/1/116898/coverbig.jpg?v=641108e3886d81081d8833f503225136)
I am the best trauma surgeon in the New York mafia. For five years, I used my underground surgical earnings to fund my fiancé Dante's rise to Capo. But after a grueling six-hour surgery saving his soldier, I walked out into the pouring rain to find his new ward, Sofia, sitting in my front passenger seat. In our world, the front seat of a Capo's car is a throne that belongs exclusively to his future wife. Yet Sofia was sitting there, wearing his tailored coat and drinking from the custom silver flask I bought him. When I confronted them, Dante didn't apologize. Instead, he publicly humiliated me. "Just get in the back, Serena. She is a traumatized kid having a panic attack." He demanded I bend the knee to an associate, completely disregarding my authority and our sacred blood oath. Sofia looked at me with wide, artfully innocent eyes, but hid a victorious smile behind my flask. I had laundered half a million dollars to build his marital fortress. I had bought his loyalty with my own blood and scalpel. Why was he treating my five years of absolute devotion like garbage over a manipulative girl's fake tears? I didn't argue, and I didn't beg for his love. I simply took off the massive diamond betrothal ring, dropped it into a biohazard bin full of clotted blood, and walked away. If he wanted to give away my seat, I would take back my money, destroy his standing, and let the ultimate Boss of Bosses court me instead.
Contents
Broken Oath: The Surgeon's Spectacular Comeback Chapter 1
I am the best trauma surgeon in the New York mafia. For five years, I used my underground surgical earnings to fund my fiancé Dante's rise to Capo.
But after a grueling six-hour surgery saving his soldier, I walked out into the pouring rain to find his new ward, Sofia, sitting in my front passenger seat.
In our world, the front seat of a Capo's car is a throne that belongs exclusively to his future wife.
Yet Sofia was sitting there, wearing his tailored coat and drinking from the custom silver flask I bought him.
When I confronted them, Dante didn't apologize. Instead, he publicly humiliated me.
"Just get in the back, Serena. She is a traumatized kid having a panic attack."
He demanded I bend the knee to an associate, completely disregarding my authority and our sacred blood oath.
Sofia looked at me with wide, artfully innocent eyes, but hid a victorious smile behind my flask.
I had laundered half a million dollars to build his marital fortress. I had bought his loyalty with my own blood and scalpel.
Why was he treating my five years of absolute devotion like garbage over a manipulative girl's fake tears?
I didn't argue, and I didn't beg for his love.
I simply took off the massive diamond betrothal ring, dropped it into a biohazard bin full of clotted blood, and walked away.
If he wanted to give away my seat, I would take back my money, destroy his standing, and let the ultimate Boss of Bosses court me instead.
Chapter 1
Serena POV
The one o'clock rain was a cold, persistent thing, sheeting down the armored glass of the SUV. Through the distortion of water and light, I fixed my gaze on the teenage girl sitting in the passenger seat that belonged to me.
If I open the back door of this vehicle, I accept my place as a pathetic joke in the unforgiving calculus of New York's Famiglias.
If I walk away, I break a sacred five-year blood oath and invite a debt that would be paid in blood.
Six hours I had just spent in a subterranean operating theatre, my hands deep in the chest of another man's soldier.
Though I had changed out of my surgical wear, and my black trench coat was a thin armor against the chill, no amount of scrubbing could remove the faint, metallic ghost of another man's blood from beneath my fingernails, or the sharp tang of antiseptic that had worked its way into my hair. The soldier served Dominic Falcone, the man who was the newly ascended Boss of all Bosses in the city.
He was the sort of phantom who claimed his throne by leaving the heads of twelve rival syndicate leaders on pikes in a single night.
His name alone was a currency of fear, because he respected only brutal competence and ironclad boundaries.
And in his network of shadows, I was the best trauma surgeon.
I came out into the dark alley to meet my fiancé.
Dante Moretti was a high-ranking Capo in an allied family.
We were bound by an arranged mafia betrothal-an alliance that I personally financed with my own surgical earnings.
And through the thick, bullet-resistant glass, I saw that Sofia was sitting in the front passenger seat.
She was the orphaned daughter of a dead soldier, a girl whom Dante took in as his ward last year.
She was wearing Dante's tailored cashmere coat draped as if by right over her small shoulders.
Worse, her fingers were wrapped tightly around the custom silver flask I had bought for him in Milan.
The front seat of a Capo's car was a throne.
On this side of the river, where respect was the only thing that kept you alive, it belonged exclusively to the woman who ruled beside him.
The window lowered a few inches, a quiet hiss against the percussive beat of the rain on the roof.
"I am so sorry, Serena."
Her eyes were wide and carefully guileless.
"I had another severe panic attack," she said, a tremor cultivated in her voice.
"I really need to sit in the front where I can see the road."
Dante leaned over from the driver's seat, and no apology softened the hard set of his jaw.
"Just get in the back, Serena."
"It is pouring rain, and she is not feeling well."
