Banished Bride Returns With A Mafia King

I caught my fiancé, Nico Falcone, in bed with my own cousin, Bianca Rossi. Right before our wedding.

When I confronted him, he just called the whole thing off and ran me out of New York.

I didn’t see him again for five years. Then came the charity gala for the New York Families.

There he was. Nico.

He pulled me aside, saying he felt bad for the state I was in. He offered to make me his mistress.

I told him to go to hell. He got ugly.

The whole room was laughing. Whispering how an outcast like me had no business showing my face in New York.

I clenched my fists, the sound of their mockery ringing in my ears.

Just then, the entire ballroom went dead silent.

Every head bowed in respect.

Don Lucas, the most feared man in New York, was walking slowly toward us.

He stopped right in front of me. With the whole room watching, he dropped to one knee. He took my hand—the one Nico had squeezed red—and kissed it.

His voice was dangerously low.

“Who hurt my future wife?”

Five years. That’s how long it's been since my ex, Nico Falcone, broke our engagement and my family kicked me out. The next time I see him, he's married to my cousin, Bianca Rossi. He grabs my hand in secret, offering to keep me as his mistress. He has no idea I’m about to marry the most powerful Don of all: Lucas Moretti.

Five years, and I’m back at the New York mafia’s annual charity gala.

“Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. The Rossi family’s disgraced little artist?”

The mocking voice cut through the ballroom's chatter, sharp and clear.

I stopped and slowly turned.

The senator's daughter, Sophia, stood behind me, a glass of expensive red wine in her hand. Her little circle of friends fanned out behind her, all of them wearing the same hungry look. The look of people ready for a show.

“Five years, Aurora Rossi.” Sophia’s voice was sickly sweet. “You… still have such unique taste.” She paused for effect. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re not a Rossi anymore, are you? Jilted. Disowned. Almost ended up in jail, didn't you?”

Her eyes raked over me, from head to toe.

My cargo pants were still dusted with plaster from the church walls. My sneakers were worn from hours spent on my knees, bringing angels back to life.

I’d just come from St. Anthony's in the Bronx. Three months of pro bono work.

But here, in a room drowning in Chanel and Armani, I was a ghost from another world.

“Surprised?” My voice was flat. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“Oh, darling.” She let out a little laugh, raising her voice on purpose. “We’re not the same. I belong here.”

She took a step forward. Too close.

“And you… you look like you’re here to beg.”

Red wine flew from her glass in a perfect arc, hitting my white t-shirt. It