Bred By The Ruthless Don: A Dark Arranged Marriage Mafia Crime Romance

By Issie Popov

Vincent Moretti. The Ghost. A ruthless Don who rules the city with an iron fist. I was supposed to be collateral, a pawn in his dangerous game to ensure my father’s payment.

But Vincent decided he didn't want the money anymore. He wants me.

Trapped in his gilded cage, I’m under the spell of his dark desires. He says I’m his property. His obsession. And now, he demands an heir. I should hate him. I should run. But his touch ignites a fire I can't extinguish, and his protection is the only thing standing between me and a city full of wolves.

When a rival threatens to tear his empire apart, I realize the safest place might be in the arms of the beast. 

Bred By The Ruthless Don is a dark mafia romance featuring an obsessive alpha hero, a defiant heroine, and a surprise pregnancy. High heat and dark themes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Freedom Books
• Release date: Dec 11, 2025

Book preview

Table of Contents

Table of Contents      2

Chapter 1      4

Chapter 2      7

Chapter 3      10

Chapter 4      13

Chapter 5      16

Chapter 6      18

Chapter 7      20

Chapter 8      22

Chapter 9      24

Chapter 10      25

Chapter 11      27

Chapter 12      29

Chapter 13      32

Chapter 14      34

Chapter 15      36

Chapter 16      38

Chapter 17      40

Chapter 18      42

Chapter 19      44

Chapter 20      46

Chapter 21      49

Chapter 22      50

Chapter 23      52

Chapter 24      53

Chapter 25      56

Chapter 26      58

Chapter 27      61

Chapter 28      63

Chapter 29      65

Chapter 30      67

Chapter 31      70

Chapter 32      73

Chapter 33      75

Chapter 34      77

Chapter 35      79

Chapter 36      82

Chapter 37      84

Chapter 38      87

Chapter 39      89

Chapter 40      91

Chapter 1

The crystal glasses on the table trembled, a subtle vibration that had nothing to do with the distant rumble of Veridia City’s late-night traffic. It was a tremor born of proximity to power- a power so absolute it made inanimate objects quake in fear. The source of that power sat across from Daniel Sterling, a man of fifty-five who looked seventy, his face a roadmap of poor decisions and sleepless nights.

Vincent Gallo, all of thirty-two years old, tapped a single, manicured finger against the side of his wine glass. The rhythmic *tink, tink, tink* was the only sound in their secluded alcove at Il Sovrano, a restaurant so exclusive its name was only ever spoken in whispers. He wore a charcoal suit tailored with surgical precision, the fabric stretching taut over the formidable width of his shoulders. His hair was as black as a starless sky, his eyes the color of old, dangerous secrets. A thin, silver scar cut through his left eyebrow, the only mar on a face that was otherwise brutally handsome. They called him The Ghost, because by the time you knew he was coming for you, you were already gone.

The sum was half a million, Daniel, Vincent said, his voice a low, gravelly purr that slid across the starched white linen. The deadline was sunset. The sun, as you may have noticed, has set.

Daniel Sterling flinched, his portly frame shrinking in his own expensive- yet rumpled- suit. Vincent, I can get it. I swear. I just need- I need more time. A week. Just one more week. His plea was a wet, pathetic thing.

Vincent took a slow sip of his Barolo, his gaze never leaving Daniel’s. The silence he allowed to stretch was a weapon, sharp and suffocating. He was a master of it. He’d built an empire on what was left unsaid, on the threats that hung in the air like smoke.

Time is a luxury, Daniel, he finally continued, setting his glass down with a definitive click. One you have exhausted. You came to me. You asked for my help. You gave your word. In my world, a man’s word is the foundation he builds his life upon. Your foundation, it seems, is made of sand.

Desperation clawed at Daniel’s throat. He could feel Vincent’s two guards, statues in silk suits, standing just out of sight. He knew what happened to men who disappointed Vincent Gallo. The stories were legend- whispers of men who simply vanished, their assets absorbed into the vast, shadowy Gallo empire.

