261 Book(s) Related to don't bully nagatoro

My husband's foster sister, Delilah, gets poisoned and ends up paralyzed. My husband, Grayson, the Don of this whole crime family, doesn't even bother checking the security cameras. He just throws me, two months pregnant, into the cistern where they punish traitors.

"Tessa, hand over the antidote, or die."

I kneel in the freezing swamp water and beg him. I didn't poison her.

He answers with a kick to the stomach.

For three straight days, I suffer down there. Leeches tear into my skin. My baby turns into a pool of black blood and dissolves into the filthy water. By the end, my vocal cords tear to shreds, my body goes cold, and I stop breathing.

His men get on their knees and beg him to spare me. He just sneers.

"That woman's always been good at playing the victim. No food, no medicine. Let her keep soaking."

Three days later, he finally walks into the cistern, and it's only to give me an ultimatum.

"Crawl out and apologize to Delilah on your knees. Otherwise I'll strip you of your title and sell you off to a trafficking ring. You'll wish you were dead."

No one answers him.

He has no idea. I already am.

I was carrying Don Elijah’s child. But on the exact day I went into labor, the man I loved dragged me to an underground freezer—standing at a deadly minus ten degrees Celsius—and locked the heavy metal door.

The reason? The Varro Mafia family’s ironclad rule: the firstborn son inherits the entire empire. His brother’s wife, Elena, was also pregnant, our due dates separated by a single day.

To guarantee his brother’s child secured the throne, Elijah callously snuffed out my hope.

"Elena’s child must be born first," he demanded coldly. "This is what you owe them!"

He ignored the warm rush of my broken water. He ignored my agonizing, tearing contractions. He shoved me into the icy darkness, violently injecting me with a drug specifically designed to halt my labor.

Curled up on the frost-covered concrete, freezing and completely alone, I clutched my stomach in sheer agony. In the suffocating cold, I felt the terrifying stillness. I felt the tiny, fighting heartbeat inside me slowly, torturously fading away.

Hot tears streamed down my face, freezing before they hit the ground.

"My baby..." I whispered into the pitch-black void, my heart shattering into a million pieces. "Mommy is so sorry..."

Elijah sacrificed our child out of blind loyalty to his brother. But when he finally opens that frostbitten door, he won’t merely find a broken woman—he will face the terrifying, irreversible ruin of his own legacy.

My husband, Marco, in his bid for the position of Don, was forced to marry the young widow of the previous Don, Claudia.
Every night, after returning from Claudia’s place, he would hold me and swear, "You’re the only woman I love, Elena. Claudia has the connections I need. Once I have real power and secure my position, I’ll make you my wife in name and in public."
But as I waited for him to rise to power, what started as a political act turned into nights where he simply never came home.
Then, on Christmas, I was dragged to their engagement party—where I was beaten in front of everyone.
Our six-year-old daughter, Sophia, knelt on the floor, crying and begging him, "Godfather, please, let my mommy go..."
But Marco stayed silent.
"It’s okay," I whispered, picking up my wounded daughter. "Mommy’s going to take you somewhere that truly belongs to us."
What Marco never knew was this: I never cared about being the Donna of this small city.
I am the only heir of the Rossi family—the most powerful Mafia family in all of Sicily.

The Percy Family Heir's Scandal Leaks Again!

Cecilia Davis sat curled up in the master bedroom, scrolling through photos of Edward Percy and Jessica Brown.

The photos were taken secretly, but from a sharp angle.

Through a car window — the two of them, going at it hard.

Cecilia let out a cold laugh, tossed the photos into the trash, and felt a wave of deep exhaustion wash over her eyes.

"Do I really have to cut it?"

"Ma'am, this is Mr. Percy's request. Only if you cut your hair as short as Ms. Brown's can we clear up last night's rumors. Of course, you don't have to go — that is, if you never want to see your brother again."

Edward's assistant Leo spoke with a dismissive air, not a trace of respect in his eyes.

