Left for Dead by the Mafia King I Loved

I married Rafe Maretti—the man who owned the Maretti Casino empire. Sophisticated, ruthless, but sinfully charming.

By year three of our marriage, I introduced my little sister to his nephew, Adam Moretti—twenty-five, all sharp smiles and sharper ambition.

He ran the dirtier side of the family’s business—arms, drugs, the kind of trade that dripped blood and money in equal parts.

I married the powerful, irresistible uncle. She married the young, dangerous nephew.

It was supposed to be our fairytale.

Then one day, I got kidnapped in Rafe’s casino.

Snatched by a rival mafia family desperate to force Rafe to sign over one of his biggest, most profitable casinos.

Except Rafe didn’t answer the phone or even notice I was gone.

The kidnappers grew impatient. First, it was slaps. Then punches. Then they shattered my leg and buried a knife in my stomach.

Still no word from my husband.

Until finally, after what felt like a hundred unanswered calls, a single message came through.

"I’m with Bianca. She’s having a stomach. Stop calling."

Once the kidnappers realized I had no value, they dumped me in a rotting warehouse like discarded luggage.

It was Isla, my sister, who found me. She got me out.

And then the brakes failed. The car spun out. Isla went unconscious beside me.

I tried calling Adam. Isla’s husband. But as soon the call went through, all I could hear was. “Leave me along. Isla, I am in the middle of something here.” When I clearly heard a woman’s voice in the back.

If not for a passing stranger, Isla and me wouldn’t have made it to the hospital, let along have survived.

So when I opened my eyes again, the first thing I thought was: I’m divorcing that sorry bastard. The Maretti can go to hell.

1

I woke up before Isla.

She lay still beside me, unconscious, her head bandaged and her breathing shallow. The doctors were monitoring her for a possible concussion. I, on the other hand, had no such luxury. The second I opened my eyes, I was dialing my family’s lawyer.

I wanted a divorce.

Rafe Moretti—my husband, the man who left me bleeding in some godforsaken warehouse while he played caretaker to Bianca and her cramps—would never have another claim on my name.

I told my lawyer: file the papers and sent it to Rafe. Like I expected, no word from Rafe, not even a response.

The door opened.

“Mrs. Maretti?” the doctor asked, his voice polite but edged with concern. “You’re stable now, though your injuries are significant. A fractured leg, and a deep abdominal wound. If your sister hadn’t applied pressure when she did… you would’ve bled out.”

“I’m lucky,” I said quietly. “Lucky to have Isla.”

He hesitated—just long enough to make my stomach clench.

“There’s more. We ran a full evaluation… and you were two months pregnant.” A pause. “The trauma from the knife wound caused a miscarriage. I’m sorry, Mrs. Maretti.”

Pregnant?

I blinked. My breath