I’m Isabella Russo, the mafia princess everyone loves to hate. Adrian Moretti—ice-cold underboss in a tailored suit—was sent to “discipline” me. I torched his villa, wrecked his meetings, even tried to make him lose control. At night, he did. Against glass, leather, marble—he taught me surrender and I hated how much I craved it.

Then I learned the truth: Adrian was only a mask. His real name is Leon Moretti—heir to the empire and the fiancé promised to me since birth. It should have been a fairytale.

Except my parents crowned a miracle sister who wasn’t a miracle at all. Elena slipped into my room, my heirloom, my future—and into his arms. When I was framed, caged in a walk-in freezer, whipped for a lie, he chose her. So I sold the engagement for $200M, left a single recording as proof, and vanished.

By the time Leon becomes Don, he finally listens—to the tape that proves Elena’s an impostor… and to the echo of my footsteps leaving him for good. Now the most dangerous man in New York is done being careful.

He’s hunting the woman he broke.

The first time I crossed paths with Adrian Moretti, I thought I could break him.

Turns out, I was the one who shattered.

He wasn’t just the cold, calculating underboss of the Russo crime family—he was the man my father assigned to “discipline” me, to smooth out my reckless edges.

“He’s supposed to tame me?” I scoffed, eyeing the man in the tailored black suit, his expression carved from stone. “He looks like a goddamn accountant.”

In our world, the Moretti family ruled the city’s underground. Adrian wasn’t just another soldier.

He was the family’s most trusted enforcer—cold, precise, untouchable.

And I, Isabella Russo, the spoiled mafia princess, was not about to take orders from him.

So I fought him.

On his first day, I set fire to his lavish villa, watching flames devour the marble walls and glass ceilings until the estate collapsed into ashes.

He only looked at me once, his voice flat and merciless:

“Send the bill to Miss Russo’s paycheck.”

The next day, I switched his board presentation with a porn reel.

He didn’t flinch. He recited the entire plan by memory and closed a multimillion-dollar deal, leaving the room in stunned silence.

The third day, At a high-profile business gala, I slipped a powerful aphrodisiac into his drink, hoping he’d lose control and make a scene.

But I was the one carried into a penthouse suite, ruined until my knees gave out under his brutal, relentless control.

Everyone in New York whispered that Adrian was disciplined, untouchable—a gentleman in tailored suits.

But only I knew the truth—at night, when his control snapped, he was fire and steel, merciless in the ways he made me surrender.

The backseat of his Rolls.

The mahogany table in the conference room.

Against the glass window of his skyscraper office, the city burning below.

I should have hated him.

Instead, I craved him like a drug.

Until the night I learned the truth.

Adrian Moretti wasn’t just the Russo family’s enforcer.

He’s true name is Leon Moretti—the heir to the entire empire.

The man I was promised to since birth.

The man I had hated, desired, and belonged to in every way—was the very heir I was supposed to marry.

It should have been perfect.

But my chest felt hollow.

I dialed my father. My voice was steady, though my hand shook.

“I’ll give the engagement to Elena,” I said. “But I have conditions.”

On the other end, his voice lit up with joy. “Anything, Isabella. Just say it.”

“I want two hundred million.”

Silence. Then an outraged bark. “You’ll bankrupt us!”

I laughed coldly. “Don’t play dumb. The Morettis offered three hundred. You’ll pocket a hundred, Elena gets the title of Mafia princess, and I disappear. That’s profit, not loss.”

Silence again. Then, a sharp breath. “Deal.”

But my mother’s voice cut in, wary, sharp as glass. “And how do we know you won’t change your mind?”

The distrust sliced deeper than I expected.

I forced my voice calm. “In two weeks, I’ll be gone. Out of the country. You’ll never see me again.”

There was a pause. Then, quiet satisfaction on the other end. “Good girl.”

I hung up, my chest burning.

I once was the family’s little princess. Until they brought Elena home.

Elena.——The daughter who had been stolen as a child, only to be found years later. Broken. Fragile. Perfect for their guilt to cling to.

And me?

The master bedroom my mother promised would one day be mine—given to her without a word.

The family heirloom necklace, passed from daughter to daughter for generations—clasped around her throat as if I’d never been born.

Even my place at the university abroad, the future I’d spent years preparing for—handed to her like it was nothing, while I was told to stay behind and be “grateful.”

Whenever I protested, I was told: “She suffered so much, Isabella. You’ve had everything. Can’t you let her have this?”

Piece by piece, I was hollowed out.

Even the marriage contract my grandmother had signed with the Moretti family—mine since birth—was being stolen, handed to Elena like a prize.

I’d smashed things, screamed, fought until my throat bled. But in the end, they had sent me away.

To Adrian——To be broken, reshaped, “tamed.”

And the cruelest part?

It worked.

Because against all reason, I had fallen for him.

