Dante abandoned me at the altar once again, transferring a hundred million dollars to me as compensation instead.
    I accepted the money, but his ex-wife did not stop there. She moved into my home with her son, faked an illness, and tried to force me out.
    The last straw that broke me happened at the airport, when the little heir, instigated by his mother, viciously pushed me from behind.
    I fell hard onto the cold marble floor and lost the child I did not even know I was carrying.
    As I lay in a pool of my own blood, Dante’s mother coldly gave an order over the phone:
    “The child is dead. You need to protect the living heir and Isabella’s status.”
    Dante looked at me, his face full of guilt, but eventually, he turned and walked away with them.
    To compensate for the child I lost, he threw a massive business empire at me, expecting me to continue waiting in the shadows while he enjoyed his family’s bliss.
    I finally understood that in the face of his mafia bloodline, my loyalty meant absolutely nothing.
    With a steady hand, I signed the asset transfer documents and did not hesitate to liquidate all the properties he had given me.
    Then, I boarded a private cartel jet flying to Switzerland.
    This time, I am going to build an empire of my own!

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    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 1

    Valentina’s POV
    The bulletproof car idled quietly in the shadows of an old apartment building, three blocks away from the cathedral where I was supposed to have my wedding.
    At that moment, my fiancé’s burner phone let out a low, urgent vibration.
    It was a text message from his ex-wife: “Dante, Leo is coughing up blood again. Come quickly, or your son will die before you say your vows.”
    I stared at the faintly glowing screen. The hum of the engine transmitted through the floorboards into my bones, feeling like a heavy tremor.
    Sitting beside me was Dante Salvatore, the head of a New York Mafia family, a man who commanded a ruthless empire.
    His daily routine consisted of nothing more than fighting for street turf and brutal expansion.
    Yet, inside this cramped cabin, the air was thick with the scent of his cologne. Beneath the heavy aroma of sandalwood, there was a faint trace of whiskey and gunpowder, adding an atmosphere of mystery and danger.
    His gaze was heavy, as if it could press down the surrounding air, possessing a power that could make even the toughest men bend their knees.
    Dante stared at the text message, all the color draining from his face until his bronze skin looked like wax-covered bone.
    His large, scarred hands tightly gripped the leather armrest, forming a sharp contrast against the dark material.
    I looked at him, then looked down at my custom-tailored wedding dress. I had been looking forward to this wedding so much.
    Even though this was already the third time.
    Three times we had been ready to take our vows before the priest, and three times his ex-wife Isabella had called due to a sudden critical emergency with their son, Leo.
    I had a very strict rule: three strikes, and after the third time, it is over.
    I understood that our world was transactional, and I knew the Mafia demanded loyalty, blood, and sacrifice.
    But I never expected that I would be the one sacrificed time and time again for the sake of his past.
    Dante looked at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Valentina…”
    I didn’t let him finish. Putting on the perfect, considerate posture of a Mafia woman, I forced a stiff smile.
    “Go.”
    Dante let out a shaky breath and reached out to grip my hand tightly.
    “I will make it up to you,” he promised. I simply nodded and signaled the driver to pull over.
    The heavy lock clicked open. I stepped out of the car and stood on the cold, dark curb. A biting, freezing wind blew off the river, hitting my bare shoulders and making me shiver involuntarily.
    I stood there, watching the convoy of black SUVs swiftly pull a U-turn. The tires shrieked against the asphalt.
    Then, they disappeared in the opposite direction. They had completely abandoned me, leaving me standing alone on this grime-covered sidewalk, wearing a wedding dress.
    I raised my hand and hailed a passing yellow cab. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of silent questions.
    My phone vibrated in my clutch. I took it out and saw a notification from my offshore bank account, a wire transfer had just cleared.
    One hundred million dollars. That was laundered “blood money” from the Salvatore family accounts.
    The screen’s phosphorescent glow stung my retinas; that long string of zeros looked piercingly cold and white in the darkness of the cab.
    I accepted the money without hesitation; as my protector, Dante no longer held any value.
    I opened an encrypted underground social network on my phone and found that the Mafia gossip forum had already exploded. Someone had leaked a blurry photo of me hailing a cab in my wedding dress.
    The comments flooded in. They called me a pathetic stray dog, mocking how the Mafia boss had abandoned this “gold digger” for the third time, leaving her hanging at her own wedding.
    They ridiculed my complete failure to secure the ultimate symbol of Mafia power.
    I scrolled through these mocking words expressionlessly, decided not to read any further, and simply turned off my phone.
    When I finally returned to my private penthouse, I took off the heavy wedding dress, letting the expensive silk fall carelessly onto the floor, and changed into a simple pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
    Walking into the kitchen, I boiled a pot of water and made a simple bowl of pasta, adding nothing but a little olive oil.
    I placed the bowl on the cold marble countertop, took a picture, and posted it to my private feed without any caption.
    Within minutes, the women from other Mafia families left a string of sarcastic comments. They mocked my cheap meal and laughed at my miserable life.
    My phone vibrated again. It was another bank notification. Dante had transferred another three million dollars, with only a short sentence in the memo: “Take care of yourself.”
    The corner of my mouth curled into a cold, ruthless smile.
    Five years ago, on the night of Dante’s first divorce from Isabella, when he showed up at my tiny apartment exhausted and covered in bruises, this simple pasta was exactly what I had cooked for him.
    But he had long forgotten its meaning; he only knew how to use money to cover up his guilt.
    Suddenly, my private encrypted phone rang. I answered it and heard Camila’s voice. She was my longtime mentor and a legend in the underground world, having successfully married the head of a Swiss banking cartel.
    “Valentina, are your psychological defenses still holding up?” Her voice was clear and cold, without a trace of pity.
    “I am calculating my next move, but I regret getting involved in his power games.”
    A soft sigh came from the other end of the line.
    “Switzerland has a higher level of power and security,” Camila said. “I can get you out and give you sanctuary in Zurich. There is no need for you to stay here and be his sacrificial lamb.”
    I looked down at the simple bowl of pasta, quickly calculating my new wealth and my odds of winning, just like I always did.
    “Make the arrangements.”

