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 out, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.

But the air that followed him was wrong.

It was tainted.

Underneath the familiar sandalwood, a cloying sweetness clung to his clothes. A cheap, synthetic floral scent that made my stomach clench.

Gardenia.

I knew that smell. It belonged to Angelia Rossi.

She was the orphan the Ricci family had taken in years ago, a girl with wide, innocent eyes and a fragility that made men want to protect her. Marco, especially. He treated her like she was made of spun glass, a precious sister he had to shield from the world.

From our world.

I turned from the window, my face a carefully constructed mask of calm.

"You were with her."

It wasn't a question.

Marco's smile was as smooth and uncreased as his tailored suit. He walked toward me, his movements fluid and confident. "Just dropped her off. She had a long day."

He leaned in to kiss me, but I stepped back. The scent was stronger now, a suffocating cloud of lies.

Breathing suddenly felt like a chore. The air in the room, once filled with the comfortable silence of our shared life, was now thick with betrayal.

"I'm going to bed," he said, his voice casual. He unbuttoned his cuffs, his gaze already distant. "Don't wait up."

I nodded, a single, jerky movement. "Goodnight, Marco."

But I didn't go to my room. I waited until I heard the shower start, a steady rush of water washing away the evidence of his deceit. Then, I slipped out of the penthouse.

I didn't need to ask where he was going. I could feel the pull of his betrayal in my gut. I followed the scent, a trail of poison leading me down into the city's dark heart.

He went to a private club owned by his family, a place of shadows and secrets. I stayed in the darkness of the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. He met her in a secluded alcove, hidden from view.

But not from me.

I watched as he pulled her into his arms. I saw him lower his head, his lips finding hers in the dim light. It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was hungry, desperate. A kiss he had never given me.

The world tilted on its axis. The future that had been mapped out for me since birth—the life with Marco, the children we would have, the empire we would rule—cracked down the middle, shattering into a million unrecognizable pieces.

My destiny was a lie.

I didn't make a sound. I just backed away, melting into the shadows that had always been my home.

The walk back to the penthouse felt like wading through ice water. Every familiar landmark—the fountain in the plaza, the lion statues guarding our building—seemed alien and hostile.

I went straight to my father's study. The doors were imposing, carved from dark oak. I pushed them open without knocking.

He was behind his desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He smiled when he saw me. "Isabella. What a pleasant surprise." His smile faded as he saw my face. "What is it? What's wrong?"

I walked to his desk, my steps steady, my voice devoid of emotion. It felt like someone else was speaking, a colder, harder version of myself I hadn't met until tonight.

"Father."

"Mhm, my dear.?"

"I'm calling off the wedding."

He stared at me, his brow furrowed. "Isabella, the invitations have been sent. The families are expecting this union. It is a matter of honor."

"Honor?" I let out a small, bitter laugh. "His honor is stained with another woman's scent." I looked him directly in the eye, my decision a block of ice in my chest. "I have made other arrangements."

"What other arrangements?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion and a hint of dread.

"I will uphold the family's need for an alliance," I said, my voice clear and steady. "I will marry Don Dante Valentino."

My father's glass slipped from his fingers, shattering on the marble floor. "Valentino? Bella, you can't be serious. He is our rival. Marco… Marco is your life."

"No, Father," I said, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Marco was my mistake."

It wasn't a sudden decision. The kiss was just the final confirmation of a truth that had been whispering in my ear for months.

I remembered a few weeks ago, hiding in the study to surprise Marco, when I overheard a conversation through the secure comms link that connected our inner circle. It was a private channel, a place for unfiltered thoughts.

Enzo, one of Marco's most trusted soldiers, had been speaking. "She's a princess, Marco. A beautiful, high-maintenance Moretti princess. She was born with a crown. She doesn't understand our struggle."

My breath had caught in my throat. I felt a cold dread creep up my spine.

Then Luca, Marco's *consigliere*, his voice smooth and calculating. "Angelia, though… Angelia is different. She's one of us. She has fire. A man knows where he stands with a woman like that."

Jax, another soldier, had laughed. "He's right. Besides, Angie told me Marco is the only real family she has. She'd do anything for him."

The words had felt like a punch to the gut. They saw me as a political prize, a fragile doll to be managed. They saw Angelia as their queen.

I understood then. Marco and Angelia had been brought into the Ricci family from the same orphanage years ago. They were the only two survivors of a fire that had claimed everyone else. He felt a profound, unbreakable duty to her.

And every time Angelia had cried, every time she'd claimed another girl had bullied her, Marco had taken her side. He would look at me, his eyes pleading for understanding. "She's been through so much, Bella. She's fragile."

Now, seeing them together, the whispers and the favoritism clicked into place. The kiss wasn't a moment of weakness. It was a declaration.

He wanted power. He wanted the Moretti name and the empire that came with it. But his heart, his loyalty, his soul… that belonged to Angelia.

And I would not be second to anyone.