Not just for the man who pinned me against cold glass and whispered my name like a command.

But for the man who shielded me from predators in the clubs. Who took bullets meant for me. Who carried me through five miles of mud after a landslide buried us alive on a trip up north.

The man whose sharp, proud profile was burned into my soul.

I loved him.

God help me, I loved him.

So when I planned to confess, I carried a gift to his study, my heart pounding.

And then I heard his voice.

“Leon, how long are you going to play this role? Pretending to be an underboss, working for scraps, when you’re the heir to everything?”

A friend’s voice, mocking, carried through the crack in the door.

Adrian’s reply was flat, cold. “Without Elena, I’d be dead. I owe her everything.”

“You can’t be serious. You have Isabella. She’s your fiancée. The whole city thinks—”

A low, humorless laugh cut him off.

“She’s just a spoiled girl. Reckless. Immature. Not fit to be my wife.”

The words drove through me like knives.

I stood frozen, the gift box slipping from my hands, shattering on the floor.

So that was the truth.

The man I had given my body, my heart, my soul—his thoughts had always lingered on Elena.

And me?

I was nothing but a lesson. A distraction.

A body to punish, to tame, to use.

My throat closed. My chest burned.

Adrian—Leon—whatever name he wore, he was never mine.

And in that moment, I knew.

Not only was I done with the engagement.

I was done with him.

Forever.

My eyes burned red, tears clawing at me, but I refused to let them fall. I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

The bathroom door suddenly opened and Adrian came over. When he saw my eyes, he paused for a moment and asked, "My princess, why are you crying?"

His thumb dragged across my swollen lower lip, the gesture deceptively tender, voice rough velvet that curled around me like smoke.

Beads of water slid down his collarbone, disappearing beneath the half-unbuttoned shirt clinging to his lean, hard frame. Power coiled beneath his casual elegance, a predator disguised in silk.

I flinched, turned my face away. “Get the hell off me.”

Adrian’s mouth tugged into the faintest smirk, as if my fury amused him. “Want me to carry you into the shower?”

But before I could spit back a retort, his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He killed the screen quickly, too quickly. I still caught a glimpse.

[Adrian, it’s storming. I’m terrified. Please… come.]

—Elena.

My sister.

His brows furrowed. Then his decision was instant, merciless. “Business. I have to go.”

Coat over his shoulders, he was out the door before I could even stand.

The slam of the door was drowned by a crack of thunder that rattled the windows.

I froze, pulse spiking, nails digging into my palms.

I hated storms.

Once, I had buried myself in Adrian’s arms during a storm like this, shaking until dawn. I’d clung to him, desperate, ashamed of my fear. He’d only laughed softly, brushing a hand through my hair.

“The mafia princess, scared of thunder? Don’t be dramatic.”

But now—Elena whimpered over the same storm, and he ran to her without hesitation. Concern etched into every line of his face.

Love and indifference. The contrast was brutal. Obvious.

Another thunderclap split the night. I curled into myself on the bed, trembling so hard my teeth ached.

Minutes later, my phone lit again. A photo.

Adrian, the man who never broke composure even while taking me apart, sat with Elena wrapped in his arms, his jacket draped around her shoulders. He was stroking her hair, soothing her like she was something fragile and precious.

His expression—God. I’d never seen that kind of tenderness.

Not for me.

I bit down so hard my lip split, then hurled the phone across the room.

I didn’t sleep. By dawn I dragged myself into black jeans and a leather jacket, driving back to the Russo estate.

Inside the marble dining hall, my father looked up from his espresso. His mouth twisted. “Out all night again, Isabella? You shame this family. Why can’t you be more like your sister? Graceful. Obedient.”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Graceful? Maybe you should schedule an eye exam, Father. While you’re at it, get your heart checked too. Because you’re blind and empty both.”

His hand slammed against the table, silverware rattling. “Watch your mouth!”

“Don’t be angry, Papa,” a honey-sweet voice chimed behind me.

Elena glided into the room like a saint, all smiles, and right beside her—Adrian. My Adrian. Carrying her coat, her handbag, her world.

The man who left me shaking in the dark storm now stood beside her like the perfect gentleman, expression cool and unbothered.

My mother beamed. “Adrian, darling, come join us. You must be starving.”

“I came to update Don Russo on the project,” Adrian replied smoothly, but Elena tugged at his sleeve with a soft pout. “Papa, I’m starving.”

And the Don, the feared head of the Russo family, transformed instantly into a doting fool. “Sit, cara. Eat. Maria, bring out Elena’s favorites.”

I glanced at the table. The platters of cured meats, fresh bread, even the orange juice—it was all chosen for Elena’s taste. Mine, forgotten. As always.

“Elena, darling, try the eggs,” my father urged. “I had them made just the way you like.”

I let out a sharp laugh under my breath, the sound tasting like blood.

