The Price Of A Mafia Queen

My marriage to Marco Ricci was a contract signed in blood, a promise to unite the two most powerful families on the East Coast. He was my future, the king chosen to rule beside me. Everyone said our union was destiny.

But he came home smelling of cheap perfume and another woman's lies. It was the scent of Angelia, the fragile orphan his family had taken in, the girl he swore he protected like a sister.

I followed him to a private club. From the shadows, I watched him pull her into his arms and give her a hungry, desperate kiss—a kiss he had never given me. In that instant, my entire future shattered.

I finally understood the whispers from his men that I was just a political prize, while Angelia was their true queen. He wanted my empire, but his heart belonged to her.

I would not be a consolation prize. I would not be second to anyone.

I walked straight into my father's study, my voice as cold as ice. "I'm calling off the wedding."

When he protested, I delivered the final blow. "I will uphold our family's need for an alliance. I will marry Don Dante Valentino."

My father's whiskey glass shattered on the floor. Dante Valentino was our greatest rival.

Chapter 1

Isabella POV:

The contract for my marriage to Marco Ricci was signed in blood when we were children, a promise of unity between two of the East Coast's most powerful families. But the lie I discovered on his lips tasted of cheap perfume and another woman.

This city, this sprawling kingdom of glass and steel, would one day be mine. I was Isabella Moretti, daughter of Don Alistair Moretti. Every cobblestone street and shadowy alley was part of my inheritance, a birthright I was raised to command.

But in the quiet moments, when the weight of my name felt heavier than my crown, all I wanted was him.

Marco Ricci.

He was my future, my other half, the man chosen to rule beside me. He was the heir to the Ricci family, a man whose strength and strategic mind were spoken of in hushed, respectful tones from New York to Chicago. He was everything a future Don should be.

Everyone said we were destined. From the old capos sipping espresso in Little Italy to the wives who ran the charities that washed our money, it was a known fact: Isabella Moretti belonged to Marco Ricci.

My heart always knew when he was near. It was a frantic, wild beating against my ribs, a familiar rhythm I'd felt since I was a girl.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of our penthouse, waiting. I anticipated the scent that always clung to him, a clean, sharp mix of sandalwood and leather. It was the scent of power, of safety. It was the only thing that could tame the restless beast that lived inside my soul.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss. He stepped