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 2

    Valentina’s POV
    Dante didn’t return to the penthouse that night, nor the next day.
    The apartment was unusually quiet. Taking advantage of this rare peace, I opened my laptop and began organizing the assets under my name.
    Over the years, Dante had gifted me numerous properties, luxury cars, and shell companies. I contacted hidden brokers, requesting to legally liquidate all assets. I needed untraceable, liquid cash.
    On the fourth day, the sound of a key turning in the lock came from the front door. I calmly closed my laptop and slid it under a magazine.
    Dante walked in, looking haggard. Behind him was Isabella, tightly holding the hand of a pale seven-year-old boy, Leo, the heir to the Salvatore family.
    “Leo’s condition is unstable,” Dante said in an unquestionable tone. “Isabella has a fever, and the estate is too far from the clinic. They are staying here temporarily.”
    He didn’t ask for my permission; he simply issued an order.
    I looked at Isabella. She was wearing a soft cashmere sweater, her shoulders slightly hunched as if she were chronically cold, and her eyes remained cast downward.
    I nodded silently, accepting the Don’s order without a single word of rebuttal.
    Seeing my obedience, Dante visibly breathed a sigh of relief. Carrying the faint scent of hospital disinfectant, he kissed me gently on the forehead and walked toward the kitchen to call his men.
    That night, as I sat on the edge of the large bed in the master bedroom, the door creaked slightly, and Isabella slipped in quietly.
    She offered a forced, polite smile, looking extremely strained.
    “Sorry to intrude, Valentina,” she said softly.
    I didn’t answer.
    She walked over to my nightstand and pointed to a silver-framed solo photo of Dante.
    “Leo is having trouble sleeping,” she said. “He needs to look at his father’s picture to feel safe.”
    She reached out and took the frame. I simply showed cold apathy toward her action.
    Isabella clutched the photo tightly to her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, an unusual glimmer of tears flashed beneath her eyelashes.
    “I am so jealous of you,” she whispered. “I am jealous that you get to sleep in his bed.”
    Before I could respond, the hurried sound of little footsteps came from the hallway, and Leo rushed into the bedroom, his face flushed red.
    “You’re bullying my mom!” he yelled at me.
    He lunged at me and forcefully pushed my shoulder.
    Caught off guard, I was pushed a step back. My ankle accidentally tripped over the edge of the floorboards, and a piercing pain shot up my calf straight to my brain.
    I fell heavily onto the smooth floor. The impact made my entire body go numb, and the palms of my hands stung as I braced my fall.
    Taking advantage of this, Isabella immediately let go of the photo frame, letting it smash onto the floor with a sharp shattering sound. Then she grabbed Leo and shielded him behind her.
    “Valentina, I am so sorry!” Isabella cried out in a panicked voice, deliberately raising her volume as if trying to make sure someone at the end of the hall could hear. “Please don’t hurt him! He is just a child!”
    Leo instantly dropped his innocent disguise and gave me a cold, contemptuous smile.
    “Just wait until we go back to the main estate, my dad will definitely back me up,” he said through gritted teeth. “Then I will never have to look at your ugly face again.”
    Just then, steady footsteps came from the hallway. Dante emerged from the shadows.
    His pitch-black eyes immediately narrowed as he scanned the chaotic scene before him. His gaze shifted from me, sitting on the floor, to the scattered glass shards.
    Isabella immediately knelt beside me, hovering her hands over my arms in a fabricated display of helpless panic.
    “Dante, I am so sorry!” she sobbed with a trembling voice. “The photo triggered Leo’s trauma, and Valentina was just trying to take it back.”
    In between her sobs, she quickly cast a glance at Leo, passing a hidden signal through her eyes.
    Catching the hint, Leo immediately let out a loud scream, clutched his chest tightly with both hands, rolled his eyes back, and collapsed heavily onto the floor, starting to convulse.
    “Dad!” he shrieked.
    All the color vanished from Dante’s face. He shoved me aside, causing my already bruised shoulder to slam hard against the nightstand.
    He scooped up the convulsing Leo and rushed out of the room.
    “Isabella, go get the medical kit!” Dante roared.
    Isabella wiped her dry cheeks and quickly chased after him.
    With a heavy slam, the door shut, and silence descended upon the room once again.
    Dante had completely ignored me, not even stopping to ask if I was hurt.
    I sat alone in the quiet room. Slowly, I stood up, limped into the master bathroom, and calmly applied ointment to my sprained ankle.
    Just then, my phone vibrated on the marble counter. It was a text from Dante.
    “Leave the penthouse for now. Your presence is causing the child stress. I have transferred the deed to the luxury safehouse in the West End into your name. Go there.”
    I stared at the glowing words on the screen, and the anger that should have been in my heart turned into pure calm.
    With steady fingers, I typed my reply and hit send.
    “Understood.”

    Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo novel Chapter 3

    Valentina’s POV
    The private dining room of the Mafia club was dimly lit. The air was thick with the rich aroma of truffles, mixed with the faint scent of old money that carried a touch of corrupt sweetness.
    Today was my birthday.
    Dante had booked the entire VIP section, promising me that tonight would involve absolutely no “family business.”
    He sat across from me, wearing a dark suit, looking breathtakingly handsome.
    He reached across the pristine white tablecloth, gently took my hand, and fastened a heavy, cold bracelet around my wrist.
    I looked down. It was a string of priceless “blood diamonds,” tied to violence and exploitation.
    “Valentina, I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately. I know this period has been very hard for you.”
    I forced a smile and looked up at him. “It’s fine.”
    Right at that moment, the heavy mahogany door was pushed open silently.
    Isabella stood in the doorway, pulling a visibly reluctant Leo. Her hair was a mess, and she looked perfectly panicked.
    “Dante!” she gasped for air, as if she had just run a long distance. “Leo is sick, and his special medicine is missing from the estate!”
    The string quartet in the corner immediately stopped playing.
    The accompanying “family members” and their wives in the hall turned their heads, and whispers spread outward like ripples.
    They gossiped, their voices clearly audible, saying that the head of the family had actually abandoned his sick heir to have dinner with his mistress.
    Leo broke free from his mother’s hand and ran straight to Dante.
    “Dad, my chest hurts so much!” Leo cried, throwing himself into Dante’s arms.
    Suddenly, he pointed a trembling finger at me.
    “It’s her! She’s stealing you away!” he screamed, his face full of resentment.
    In the next second, Leo grabbed a glass of expensive red wine from the table and threw it fiercely at me.
    The dark red liquid splashed all over my chest, slowly dripping down my skin.
    The muscles in Dante’s jaw twitched slightly.
    He stood up abruptly. The chair made a loud bang against the hardwood floor before tipping over.
    “Apologize to Valentina immediately!” Dante commanded, his voice carrying a chilling authority.
    Leo stubbornly crossed his arms and glared at me fiercely, refusing to apologize.
    Isabella immediately stepped forward, her posture slightly bent as if bearing immense pressure.
    She lowered her head and began to sob.
    “Don’t yell at him, Dante,” she said between sobs. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t raise him right. I’m a terrible mother.”
    I looked around, feeling the critical gazes of the family wives darting through the open door.
    I waved my hand, my tone calm and composed.
    “Go take care of your family, Dante,” I said peacefully.
    Dante looked hesitant. He looked at my stained dress, then at his crying ex-wife and sick child.
    Ultimately, he yielded to duty. He picked up the boy and hurriedly left the restaurant, with Isabella following closely behind.
    I sat alone at the dining table.
    Picking up a napkin, I calmly wiped the wine stains from my skin, refusing to let a single tear fall.
    I looked over at the musicians, who stood frozen in the corner.
    “Keep playing,” I ordered.
    After dinner, I used my own black card to pay the exorbitant bill.
    A waiter approached me nervously.
    “Miss Rossi, would you still like your birthday cake?” he asked cautiously.
    “Bring it,” I replied.
    They brought out a small, delicate cake, and I lit the single candle.
    I made a silent wish in my heart.
    I wished for complete freedom, to be rid of all chains.
    After blowing out the candle, I took a picture of the cake and uploaded it to the family’s secure network.
    I didn’t add any caption.
    As I walked out of the club, my phone vibrated.
    Dante had sent a long text message, desperately apologizing for what just happened.
    Immediately following that was a bank transfer notification. He had wired another three million dollars into my account.
    That night, I sat on the couch in the new safehouse.
    The room was completely silent. What broke the quiet was not a sound, but a subtle shift in air pressure.
    Then, the hinges let out a faint friction sound.
    My hand instinctively reached into the crevice of the sofa cushion, my fingertips touching the cold, hard grip of a gun.
    The dim yellow light from the hallway spilled through the crack in the door as the lock turned and the door slowly pushed open.
    Dante walked in, holding a brown paper bag containing my favorite takeout.
    He placed the food on the coffee table, sat down next to me, and tried to pull me into his arms.
    “Leo’s heart rate spiked suddenly, and I had to take him to the clinic. You have to understand me, Valentina.”
    I calmly placed my hand on his chest and pushed him away.
    “No explanation needed,” I said.
    Dante frowned, a flash of obvious panic in his eyes.
    He sensed a fundamental shift in my attitude.
    “You are too quiet,” he said. “Why aren’t you arguing with me?”
    “Because I don’t care anymore,” I replied coldly.
    Dante stared at me, clenching his jaw, his expression turning dangerous.
    Before he could probe further, I quickly appeased his ego, reaching out to gently touch his cheek.
    “You are a good father, Dante. I admire that about you.”
    Dante let out a long breath, leaning into my palm.
    “I swear on my life, once the boy recovers, we will have a grand wedding, and you will become my wife.”
    Right then, his burner phone rang, the harsh ringtone shattering the brief, fragile moment.
    He glanced at the screen. It was Leo.
    He answered the phone and pressed it to his ear.
    “Dad, I want to hear a bedtime story!” the child’s voice came through the phone, thick with tears.
    In the background, Isabella’s voice could be heard softly humming a lullaby, with that kind of softness that carried a manipulative undertone.
    Dante showed a hesitant expression again, turning to look at me with pleading eyes.
    I stood up and waved toward the door. “Go.”
    Dante stood up, dropped a kiss on my cheek, grabbed his coat, and hurried out of the room.
    He left in such a rush that the phone remained connected.
    I stood in the center of the empty living room, listening to his footsteps gradually fade in the hallway, eventually completely cut off by the muffled thud of the heavy fire door.
    A moment later, a low-frequency vibration came up from the floorboards. It was the sound of an engine starting on the street below.
    On the other end of the line, the woman’s lullaby still hadn’t stopped.
    I picked up the phone, pressed the end-call button, the screen went black, and the entire apartment was left with only the low hum of the refrigerator.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late novel by Edik Brandwein

    My Foolish Husband's Regret Comes Late novel by Edik Brandwein

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    For three years, I secretly used my hidden network of connections to build my husband’s pathetic mafia syndicate into the absolute pinnacle of this city.
    Tonight was supposed to be the birthday dinner where I planned to finally reveal my true identity to him.
    Instead, Cassio left me all alone in that high-end restaurant and froze every single one of my accounts.
    Hours later, he returned with his mistress Lola and a group of heavily armed men.
    “You have nothing. No power, no money. You are completely worthless,” Lola sneered triumphantly, viciously smashing a bottle of vintage red wine at my feet before landing a hard punch to my jaw.
    He announced to the roaring crowd of mobsters that I was being cast aside.
    Then, he gave me a cruel ultimatum.
    If I couldn’t produce three hundred thousand dollars in thirty minutes, his men would strip me naked and throw me out onto the street, leaving me to be publicly humiliated for the entire city to see.
    Those sleazy capos closed in on me, staring with the greedy eyes of predators sizing up their prey.
    Looking at the man I had married out of genuine love, I finally understood that our wedding vows were nothing but a carefully calculated experiment to him.
    He truly believed I was just a helpless, penniless woman whom he could trample on at will just to please his mistress.
    He had no idea that I was Serena Falcone, the legendary heiress of the most cold-blooded mafia family on the East Coast.
    When the countdown ended and his men reached out to tear my dress, I calmly picked up a phone and summoned my real family.
    It was time to burn his entire empire to the ground!

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    My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 1