My sister’s gaze flicked to me, all innocence. “Isabella, aren’t you eating?”

Then, feigning thoughtfulness, she slid a glass of red wine toward me, her smile saccharine. “Have some. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Oh, come on. Just one sip.”

“I said no.” My hand shoved the glass away.

Elena’s wrist jerked—too convenient, too staged—and the cream of mushroom soup spilled, scalding, across my hand.

I hissed as it burned the torn skin on my knuckles, but her shriek pierced louder. The glass shattered on the marble floor.

“Elena!” My parents bolted from their seats, crowding around her, fussing over her hand, though she wasn’t even scratched.

No one looked at me. At my bleeding hand.

Instead, my father’s glare cut through me. “She was only trying to be kind, Isabella. How dare you lash out and hurt her?”

My fists trembled at my sides. “I didn’t hurt her. I can’t even touch cream without breaking into a rash—you know that.”

But they weren’t listening. They never listened.

And across the table, Adrian stood silent, his gaze unreadable, Elena tucked safely under his arm.

It hit me harder than the thunder ever could.

In this family, I would always be the storm.

Elena would always be the shelter.

And Adrian… would never be mine.

“Papa, don’t be angry,” Elena’s voice floated across the dining hall, soft as honey. “Isabella didn’t mean it. She just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, that’s all.”

Her smile was angelic, her tone dripping with sympathy. But I’d known her long enough to hear the venom beneath it.

When she first returned to the family—our long-lost, tragic dove—I pitied her. I was stupid enough to hand her my favorite teddy bear, thinking it might comfort her. I didn’t know then that this fragile little bird would one day sink her claws into everything I loved.

It began with small things.

She sent anonymous threatening messages to my teachers, making it seem like I had cheated.

She hid my carefully prepared audition tape and claimed I’d simply misplaced it.

She spread rumors online that I had stolen a friend’s scholarship, turning everyone against me.

Once, she even faked a sprained ankle and insisted I had pushed her during gym class.And every time—every single time—my parents believed her.

My protests became “excuses.” My anger, “jealousy.” My entire childhood was slowly rewritten as if I were the villain in her perfect tragedy.

And now, she was at it again, painting herself as the saint.

Papa’s fist slammed onto the table. His voice cracked like a whip.

“You ruin breakfast with your temper, Isabella! Why can’t you be more like your sister? Gentle. Obedient.”

The words sliced deeper than I expected, though I should have been used to it by now.

Elena leaned closer to Mama, eyes glittering with satisfaction. From behind their wall of love and concern, she looked back at me with a flicker of triumph.

I almost laughed. Once, I would have cried, begging them to listen. But not anymore.

“You want to see temper?” My lips curved, sharp as broken glass. “This is temper.”

I seized the silk-draped tablecloth and yanked.

Crystal shattered. Plates crashed. Scarlet wine bled across the marble floor.

The room froze.

Papa’s roar shook the chandeliers. “Get out, Isabella! You’re nothing but a disgrace—”

I laughed in his face, high heels snapping like gunshots against the marble as I walked away.

Let them choke on their perfect picture of family. I was done.

At least, I thought I was.

I hadn’t made it past the courtyard when a hand clamped over my mouth. A sharp sting flooded my nose, my body buckling as the world tilted black.

When I came to, my bones ached with cold. I was sprawled on the frozen concrete floor of the estate’s industrial walk-in freezer.

From above came the muffled voice of one of Adrian’s men.

“Orders from Mr. Moretti. Teach her a lesson. Make sure she remembers not to lay a finger on the elder daughter again.”

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

Ice spread through my chest. For Elena’s little “accident”—barely a mark on her wrist—Adrian had sentenced me to this?

I hammered the door with my fists. “Let me out!” My voice cracked, then broke. Silence answered. Only the endless hum of the freezer.

Darkness. Cold. The kind that seeps into your bones, into your soul.

I curled into the corner, shaking so hard my teeth ached. But inside, I was colder than the air around me.

Before my phone died, one last message slid across the screen. From Elena.

A photo.

Adrian. My Adrian. Carefully wrapping a bandage around her unmarked skin, his face softened into tenderness I’d never seen. His hand lingered, stroking her as if she were glass.

The same man who once slipped his coat over my shoulders when I confessed I hated the cold. I thought that moment was ours. Mine.

But it was nothing. An illusion. His tenderness was never for me.

I laughed, raw and broken, as tears cut down my face, stinging in the cold.

By the time the lock finally clicked and the freezer door swung open, my vision had blurred.

A tall figure filled the doorway, dark and commanding. Adrian.

Before I could move, he lifted me into his arms.

“Put me down!” My voice was hoarse, but I thrashed against him anyway.

His grip only tightened, his breath hot against my temple.

“It’s over,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “I’m here now.”

The lie burned colder than the ice.