"Be reasonable."
A cold stillness settled in my veins, the kind that preceded a surgeon's first incision.
This was not about a seat-it was a public execution of my authority.
To take the back seat now would be a public capitulation, and on these streets, a perceived slight was a hemorrhage; left unchecked, it was fatal.
I looked at Dante's impatient face, then my gaze traveled to Sofia's small, victorious smile hidden behind the silver flask.
My fingers rested for a moment on the cold, wet metal of the rear door handle, a fractional pause, before I pushed it shut.
The solid thud of the lock engaging echoed in the narrow alley, a sound as final as a judge's gavel.
I pulled my burner phone from my coat pocket.
My fingers were steady as they moved across the screen I typed a single message to Dante.
"The blood oath is broken. We are done."
I hit send.
I turned my back on the SUV and walked toward the heavy steel doors of the clinic to retrieve my go-bag.
Behind me, I heard Dante slam his fist against the steering wheel just before the engine cut off.
View More Comments on App
Other books by Rafael
More/0/86524/coverbig.jpg?v=afe0981aa856623b9eaadf4d905869f6)
Shattered Crystal, Broken Love
ModernThe crystal shattered, a scream tearing through the quiet afternoon. It was followed by a tiny, terrified gasp from my four-year-old daughter, Lily. I found her frozen in the doorway of Ethan' s study, surrounded by the glittering shards of his limited-edition crystal set. When Ethan appeared, a cold presence blocking the light, he didn' t look at Lily or me, only the broken crystals. "This was a gift," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "From Chloe." Chloe Davis, his spiritual mentor, the ghost in our marriage. "Ethan, it was an accident," I pleaded, shielding Lily. But he ignored me, pulling Lily from my grasp. "Discipline is not a punishment. It is a teaching." He dragged her toward the soundproof meditation room, her panicked sobs echoing: "No, Daddy! Not the quiet room! It' s dark!" "Ethan, no! She' s terrified of enclosed spaces!" I cried, but he pushed her inside. The heavy door clicked shut, sealing off her screams. When he finally let me out an hour later, Lily was gone. No pulse. No breath. Nothing. Hours later, the TV in the living room showed Ethan on a stage, smiling, declaring his devotion to Chloe. My heart shattered, replaced by a cold, hard thought. I called my lawyer. "It' s Sarah Miller. Please draft a divorce agreement for me." The doorbell rang. It was Ethan' s mother, Mrs. Hayes, offering me a staggering check for his "carelessness." "He wasn' t careless," I said, pushing it back. "He was cruel. Your son killed my daughter." I expected shock. I didn' t expect Chloe Davis to walk through my front door, looking like a distressed angel, instantly comforted by Ethan. As she hugged him, she looked at me with a flash of pure, triumphant victory. This wasn't an accident. This was an execution, and she orchestrated it. The cold emptiness inside me ignited into a white-hot rage.
/0/81892/coverbig.jpg?v=4b1676f168f29a9038eb8c3e654b131b)
The Husband's Secret Game
FantasyMy husband, Julian, a brilliant but reserved academic, and I, Eleanor, an artist obsessed with miniature dioramas, had built a quiet, seemingly perfect life together. Until she arrived. Isabelle Thorne, a character from an old gothic romance Julian was researching, took my body. One moment, I was sketching a new miniature, the next, I was a horrified ghost, watching her claim my life. She moved into my home, used my voice, wore my face, but her eyes held a cruel triumph. She was an actress, and my life was her stage. Helpless, I watched my husband fall deeper into her web. Her ultimate goal? To bear Julian a child, anchoring herself permanently to our world through a twisted ritual. The profound injustice, the sheer impossibility of it, chilled me more than the coldness of my ghostly form. Would Julian ever see through her perfect facade? Could anyone fight something that wasn't supposed to exist? But Julian, my quiet, bookish Julian, began to notice. The small slips, the missing affection. As suspicion hardened into a terrifying certainty, he uncovered her monstrous plan. Now, armed with forbidden knowledge and a desperate, dark resolve, Julian must play a dangerous game – to reclaim his life, avenge his love, and send this horrifying visitor back to the pages from which she spawned.
/0/81615/coverbig.jpg?v=96d2e4a193eea9548201d171c3070343)
The Woman He Couldn't Break
ModernMy hands trembled, clutching the small music box that held my son Leo' s ashes, as Dean Thompson slid the divorce papers across the desk. My husband, Mark, refused to acknowledge our boy was gone, completely convinced by my conniving sister, Laura' s, twisted tales that Leo was simply "visiting my parents." He called me hysterical, pathetic, accusing me of inventing Leo' s death just to manipulate him, all while lavishing attention on Laura' s son, Ethan, and ignoring our child' s memory. When I desperately needed Mark' s signature to legally transport Leo' s ashes for burial, he saw it as leverage, demanding I consent to his adoption of Ethan as a "trade." How could he be so willfully blind, so utterly cruel, to deny our beloved child's passing and weaponize my profound grief for Laura' s selfish gain? My heart shattered daily, not just from the immense loss, but from his relentless, unbearable dismissal of Leo and me. Then, disaster struck: a raging fire engulfed an apartment, and in the terrifying chaos, Mark chose them again – Laura and Ethan – abandoning me to the smoke and flames, with only Leo' s music box clutched to my chest. But amidst the inferno, I didn't die; I emerged from the ashes, a new woman, shedding the name Sarah Miller for a stronger identity: Sarah Astor. Now, as an influential journalist, I stand ready to confront the man who broke me, to claim my peace, and ensure Leo' s memory finally finds justice.