    Serena’s POV
    I sat alone at a banquet table meant for twenty. The polished mahogany surface reflected my solitary silhouette. The restaurant manager, who had been bowing and scraping before me just an hour ago, now wore a contemptuous sneer. He arrogantly informed me that my accounts had been frozen. He gave me exactly ten minutes to come up with a “compensation fee” of three hundred thousand dollars, or else he would have his men “escort” me to the back alley.
    A waiter slammed the leather bill folder onto the table, the sharp smack echoing harshly in the vast, empty restaurant. I stared at the astronomical figure on the receipt, feeling a wave of disorientation.
    This was supposed to be my birthday dinner.
    Three years ago, I married the boss of the Greco crime family, Cassio Greco. Tonight, he brought me to this famous mob-affiliated French restaurant, ordered a lavish spread of dishes and vintage wine, and promised me that his inner circle would arrive shortly. Then, he pressed a cold kiss to my cheek, made an excuse about taking a phone call, and walked out the front doors.
    I waited for three hours. The candles burned out, and the restaurant emptied. Not a single person showed up.
    I reached into my designer bag for my black card, only to find the cold surface of my compact mirror.
    An astringent sourness rose in my throat, and a numbing sensation spread from my fingertips through my entire body.
    Cassio had taken the card from my bag before we even left the penthouse, claiming he would handle all the expenses.
    I picked up my phone and dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail. Seconds later, the screen flickered and went completely dark—the battery was dead.
    The restaurant manager marched over to my table, his previous subservient demeanor entirely gone. With his arms crossed, he looked down at me condescendingly, his eyes failing to hide his hostility as he demanded to know if I had an alternative payment method.
    I told him my husband would be back any minute.
    The manager let out a dry, abrasive laugh. He reminded me that the mafia never allows debts to be delayed, regardless of whose wife it is.
    Then, a flicker of cruelty flashed in his eyes as he deliberately brought up what happened to Lola last month.
    Lola was Cassio’s secretary, but within the syndicate, it was an open secret that she was his mistress.
    Last month, I discovered that she had been abusing a credit card the family had given me, buying piles of luxury bags and jewelry, all while spreading rumors that I was nothing but a useless trophy wife.
    To strike back at her blatant disrespect, I froze the illicit accounts she used for her spending sprees, which left her unable to pay off a massive debt she had racked up at an underground casino.
    She was briefly detained and taught a lesson by the family’s enforcers, and it was Cassio who eventually bailed her out.
    When I confronted Cassio about it, he brushed my actions off as the “jealousy of an aging woman,” completely dismissing the insult she had dealt to our marriage vows.
    Now, looking at the predatory smile on the manager’s face, a dark certainty settled in my heart.
    This was all Cassio’s meticulously planned revenge, all for the sake of his mistress.
    As if summoned by my very thoughts, the air across the restaurant suddenly shifted. The heavy oak doors creaked loudly on their hinges, and the distant clatter of cutlery abruptly ceased.
    Cassio strolled into the restaurant, his arm wrapped tightly around Lola’s waist, pulling her flush against his side.
    A trailing entourage of armed goons and drunk, corrupt businessmen followed them in, their faces flushed with alcohol and the eager anticipation of a good show.
    Cassio stopped a few paces away from me, his gaze sweeping over me with utter disdain.
    He deliberately projected his voice, letting it echo theatrically into every corner of the room: “Since you love punishing people who can’t pay their bills so much, it’s only right you experience that exact humiliation for yourself.”
    The onlookers began to whisper. “Gold-digging bitch,” “Slept her way to the top,” and “Now she’s finally getting tossed out.”
    My husband had personally designed this brutal public execution, tearing my dignity to shreds.
    Cassio pulled out a chair, seating Lola at the table next to mine as if attending to a queen, loudly promising that he would avenge her. Lola slowly pressed her lips to Cassio’s in a deeply possessive kiss.
    Then, she turned to me, her eyes brimming with smug malice: “What right does a useless, ordinary woman like you have to freeze my accounts?”
    Before I could answer, Lola grabbed a bottle of reserve red wine from the ice bucket and hurled it viciously at my feet.
    The glass shattered. The dark red liquid splashed over my calves, staining my white silk dress like fresh blood.
    “You are nothing!” Lola shrieked. “You have no money, no power! Cassio pays for me, but you have absolutely nothing!”
    Cassio sneered, taking his time to light a cigar. He told me that if I could come up with the cash, I could pay the bill and get the hell out. The crowd erupted into roaring laughter. One of his associates pointed at me and shouted that without Cassio’s protection, I was nothing but a lamb waiting to be slaughtered in this city.

    My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 2

    Serena’s POV
    Cassio raised a hand, and the grating laughter in the room instantly died down.
    His voice rang out loud and clear in the sudden silence, carrying an unquestionable authority as he issued a public decree.
    “Anyone who dares to help her tonight makes an enemy of the entire Greco family.”
    A few legitimate business partners who had been secretly shooting me looks of pity immediately shrank back into their chairs, their eyes darting away, terrified of drawing the mafia’s wrath.
    Low murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd, and I could clearly hear some bold whispers noting that the boss obviously favored his young, beautiful mistress over his own wife.
    That was the moment my heart shattered.
    I stood up, the wine-soaked dress clinging to me like a freezing shroud. I grabbed the lapels of Cassio’s tailored suit, consumed by fury: “You orchestrated this entire humiliation just to elevate your mistress?”
    Cassio stared at my hands gripping him with pure disgust. Instead of answering, he raised his hand and slapped me across the face with brutal force.
    The sheer impact threw me back into my chair. The metallic taste of blood instantly bloomed in my mouth as he finally spat out a single, cold word: “Yes.”
    I sat there in a daze, the stinging in my cheek the only thing grounding me to reality.
    In a trance, my mind drifted back to our wedding three years ago. He had sworn before God and the family that he would protect me with his life. Now it was clear that the dignity of a mafia wife was nothing but a laughable lie.
    I married Cassio out of pure love, not for wealth. The deepest irony was that it was precisely because I secretly used my hidden network to clear his path that his once-insignificant family was pushed to the apex of the city.
    Yet, Cassio felt no gratitude. He casually pulled a linen napkin and slowly wiped the hand he had just used to strike me, as if he had touched something filthy. Watching his movements, I finally realized that these three years of marriage were an absolute scam.
    He scoffed, tossing the soiled napkin onto my lap. He leaned down, his breath, heavy with the scent of whiskey, fanning across my face.
    “If you can’t pay,” he said, his voice lethal, “I’ll have the manager strip your clothes off. My men will throw you out into the street and let the whole city see what happens to you.”
    The vicious threat drew a chorus of laughter. The men in the crowd raked their sickening gazes over my body. They muttered among themselves that Serena Greco was finished—I had officially been stripped of the title of the Don’s wife.
    Over by the mahogany bar, a few greasy, middle-aged capos lazily swirled their drinks, openly evaluating my chest and legs, their eyes flashing with the excited anticipation of watching me be publicly humiliated.
    I could even hear them crudely making bets on who would get the privilege of dragging me out the door.
    I looked up at Cassio. The man I thought I knew was gone, replaced by an absolute demon.
    The card slot in my purse was empty—he had taken it back at the penthouse.
    The flashing low-battery warning was no accident either.
    The conspiracy of this public execution finally pieced itself together in my mind. He had even calculated the delay in my ability to call for help, savoring every second of my torment.
    The manager took a step closer, slipping a gleaming brass knuckle over his fingers. He smiled obsequiously at Cassio: “Boss, should I start tearing her clothes off now?”

