From Mafia Doll To Montana Queen

I was the invisible daughter of the Hayes crime family, secretly painting portraits of Marcus, the Underboss. He was the man who had once protected me from the world, the man I loved from the shadows.

But he chose power over affection. To secure an alliance, he engaged Isabella.

Threatened by my existence, Isabella staged a fake miscarriage and framed me for destroying her heirloom wedding dress.

Marcus didn't ask for my side of the story. Blinded by rage over his "lost heir," he ordered his guards to drag me to the Ice Cellar—a freezing underground torture chamber used for traitors.

For days, I shivered in the absolute darkness, listening to the water drip, realizing the man I worshiped was actually my jailer. My father, protecting his own millions, let it happen.

In that cold, the girl who loved Marcus died.

When he finally released me, he expected me to be broken, obedient, and grateful for his mercy.

Instead, I burned every painting I had ever made of him. I packed a single bag and vanished into the night, escaping to a rugged ranch in Montana where no one knew my name.

Three years later, the truth about Isabella’s lies finally surfaced.

Marcus tracked me down. The King of New York fell to his knees in the dirt and cow manure of my new home, weeping, begging, and offering me the entire world to come back.

I looked down at the man who once owned my heart.

"You can't un-shatter a glass, Marcus," I said coldly. "I'm not coming home."

Chapter 1

Olivia POV

I dipped my brush in alizarin crimson, outlining the jaw of the man who would likely put a bullet in my head if he knew what I was thinking. But tonight, I was done hiding in the shadows of his sins.

My heart hammered against my ribs, frantic and rhythmic, like a trapped bird as I added the final stroke to the canvas.

In the painting, Marcus wasn't the Underboss of the New York family. He wasn't the man whose hands were stained with the blood of our enemies. He was simply Marcus. The man who had once shielded me from a storm.

But that man didn't exist anymore.

I sat back on the stool in my hidden studio, the sharp scent of turpentine and linseed oil filling my lungs. This room, tucked away in the dusty attic of the Hayes estate, was the only place I could breathe.

I opened my diary. The leather was worn soft from years of secrets.

*This is the only way I can talk to him,* I wrote, the ink bleeding slightly into the heavy paper. *On canvas, he looks at me. In real life, I am part of the furniture.*

I closed the book with a soft thud. Tonight was the charity gala. Tonight, I would try to be more than just David Hayes's innocent, invisible daughter.

*

Dinner was a suffocating affair. My father, David, sat at the