The Mafia King's Doll Is Now Untouchable

I spent five years building a multi-million-dollar legitimate fashion empire for my mafia boss boyfriend.

But to the world, I was just a ghost forced to wear shapeless black rags while he bought his female enforcer diamond gowns.

Everything shattered when that same enforcer framed me for fraud and threatened to leak hidden camera footage of me changing clothes to steal my company.

I thought the man who once slaughtered a rival with his bare hands to protect me would tear her apart.

Instead, he snatched my phone away and coldly told me to hand over my business to her.

"Give her a percentage. Keep the peace."

He said exposing his enforcer's treason to the Syndicate would make him look weak.

He had watched her poison my drinks, steal my designs, and mock my life, yet he always defended her.

Looking at his indifferent face, I finally understood the sickening truth.

He wasn't oblivious to her abuse; he was complicit.

My independence terrified him, so he used her cruelty to break my spirit and keep me entirely dependent on him.

His so-called protection was just a twisted cage meant to dim my light.

I looked at the ruthless Don who thought he owned me, and my heart turned to ice.

I didn't cry or beg for his mercy.

Instead, I bypassed his heavy firewalls, started a live broadcast to millions, and calmly dialed the Federal authorities.

Chapter 1

The shapeless black poplin my mafia boss boyfriend had just thrust into my hands felt coarse against my skin.

His fingers were already moving, the encrypted face of his telephone catching the boutique's cold light as he placed a video call to his female enforcer.

In the window, a gown of what seemed to be spun diamonds hung on a mannequin, its brilliance a stark insult.

A cold certainty settled in the pit of my stomach: if I did not break my long-held silence today, I would spend the rest of my years as a ghost in the ledgers of his operations, while she wore the very garments I had sketched.

Fabiano was not just a man.

He was the Don of the most feared Syndicate on the East Coast.

His name alone commanded a silent, rigid obedience, backed by a history of ruthless violence and a body count that kept the entire underworld in a state of paralysis.

A palpable weight pressed in from all sides when he entered a room, a pressure that stole the heat from the air in the exclusive, subterranean boutique.

"It is the safest option for a woman of your station," he said, the drab, oversized fabric a dead weight he pushed against my chest. "I cannot have my men distracted by what is mine."

A knot formed high in my chest, a physical constriction that made each breath a shallow, difficult thing.

I looked at the cheap, conservative cut of the garment. It was designed to erase me.

A bright, mocking laugh echoed from the speaker of his phone.

Fabiano's dark eyes instantly softened as he lifted the screen.

Sienna was on the other end of the encrypted call. She was his enforcer, his soldier—the woman he claimed was just a brother-in-arms.

Through the small, flickering screen, she pointed a manicured finger at the display window.

"I want that one," she said, her tone less a request than a command, her gaze fixed on the breathtaking, diamond-encrusted couture gown shining under the spotlights.

Fabiano let out a low, indulgent chuckle.

"A million-dollar whim requires the proper address, does it not? You will call me Boss first."

The word "Boss" slid like silk through the speaker.

Fabiano immediately signaled the boutique associate to pack the diamond gown.

A deep, internal chill spread through my limbs, rooting me to the floor.

I stood there holding my shapeless black rag.

I watched the ruthless Don who kept me in shadows openly indulge another woman with the brilliance he denied me.

For five years, I had accepted his extreme isolation as protection.

I hid my face from the public while building a multi-million-dollar legitimate fashion concern for the Family.

I designed flawless, pure garments for the public, all while wearing the ugly sacks he picked out for me.

I understood in that moment, with the cheap fabric still in my hands, that his affection was a lazy, possessive convenience.

He did not want to protect my light. He wanted to dim it, to make of me a plain, drab creature whose worth only he could see.

I pulled out my phone and typed a discreet message ending our relationship.

I hit send.

I watched his phone.

The screen did not light up. It did not even vibrate.

The message was delivered. He simply hadn't bothered to look.

I remembered the territory dispute last month, when Sienna had convinced him to relegate my number to a low-priority contact list for security reasons—a suggestion he'd accepted without argument. He never opened my thread when she was around.

I was a muted frequency in the architecture of his affairs, and he had chosen to leave me there.

Fabiano casually pointed me toward the clearance rack.

"Consider it a soldier's reward," he said, the words a thin justification for his lavish purchase for Sienna.

A strange, hollow calm settled over my racing heart.

The black dress slid from my fingers, pooling at my feet. I walked past the clearance rack, my hand reaching for a stunning, form-fitting white dress, the static of the fabric clinging faintly to my skin.

Fabiano closed the distance between us in a fraction of a second.

He seized the white fabric from my hands, the veins on the back of his hand standing out in sharp relief. I felt, more than heard, the rhythm of his breathing catch for a single, discordant beat.

"This is not for you," he warned, his voice low and serrated. "It is better suited for Sienna."

The boutique associate stepped forward with a nervous, awkward smile.

"Are you two… siblings, perhaps, arguing over a gift?" she asked tentatively.

Fabiano shot her a look so cold it made the poor woman take a half-step back.

He gripped my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin to assert his ownership.

"She is my woman," he stated, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "Not my sister."

I did not flinch. I held my posture, my eyes fixed on his.

"I want the white dress," I said.

Fabiano stared down at me with a mixture of shock and a dark, rising choler.

He threw his black credit card at the associate to pay for it, ensuring he remained the one in control.

He gave me no further glance, immediately returning to his video call with Sienna, and I was left alone by the counter as if I were a piece of furniture.

The associate handed me the shopping bag with a sympathetic, encouraging look.

She saw exactly what I was.

A ward of the prison, preparing to set the fire that would consume it.

And I was done waiting for permission to strike the match.

Starting tonight, the ghost would learn to burn.