    My Foolish Husband’s Regret Comes Late Chapter 3

    Serena’s POV
    Lola stood up, her stiletto heels clicking sharply and urgently against the smooth marble floor. She stalked toward me step by step, her gaze like a knife.
    “Where is the protection fee, Serena?” Her tone was sickeningly sweet but as deadly as a viper. “I demand you pay up immediately.”
    She had no intention of letting this go, smugly bringing up old scores. Even the time she was locked in the syndicate’s holding cell for maxing out my card and spent the whole night crying had somehow become a badge of honor for her to flaunt.
    She pulled a cigarette from her designer bag, lit it, and leaned in, blowing a thick cloud of smoke directly into my face. Through the acrid haze, she smiled arrogantly, acting as if she possessed a death-immunity card bestowed by Cassio himself.
    I didn’t hesitate.
    I shot to my feet, raised my hand, and slapped her across the face with everything I had. The crisp smack echoed through the suddenly dead-silent room.
    Lola shrieked and stumbled backward, dropping her cigarette. Sparks flew, burning a scorch mark into the pristine white tablecloth.
    Cassio roared, a deep bellow exploding from deep within his chest. Infuriated that I dared to strike his mistress in public, he flew into a rage and immediately signaled his enforcers to intervene.
    Two massive goons lunged at me. Their rough, calloused hands clamped down on my collarbones like iron vises, their thumbs digging deeply into the hollows of my shoulders. The pain forced a sharp gasp from my lips.
    They forcefully shoved me back into the chair, pinning me heavily against the mahogany backrest.
    I glared at Cassio, my chest heaving.
    “Why do you get to trample on the very bottom line of loyalty,” I said, my voice trembling but filled with suppressed rage, “while I don’t even have the right to fight back?”
    My heart was as cold as frost, a murderous intent surging beneath the surface.
    It was the ultimate irony. The Greco family had only managed to become the top syndicate in the city within three short years because I had secretly mobilized my family’s massive power to clear their obstacles.
    Originally, at tonight’s birthday dinner, I had planned to reveal my true identity.
    I was going to tell him the truth: that I am the heiress of the Falcone family, the descendant of the most powerful, cold-blooded mafia empire on the East Coast.
    I even intended to bring him into my family’s inner circle and introduce him to my father—the supreme mafia don.
    I never expected him to design such a despicable betrayal.
    But in those three hours of lonely waiting, a monumental shift had occurred within me.
    Before my phone died, I sent one last encrypted message, ordering my syndicate’s legal advisory team to immediately draft the severance papers.
    “Cassio, do you really plan to let me walk out of here in such disgrace?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm and flat.
    Cassio sneered, casually adjusting his gold cufflinks.
    “Serena, this humiliation is exactly what I designed,” he admitted smugly, a flash of cruel satisfaction in his eyes. “It’s meant to put a pathetic commoner right back where she belongs.”
    Taking advantage of the goons pinning me down, Lola stepped forward, her face twisted in rage.
    She clenched her fist and punched me hard in the jaw.
    My head snapped back, my vision blurring for a second as the coppery taste of blood flooded my mouth.
    Before I could recover, Lola violently grabbed my hair. A sharp pain shot through my scalp as she forced my head up, making me look directly at her.
    She gave me a choice.
    “You can either be thrown into the syndicate’s underground cells and let the men have their fun with you,” her hot, foul breath hit my face, “or you can crawl out that door on your knees like a dog.”
    I balled my hands into tight fists, focusing so hard that even the searing pain in my scalp felt distant.
    I looked straight at Cassio, completely ignoring Lola as if she were nothing but a buzzing fly.
    I made a cold vow, my voice low and icy.
    “When the Greco family is reduced to ashes, Cassio,” I said, barely above a whisper, “the blood of every single one of your men will be on your hands.”
    Lola let out a grating, fake laugh, giving my hair one last vicious tug before letting go.
    The surrounding socialites and mob bosses joined in her mockery, their laughter echoing off the marble walls, sneering at me as if I were a delusional heroine in some cheap romance novel.
    “Is she having a psychotic break?” one of the capos by the bar sneered.
    Infuriated by my unyielding attitude, Cassio grabbed a half-eaten plate of steak from the table and hurled it at me with a curse.
    The heavy ceramic plate slammed into my shoulder and shattered. Scalding grease and black pepper sauce slid across my exposed skin, adding another filthy stain to my already ruined dress.
    “Stop bluffing, you crazy bitch! Pay your debt!” he roared.
    Taking the cue, the restaurant manager approached with a dozen heavily armed thugs. He expertly racked the slide of his pistol, the crisp click cutting through the crowd’s laughter as he coldly asked how I intended to settle the bill.
    The goons loosened their grip on me slightly, allowing me to stand. I scanned the hostile crowd, my eyes slowly sweeping across the sea of betrayal.
    I locked eyes with a legitimate businessman who used to work with the Greco family.
    Ignoring the guns pointed at me, I walked straight toward him.
    The man shrank back into the leather booth, terrified that I would ask him for money and draw Cassio’s wrath.
    “Relax,” I said in a low voice dripping with utter contempt. “I just want to borrow your phone to call my family so they can bring the money.”
    The room erupted into roaring laughter once again.
    “An ordinary family is going to pay off a mafia debt?” someone from the crowd mocked loudly.
    Lola pointed her perfectly manicured finger at the trembling businessman.
    “Give her the phone,” she ordered.
    She turned to me with a cold smirk and announced, “You have thirty minutes, Serena.”
    Pointing toward the bar, she threatened that if the money didn’t arrive by then, that fat, sleazy capo would publicly humiliate me and strip me bare.
    The capo slowly licked his lips, taking a step forward with the excited gleam of a beast staring down dying prey.

    👉 CONTINUE READING

  • Claimed by My Father’s Rival by 4Rose

    Claimed by My Father's Rival by 4Rose

    👉 READ NOW

    Five years ago, I shattered my father’s skull and vanished into the shadows. To the world, I was a ghost. To the medical school, just a quiet student. To the most ruthless mafia Don in New York? I was the ultimate prize.
    Killian O’Connor is a monster in a bespoke suit. Cold. Lethal. Dominant. He took over the city with blood on his hands and an iron rule: No drugs, no mercy, and no loose ends. My father murdered his little sister. Now, Killian has come to collect his debt.
    He didn’t just break into my clinic on a rainy midnight-he pinned me to the exam table, stripped away my forged identity, and dangled my family’s lives on a string.
    “You are my hostage now, little Moretti,” his dark voice purred against my ear, his large hand ripping through my clothes without an ounce of pity. “Your freedom, your safety, and your body… all belong to me.”
    I promised myself I would do anything to survive. I gave him my father’s secret list of political puppets. I let him lock me in his golden cage. I even let him press his cold steel knife-and his scalding lips-against my skin.
    In his subterranean hell, I was supposed to be his enemy. So why does his cruel possession feel like the only safe haven I’ve ever known?
    “Claimed by My Father’s Rival” is a dark, angsty mafia romance with explicit steam, a possessive hero who’ll burn the world for his woman, and a strong heroine with a dark secret. Guaranteed HEA.