As if she, the so-called Mrs. Percy, was nothing more than a joke that nobody needed.

And honestly, that's exactly what she was.

The day I gave birth, I wasn't handed my crying baby, but a tight swaddle of blood-stained cash.
To secure his seat as the new Don, my husband had traded our newborn to Agatha—my own flesh-and-blood aunt, and the young wife of his paralyzed father.
Reduced to nothing more than a convenient incubator, I spent the next four years as a prisoner in my own home.
Ronald issued a ruthless order to his men: if I ever took a single step toward Agatha’s heavily guarded wing to see my son, I was to be shot on sight.
But a mother's desperation knows no bounds.
When my boy's fever spiked dangerously high, I blasted through armed guards and walked through a blazing inferno just to save his life.
Yet, the most fatal wound didn't come from the flames or the shattered glass.
It happened in the ER, when the four-year-old boy I nearly died to save woke up, shoved away my severely burned hands, and screamed for Agatha. He begged me to leave, crying that he just wanted to be a "real family" with his dad and the woman who stole my life.
Staring at the twisted family my husband and aunt had built upon my stolen motherhood, a sudden, icy numbness quieted my shattered world.
"Call me Mom one last time," I whispered through the ash and tears, "and I promise I'll never bother you again."

The story begins in Italy, Rome (1826) with a young Carissa heading toward the castle, their family's castle. She is confused as to why she would be given away in marriage in exchange for peace that she was sure would never last.

She has a brief discussion with her father, to try to see if she could convince him against the idea but he would not hear it, and she was left with no choice.

While on a charade to get to know each other, Carissa forgets herself and ends up killing Clyde not without him first killing her as well with a promise to be back and get revenge.

In Paris, France (2019), we are in their era of rebirth. Carissa barely remembers who she is but she unconsciously does things that are not peculiar to humans.

She runs into Sarah, who tells her she is a witch and tries inviting her to their coven, where she would get "help" learning to utilize her power. Sarah senses how great and ancient a power she has and tells Mr. Davies. Convincing Carissa, she sets up a meeting for both of them.

Going with Margaret to a party, Carissa meets Clyde at the bar section and he gets her home safe as she was drunk.

Clyde tries his best to not hurt her, leaving her immediately he was sure she would be fine. Fortunately or unfortunately, he begins to crave her.

Victoria, a brilliant and ambitious lawyer, whose life takes an unexpected turn when she agrees to a contract marriage with the captivating billionaire, Sebastian. At first, it seems like a simple business deal – a child in exchange for financial security. But little do they know that their hearts will become entangled in a dance of desires and secrets.

As the years pass within their five-year arrangement, Victoria and Sebastian find themselves embarking on a journey beyond the boundaries of their contract. In the midst of shared confidences and stolen moments, an undeniable connection blossoms between them. The walls they've built to protect themselves crumble, exposing their vulnerabilities and igniting a firestorm of passion.

Yet, as their love deepens, Victoria grapples with conflicting emotions. Her heart aches for Sebastian, but her longing for independence tugs at her soul. The tension escalates when Charlotte, Sebastian's estranged wife, resurfaces, threatening to unravel the fragile bonds they've woven together. And when Ava, Victoria's trusted confidante, orchestrates her own agenda, their world teeters on the edge of chaos.

For five years, my marriage was nothing but a lie, a perfect show Aiden staged for the entire family.
I loved him for more than a decade. And for his lover, he threw our five-year-old daughter, Chloe, into the basement to be fed to his Dobermans.
All because Chloe accidentally shattered an antique crystal cup, a so-called love token between Aiden and his precious Sophia.
I dropped to my knees and begged. He looked at me like I was nothing and said Family rules matter more than blood.
When I carried my daughter’s mutilated body out of that basement, fireworks were exploding on the rooftop above, celebrating his grand confession of love to Sophia.
He froze my accounts. And on the day of Chloe’s funeral, he took her to a concert.
I was holding my daughter’s ashes, trapped, desperate, with nowhere left to go when a message from an unknown number appeared. A car was waiting at the side gate. It was Daniel, my childhood friend.
Only after I disappeared with my daughter’s ashes did Aiden finally realize the truth—that the “sweet, innocent” Sophia was the real killer of his own child.