/0/81299/coverbig.jpg?v=c7cd681932aaf313a09c09bcc7fec8e3)
Sister-In-Law's Jealousy
FantasyMy life was woven from Montana's wind and the whisper of ancient spirits, far from Washington D.C.'s noise. As a tribal healer, I lived connected to the land, but when my brother, Senator Julian Vance, called, his voice tight with desperation, I knew I had to go. His wife, Vicky, was dying, and modern medicine had failed her; I came to save her, to offer healing beyond what doctors understood. Instead, I stepped into a nightmare. The moment I arrived, Vicky lunged at me, eyes blazing with a jealousy I couldn't comprehend. She accused me of being a "homewrecker," her rage unchecked as her entourage joined in. They desecrated my sacred tools, the very conduits of my power, stomping them to splinters. My young apprentice, Lena, barely out of her teens, was mercilessly murdered protecting me. Then, in a final, horrifying act of malice, Vicky herself plunged a letter opener into my eyes, stealing my sight; I lay there, blind and broken, my world plunged into utter darkness. Why this monstrous, unprovoked assault? What deep-seated rot drove a woman to such extreme, unhinged violence against the very person trying to save her? How could such hatred be born from a false accusation? The pain of Lena's death and my stolen sight gnawed at my soul, demanding answers. Just as all hope seemed lost, Julian burst in, witnessing the horrific truth. His icy fury, a Senator's power unleashed, promised swift and absolute ruin for Vicky, but as I recovered, profound inner truths began to reveal themselves, forcing me to redefine justice, healing, and my own broken spirit.
/0/81435/coverbig.jpg?v=6f9aec16f33ce06e46d8f348323deb26)
The Baby Is Gone: No 'Us'
BillionairesSarah Miller, a brilliant software engineer, poured her genius and every last penny into rebuilding her disgraced tech mogul boyfriend, Ethan Knight. She sacrificed everything, even her own health enduring a miscarriage, to help him rise from the ashes and build a billion-dollar empire. But success revealed Ethan's true monstrous nature. He brought his heavily pregnant ex-girlfriend, Jessica, home, ordering Sarah to serve her. With his venomous mother, Eleanor, they turned Sarah' s life into a nightmare of relentless humiliation. The ultimate public degradation came at a charity gala when Ethan, in front of their wealthy peers, ordered Sarah to kneel and polish Jessica' s shoes with a cocktail napkin. Days later, Sarah discovered she was pregnant with Ethan's child, a secret flicker of hope. But his cruelty knew no bounds; after physically assaulting her, he locked her in a freezing garage on a bitter winter' s night. When she desperately revealed her pregnancy, he sneered, dismissing it as "manipulation." Abandoned and freezing, a chilling clarity settled over Sarah. The man she loved was gone, replaced by a monster more concerned with another woman's "important" pregnancy. In that dark, cold garage, she made the most agonizing, yet utterly resolute, decision of her life. When Jessica's lies finally unraveled, and a desperate Ethan, clutching Sarah's positive pregnancy test, begged for reconciliation, Sarah calmly shattered his world. "The baby is gone, Ethan," she whispered, "I had an abortion this morning. There is no 'us'." With that, she walked away, leaving him utterly ruined, her own path to healing finally begun.
/1/101606/coverbig.jpg?v=54477ec4a6780d2a7941156165ccedba)
From Drowning To A New Life
RomanceOn my fifth wedding anniversary, I wasn't arranging flowers; I was staging my own death. My husband, Graham, treated me like a prized accessory, but the antique watch on his nightstand revealed the brutal truth. It was engraved "Forever, Elia"-proof that his heart belonged to his business partner, not me. So I vanished into the ocean, letting the world believe I had drowned. For two years, I lived as "Anna," finding peace in a small coastal town and rediscovering my art. But the past has a way of clawing its way back. Elia tracked me down, storming into my pottery studio with a weapon, screaming that my "death" had ruined Graham. She lunged, and I took the blow to protect a child. That' s when the door burst open. Graham stood there, frozen, staring at his "late" wife bleeding on the floor. He fell to his knees, sobbing, begging to destroy his empire just to have me back. I looked at the man I once worshipped and felt nothing but cold indifference. "I loved the man you pretended to be," I told him. "But that man never existed."