    👉 READ NOW

    Claimed by My Father’s Rival Chapter 1 Found at Last

    Flashback, age fifteen
    “…When morning breaks, I’ll keep you safe beside me…”
    I sat on the carpet with my eyes closed, listening to the song through my earbuds, my brown hair still damp and fragrant with lemon-scented shampoo, spread loose over my shoulders.
    This was the one brief, precious stretch of the day when I didn’t have to hold myself together.
    Even turning a page sent a spike of pain through my wrist. Courtesy of my father – the buckle-shaped bruise from last week hadn’t healed yet, and last night had added a fresh one. I glanced up at the mirror. A bruise the color of a storm cloud bloomed across my forehead. I dabbed on a thin layer of iodine, and the second it grazed the swollen skin, I hissed and sucked in a breath.
    “Bang!”
    A crash exploded from downstairs – the sound of a door slamming so hard it hit the wall.
    The man they called my father – Carmine Moretti – was home.
    I could gauge exactly how much he’d had to drink just from the sound of that door. And there was no mistaking it: this was the worst he’d been in six months.
    My father had ruled this city’s underworld for a decade. Lately, word was he’d run into a bit of “trouble” – some hot-headed upstart, avenging a dead sister, was chewing through his territory.
    I’d overheard that much from behind the staircase railing. Not that they ever bothered to lower their voices around me. Why would an elephant bother hiding anything from an ant?
    I scrambled to shove the book and earbuds out of sight. Anything that made it look like I was enjoying myself became kindling for his temper. I hated how practiced I’d become at hiding it.
    Please, I begged the empty air. Let tonight pass quietly.
    Tears were already gathering.
    Downstairs, my mother’s voice rang out, falsely bright: “Carmine, you’re home-”
    The words never finished. A sharp crack of a slap cut her off.
    “Shut your mouth, you useless bitch.”
    “No!” My mother’s cry was short, cut off almost as soon as it started.
    Then came the thudding – dull, heavy, one after another, tangled with the slur of my father’s curses.
    Bile rose in my throat. Cold sweat slid down my forehead, and my hands went numb and icy.
    For one unbearable second, I wanted to crawl under the desk and disappear.
    No. I couldn’t. He’d kill her.
    Fifteen years old, and was I still that child who only knew how to hide? I bolted out of my room, ducking first into my sister Mia’s. Six-year-old Mia was fast asleep, clutching her stuffed animal. I slipped a pair of noise-canceling earmuffs over her ears, then ran downstairs.
    I smelled the blood before I even reached the living room.
    My father’s knee was pinning my mother’s spine to the floor. One hand fisted in her hair, slamming her head against the tile again and again, blood already spreading across the grout lines. As if that weren’t enough to satisfy him, his other fist came down on her back – one dull, heavy blow after another.
    At first my mother screamed. Before long, all that was left was a broken, breathless rasp from somewhere deep in her throat.
    “Dad… please stop… Mom’s going to die…” My lips trembled as I clung to the table for support.
    He didn’t even look at me. I was invisible to him right now – I’d only become his next target once he’d finished with her.
    My fingers moved without thought across the tabletop and closed around something heavy and cold – a brass ashtray.
    My heart lurched.
    Maybe. Maybe this could be the night this nightmare ended.
    I closed my eyes, took one step forward, and swung the ashtray as hard as I could into the back of his skull-

    ***
    Present, age twenty
    A crack of thunder yanked me out of that five-year-old abyss.
    I looked up. Rain hammered the window like it had gone mad, and it had been coming down for hours now. Every storm dragged me back to that blood-soaked night. I shook my head and slotted the hemostat back into the sterilizer tray.
    I was studying pre-nursing at community college – straight A’s. My professor had tried more than once to talk me into transferring to a four-year state program, had even lined up a scholarship for me. I turned her down every time.
    I wanted a better school. But only a place this overcrowded, this forgettable, was safe enough. The Morettis could scour the whole East Coast and never think to look here.
    To me, safety mattered more than anything. All I wanted was for Mom and Mia to stay alive, and to stay together.
    Classes in the day, the clinic in the afternoon, home with them in the evening. Tight on money, but steady. A resident once or twice had asked me out for coffee. I always turned them down. I didn’t dare. Someone like me – someone the past could swallow whole at any moment – didn’t get to fall in love.
    Mia had asked me once why I never went on dates. I’d lied and told her I was saving up to buy her headphones. She believed me.
    The new mint-green pair sat in my canvas bag right now, bought with this month’s paycheck. If it weren’t for this storm, she’d already be wearing them.
    Just picturing her smile put a little life back into my legs after a full day on my feet.
    A car pulled up outside, its headlights sweeping the window and setting off every alarm bell in my body. Five years of running had taught me to bristle at anything that disturbed the stillness. Most of the time, it turned out to be nothing but my own paranoia.
    Mia always told me, Sis, you’re too jumpy.
    She’d been too young to remember how terrifying our father really was. Besides – what was the harm in being careful?
    I slipped behind the curtain and fixed my eyes on the car.
    No one got out. A few minutes later, it pulled away, leaving nothing but rain under the streetlight. I let out a breath. Just some poor soul who’d gotten the wrong address. Nobody ran a clinic out here at midnight – not unless they had a doctor’s private number.
    I turned back to the exam room and went on packing up the instruments.
    Crash-
    The glass in the clinic door shattered in an instant, and the door was kicked open, letting in a gust of cold, rain-soaked air.
    That same car sat outside, its high beams blazing straight through the doorway, blinding me. Silhouetted against the light stood a tall figure.
    I raised a hand to shield my eyes, still unable to make out his face – only that two eyes had fixed on me and refused to look away.
    He stepped inside, boots crunching over broken glass with every stride, and with each step closer, the thick copper smell of blood filled the clinic.
    He stopped a yard away. Every hair on my body stood on end.
    Damn it.
    I snatched a scalpel from the tray and backed against the wall – an instinct hard-wired into me after five years on the run. I studied him: too tall, a black suit stretched taut over a powerful frame, collar loosened, a bead of water tracing the line of his jaw.
    He stood there, a yard away, and his eyes – dark, unreadable – swept over me the way a predator looks over something it already owns.
    “The Moretti heiress,” a cold curve tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been a hell of a lot of trouble to find.”
    -So. Found at last.