The cousin star of the company of the Paris Opera House is resting with her feet in a salt bath at her parents' house in Épernay. Suddenly the phone rings and a woman in a fit of neurosis confesses to being her father's mistress for the past 8 years, until three weeks ago when she began an affair with his new secretary. She confesses to knowing his ballet rehearsal schedule and the days he goes to visit his parents. Shocked when she hangs up the call, she understands that her father has since stopped attending and supporting her at her performances. In a robotic and self-absorbed state, she eats all the ice cream in the refrigerator and stores her ballet costumes and books along with old belongings in her parents' old BMW car. She drives in the car all night to the old summer house located in the village of Louveciennes west of Paris. Arriving there he discovers his father's hiding place, finds condoms, condoms and women's lingerie in the rooms. After cleaning the house, she sheds old beliefs about love and family photographs from her childhood. At night she watches a movie and receives a call from her boyfriend, who is worried and tells her he will pick her up in the morning to take her to rehearsal. She discovers her grandmother's diary and some belongings such as old ballet slippers, for her grandmother in her day was also a dancer. But What Birdy Will never expect is She is going to be marriage not only with a Dancer but with a Vampire who is actually attending to that College only To Become into Her Vampire King.

Five years into my marriage, I took off my Donna necklace at the Rossi family’s New Year’s Eve banquet and Noah still thought I could never leave him.
He stood by the long table with his mistress, Amelia, and said in front of every capo, “Some people will never measure up to her. Not even close.”
I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. I just turned and walked away. On my way out, my cousin Lucas, my fixer, handed me a cup of coffee.
Three days later, he brought me two pieces of news.
Amelia was four months pregnant. And Noah was trading family territory to get his bastard child recognized by the family.
“What are you going to do?” Lucas asked.
I stared out the window, thinking about the red lipstick stain on Noah’s shirt. Thinking about the smug look in his eyes when he told me, “I only helped her because I felt sorry for her.”
“Wait,” I said. “Wait until they think they’ve won.”
What Noah didn’t know was I was still holding one last trump card.

At the Morello family’s Christmas dinner, I stood beside Vincent, waiting for him to announce our engagement.
Instead, in the very next second, he walked in holding a little boy and claimed him as his son.
And the woman he said he was going to marry? Scarlett Morello. The one he had always introduced as his “sister.”
The whole room erupted in applause. I stood there frozen, like a nail hammered into the floor.
Later, in his study, he took my hand and said, “Scarlett is dying. Late-stage breast cancer. She only has six months left. After she’s gone, I’ll marry you.”
But there was no guilt in his eyes. No love, either.
Then he told me to go to his villa that afternoon, to take care of the woman who was supposedly “dying.”
I opened the photo he sent me. Scarlett was lying in a hospital bed, pale-faced, an IV in the back of her hand.
A professional tennis player who had been playing in an exhibition match three weeks ago, and who had dropped three grand at Louis Vuitton on Fifth Avenue just five days ago.
But sure. She was “dying.”
At three in the morning, I was curled up by the front door of my apartment, crying so long I lost track of time.
Then my phone lit up. A text from an unknown number:
[Elena, I’m downstairs. When we were kids, you told me that once I controlled the docks on the East Coast, you’d marry me. The docks are mine now. Does that promise still stand?]
I pulled back the curtain and there he was. Ethan Vitale, my first love, leaning against the door of a black Cadillac, lifting a hand in a lazy wave.
Three years ago, when he left New York, he was only a Capo.
Now, he was the Don of the Vitale family.
He didn’t rush me. Didn’t pressure me to come downstairs.
He came for one reason only, to let me know he was back.
I wiped away my tears and texted back:
[It still stands.]
Because I wanted to see for myself just how long that woman could keep up her act.