    Claimed by My Father’s Rival Chapter 2 Hostage

    Sloane’s POV
    Was he one of my father’s men?
    I studied him more closely – a handsome, unfamiliar face. His suit, soaked as it was, was clearly expensive, tailored. The watch on his wrist was a limited edition.
    I knew my father. He never spent that kind of money on anyone who worked for him.
    “Who are you?” I gritted out, and the moment his attention flickered, I struck – the scalpel aimed at the side of his throat.
    I wasn’t trying to kill him. Just to buy myself a window to run.
    Everything blurred. His hand closed around my wrist before I even saw it move. I drove a knee toward his ribs; he caught it against his thigh and shoved it back, and my knee buckled under the force, nearly folding.
    Every technique I’d ever prided myself on meant nothing against him.
    He held my wrist and, almost lazily, guided the blade closer to his own throat – close enough to graze his collar.
    “You-” My eyes went wide.
    “Not really a girl’s toy,” he said, twisting my wrist until the scalpel clattered to the floor, “especially not in front of me.”
    “Who the hell are you?” I demanded, and in the next breath my arm was wrenched behind my back and I was pinned face-down over the desk, the edge biting into my hip hard enough to knock a groan out of me.
    He leaned down, his body large over mine, his breath hot against my ear, and gooseflesh rose along my neck. I braced my forearms and tried to push up; he pressed me flat again. This time harder – my shoulder slammed into a file folder, and I gasped.
    “Care to try a different move?” he murmured, looking down at me like I was some minor entertainment. “Let’s see what the Morettis actually taught you.”
    Inwardly, I scoffed. This wasn’t one of my father’s men. My father would have killed me outright – he wouldn’t have the patience for this cat-and-mouse routine.
    “Killian O’Connor.” He spared me the trouble of guessing. “Perhaps you’ve heard the name.”
    Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. Of course I’d heard it. Heir to the O’Connor family. Five years ago, his sister had died at my father’s hands, and from that day on, the blood feud between our families had been carved in stone – nothing left to bridge it.
    “I’m not a Moretti anymore. Let go of me.” I struggled against the desk. “Taking me does nothing to them.”
    “Sure it doesn’t,” Killian said with a cold laugh. “Though that old bastard would probably rather carve you up himself – considering five years ago, thanks to you, he spent a week in the hospital before he crawled back from the edge of dead.”
    “Then why me?” I was still struggling.
    The weight on my back pressed down harder, his patience visibly thinning. “Keep moving, and I can’t promise they’ll keep smiling like this.”
    A Polaroid dropped in front of my face.
    I looked down, and my mind went white with static.
    My mother, at the stove. Mia beside her, grinning ear to ear. The photograph had gone soft and wrinkled from the rain, the edges blurred – but I recognized the apartment instantly. Ours.
    I stopped fighting.
    He could have pressed that scalpel to my throat right then, and I wouldn’t have dared resist.
    …
    The blindfold was torn off without ceremony. The light was blinding.
    I raised a hand against the glare, and it took a few seconds before the room came into focus. Small. Bulletproof glass sealed every wall, reflecting nothing back at me but my own blurred outline – no trace of what lay beyond.
    Killian had changed out of his soaked suit and now sat across from me on the sofa, a glass of whiskey turning slowly in his hand. His shirtsleeves were rolled up carelessly, veins standing out along his forearm.
    I glanced down at the iron shackles around my ankles. Pointless, really. Even without them, there was nowhere for me to run.
    He took a sip. “Welcome,” he said, “to being my guest.”
    I bit my lip and said nothing, my mind racing through everything I knew about this man.
    Five years ago, my father had dismissed him as some “reckless kid,” even as he’d already begun gnawing away at Moretti territory. Three years ago, at twenty-four, he’d made his name in a single night – dropping his own traitor uncle, along with a few hundred of the man’s men, straight into the ocean. After that, no one inside the O’Connor family dared to challenge him again. Seven ports along the southeast coast, and every ounce of the black-market trade that ran through them, belonged to him alone.
    Four of those seven ports had once flown Moretti colors.
    The one thing he never touched was drugs. Any man under him caught so much as sampling it lost a hand, or a foot. In this world, that rule made him something close to an anomaly. Rumor had it, it had something to do with his dead sister.
    I understood the blood feud between him and my family – his sister had died by my father’s hand. But if he wanted vengeance, my father was the one to bleed for it. Why me? I was the daughter who’d fled the family. My own father would be thrilled to hear I’d died out here.
    “You’re useful to me,” he said, as if he’d read the question straight off my face.
    “Useful how?”
    “I don’t like wasting time,” he said, tapping a finger against the rim of his glass. “The Morettis have connections buried in the government, in every other family in this business. I imagine you know quite a few names.”
    I drew a slow breath, forcing myself to think past the fear. He wasn’t wrong. Those names – I’d grown up hearing them, knew them better than I knew my own.
    “Give me the list.” He raised his glass toward me, almost a toast. “You managed to disappear from your father’s manhunt for five years. You clearly know what serves you best.”
    I thought of a headline from last month’s Financial Times – federal regulators freezing three of O’Connor’s offshore accounts, launching a full audit. That kind of investigation could drag on for as long as the government wanted it to, and it was more than enough to choke his cash flow dry.
    I’d suspected it the moment I read it: my father’s fingerprints, all over it. He couldn’t take back his territory, so he’d make sure his enemy couldn’t enjoy the spoils either.
    “You understand now, why I came for you.”
    His gaze slid from my face down to the shackles at my ankles.
    “And frankly, I’m curious. If Carmine found out the daughter he beat half to death five years ago wasn’t just alive, but had sold out every card he was holding to the man who wants him dead – I wonder what his face would look like.”
    I forced my voice level, already calculating what this bargaining chip might be worth.
    “If I hand you a network the Morettis spent half a lifetime building – what do I get in return?”
    He set the glass down, and his eyes cut into me like a blade. “Sweetheart, do you honestly think you’re in a position to negotiate?”
    “I do.” I clenched my fists and laid out my terms. “I’ll give you the list – more than you asked for, even. But I have conditions. Conditions that cost you nothing.”
    He tipped his chin up slightly, a signal to continue.
    “You guarantee my mother’s and my sister’s safety. Don’t drag them into any of this.” I held out one hand, palm up. “And give me a phone. I need to tell them I’m alive.”
    Killian rose, crossed the room, and tipped my chin up with two fingers, forcing my head back.
    He was too tall, too close. My neck strained to its limit.
    Our eyes locked. A faint smile touched his mouth, and his thumb brushed over my bottom lip. “Direct. I like that. But the O’Connor family doesn’t deal in verbal agreements. As of now, you’re my hostage. Your freedom – your body – all of it belongs to me.”
    He let go, pulled a phone from his pocket, and dropped it in my lap. “Speaker.”
    I grabbed it and dialed home.
    “Hello?” My mother’s voice, and behind it, Mia’s chatter.
    “It’s me, Mom.” My eyes stung. I forced the tremor out of my throat.
    “Sloane? Why aren’t you home yet?” A pause. “Whose number is this?”
    “My phone died. I borrowed a coworker’s. Mom, the clinic’s sending me to a conference last-minute – I’m leaving tonight, might be gone a few days.” It was a lie I’d used twice before this year; convincing enough.
    “So sudden?” A pause on the other end. “Sweetheart, is this about your father-”
    “No, of course not.” I cut her off, softening my voice. “He can’t find us. Anyway – Mia’s headphones, I’ll bring them home with me. The color she wanted.”
    A muffled cheer came through the line.
    That was when Killian leaned in without warning. His hand slid beneath my shirt, and with a sharp snap, my bra clasp gave way. I went rigid, breath catching in my throat, my fingers tightening around the phone as I forced the gasp back down.
    I looked down and watched his hands – two hot, coiling things – slide from my back to the front, closing over my breasts, kneading without rhythm or mercy. Every inch of my skin broke out in a shiver.
    His mouth found my ear. “Don’t move,” he murmured. “Or your mother will hear.”
    On the other end, my mother kept talking – some last piece of advice. My ears burned, my mind went blank, and I bit down hard on my tongue, using the pain to hold on to whatever control I had left.
    “Mom, I have to pack.”
    “Sis-!” Mia’s voice cut in, like she had something to say.
    Right as her voice came through the speaker, Killian’s fingers pinched the peak of my breast, deliberate, precise.
    I sucked in a breath and forced the words out fast: “Mia… mm… I’ll see you when I’m home, okay – bye!”
    I nearly slammed my thumb down on the call-end button – one more second and I had no idea what sound would have come out of me instead.
    That devil leaned in close again, his voice thick with amusement. “I told you. Your body belongs to me too. And this – this is only the beginning.”

    Claimed by My Father’s Rival Chapter 3 Boxes

    Sloane’s POV
    “Don’t drag them into this.” I pressed my hand over his, stilling it where it still moved beneath my shirt, and forced a breath into my lungs. “I thought you meant to keep your word.”
    “That depends on how well you behave.” Killian didn’t stop.
    Two knocks broke the moment. I nearly sagged with relief.
    “Come in.” Killian withdrew his hand from beneath my shirt, lingering a moment longer at my waist, thumb and forefinger giving one last, deliberate pinch.
    Only once his warmth had fully left my skin did I dare breathe again.
    A woman in a dark uniform entered, head bowed, shoulders drawn in on themselves. “Don, the room’s ready. I’ll take Miss Sloane there now.”
    “Go.” Killian walked back to the sofa and sat.
    The maid knelt and unlocked the shackles at my ankles, then gestured toward the door.
    I forced myself upright and reached to straighten my soaked shirt – the bra clasp was beyond repair, the fabric bunched uselessly against my chest, impossible to smooth into any kind of dignity. I made myself walk to the door anyway. I would not let him see anything more than what he’d already taken.
    The moment I stepped through the doorway, I understood exactly where I was.
    An alloy corridor stretched out ahead, no end in sight, sterile as an operating room. Along both sides ran a row of one-way glass cells. I glanced back once – Killian was still seated where I’d left him, glass in hand, lost in some thought of his own.
    The maid led the way, her pace unhurried enough that I couldn’t help but see everything on either side of me.
    In the cell to my left, a man in port-worker’s overalls hung suspended by chains, his toes barely grazing the floor, his face swollen a deep, bruised purple.
    Across from him, another man – reduced to nothing but skin over bone – huddled in a corner, staring at the floor with hollow, unseeing eyes.
    Further on, a cell that had just finished its work: blood sprayed across the inside of the glass, a body slumped over a steel stool, flayed raw. A guard hosed the floor down, rinsing the blood away in thin red streams.
    Nearly every room staged its own horror.
    “You’re the first one to walk out of a ‘Box’ without a mark on you,” the maid said, a quick glance flicking toward me before dropping away again.
    “Box?” I repeated the word. “You call these – these chambers of hell – boxes?”
    “Yes, miss.” Her voice dropped even lower. “It’s the Don’s word for them.”
    I walked on in silence.
    I’d seen how my father punished his enemies and his traitors – pure savagery, violence with no shape to it, nothing but rage looking for a place to land. This was different. The clean corridor, the deliberate order of it all – this felt less like punishment and more like specimens laid out behind glass. That kind of clean, methodical cruelty chilled me far more than anything my father had ever done.
    My steps faltered.
    “How could she-” My hand flew to my mouth before I even registered the thought.
    Through the glass, I recognized the woman inside – a federal prosecutor I’d seen countless times on the evening news, always composed, always sharp, carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
    Yet here she was inside the interrogation room, her tailored suit cast aside, wearing nothing but a torn white shirt with lace panties hanging from one ankle. Several naked men were gang-raping her. One forced her head down, thrusting himself fully into her mouth as her saliva spilled onto the floor. Another held her by the waist, sneering as he drove brutally into her lower body. The others crowded around her, hands roaming freely, relentlessly tearing through her sensitive spots.
    Multiple cameras and studio lights were set up nearby, recording every angle of the nightmare in agonizing clarity.
    What unsettled me most wasn’t the violence itself. It was her eyes. There was no fight left in them – only a kind of hollowed-out compliance, as if whatever had made her her had already been methodically taken apart.
    I’d watched her on television just two days ago, delivering a verdict with absolute conviction.
    The maid saw me stop and offered a quiet explanation. “Anyone who crosses the Don – death is the mercy. The Don says stripping someone like her of her pride is worth a thousand times more than simply killing her.”
    “He’s insane.” My stomach lurched violently. “An absolute monster.”
    I didn’t look toward either side again. I kept my head down and followed the maid until we reached a door at the top floor.
    It was a cage – an obscenely beautiful one. A massive, antique four-poster bed dominated the center of the room. Electric flames flickered in a fireplace nearby. Deep crimson drapes hung from the canopy all the way to the carpet. Four narrow, Gothic-arched windows had been sealed shut with steel plating – no sunlight would ever reach this room. Not even a breath of wind.
    I turned to the maid. “I’m nobody. Why would he need a cage this reinforced just to hold me? Not even special forces could get out of a room like this.”
    She hesitated, her gaze sweeping the dim, opulent room before finally landing on my soaked shirt. She didn’t answer my question – only said, quietly, “Miss Sloane, the door won’t be locked. But I wouldn’t recommend stepping outside it. This place is dangerous.”
    There was something like pity in her eyes. It was the only warmth I’d felt since walking into this hell.
    Instinct made the decision for me before I could think it through.
    I dropped to my knees on the heavy carpet and seized her hand. “Please. Help me.”
    “My mother is sick. My sister has no one else. I can’t die here.” I clung to her, begging.
    Fear and something like anguish crossed her face. She tried to pull away; I held on tighter.
    “Please. I’m only twenty. I’ve never hurt anyone.”
    Her eyes darted around the room, as if the walls themselves might be watching. Then she leaned in close and murmured, so quietly I almost missed it: “Tonight, three a.m. Wait here.”
    The instant the words left her mouth, she shoved me away, her voice rising sharply: “You’d best behave and give up on that idea.”
    She turned and walked out. The heavy wooden door swung shut behind her.
    I sank to the carpet, the strength that had held me upright all night finally giving out. The electric fire cast a trembling orange light across the drapes – flickering, flickering.
    If I could get out of here, I would take my mother and Mia and run to the ends of the earth.
    If I could just get out.

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