Please, Daniel choked out, his hands trembling so violently he had to hide them in his lap. There must be something else. Anything.

Vincent leaned forward, the faint scent of bergamot and steel reaching across the table. His eyes were flat, devoid of mercy. There is nothing else. The deal is done. You are done.

A wild, panicked light sparked in Daniel’s eyes. The last-ditch, insane gamble of a cornered animal. Wait. I have… collateral. Something more valuable than money.

A flicker of interest. Vincent leaned back, a single eyebrow arching. I doubt that. There are very few things in this world more valuable to me than money.

Daniel swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. My daughter. Sarah.

The name hung in the air between them, ugly and profane. Vincent’s expression didn't change, but a new stillness came over him, the focused calm of a predator assessing its quarry.

Your daughter, he repeated, the words a statement, not a question.

She’s a good girl, Daniel rushed on, the words tumbling out in a torrent of self-preservation. Smart- graduated top of her class in art history. She works at the Veridia City Museum. She’s quiet, she’s beautiful, she… she’s twenty-four. A fine age. She won’t cause any trouble.

Vincent stared at him, his face an unreadable mask of granite. The contempt he felt for the man opposite him was a cold, hard thing in his chest. To offer up your own flesh and blood to settle a gambling debt- it was a level of weakness he found both pathetic and fascinating.

You would sell your own child to save your skin?

It’s not selling! Daniel insisted, sweat beading on his upper lip. It’s… an assurance. A guarantee. Until I can get you the money. She can stay with you. A guest.

Vincent almost laughed. A guest. The word was absurd. He had no use for a guest, especially not some mousy art historian. But the sheer audacity of the offer intrigued him. It was a new kind of payment. A new kind of acquisition.

He lifted his chin in a barely perceptible nod to one of his men. Bring her.

Daniel’s blood ran cold. Here? Now?

You offered collateral. I wish to see the merchandise, Vincent said, his voice dropping to ice. He took another sip of wine, his gaze fixed on the restaurant’s entrance, and waited.

Twenty minutes later, the world tilted on its axis.

She was brought in by Leo, Vincent’s most trusted man. She wasn’t struggling, but her posture was rigid, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She wore a simple navy dress that did little to hide the elegant lines of her body, and her hair, the color of rich mahogany, was pulled back from a face that could launch ships or sink them.

But it was her eyes that snared him. They were the color of new spring leaves, and they were blazing with a defiant fire that was aimed squarely at her father. She didn't look at Vincent, not at first. Her entire being was focused in a laser beam of bewildered fury on the man who had sired her.

Dad? What is this? Her voice was steady, laced with an edge of steel that her father so clearly lacked. Leo said it was an emergency.

Daniel couldn’t meet her gaze. He stared at his water glass as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Only then did her eyes shift to Vincent. He watched as they took him in- the suit, the scar, the palpable aura of danger that clung to him like a second skin. He saw the flicker of understanding, quickly followed by a wave of pure, undiluted fear. But beneath the fear, that spark of defiance remained. It didn't die out. It banked, like an ember waiting for oxygen.

He felt a strange, possessive pull he hadn’t anticipated. She was not a trinket. She was a flame.

Vincent rose slowly from his chair, his six-foot-three frame eclipsing the light. He walked around the table until he stood before her father, but his obsidian eyes never left Sarah.

He placed a hand on Daniel’s shoulder, the grip deceptively light but with the unyielding strength of iron. The debt is settled, Vincent announced, his voice a low proclamation that sealed her fate. He looked directly at Sarah, claiming her with his gaze. She is mine.

Chapter 2

The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating as tomb dust. *She is mine.* A sentence. A verdict. A brand seared into my soul. My father, Daniel Petrov, a man of forty-eight years who should have been my protector, crumpled in on himself with relief. A choked, pathetic sound escaped his lips.

Mr. Moretti, he began, his voice thick with a gratitude that made my stomach churn. Thank you. I- I don't know how to-

Silence. Vincent’s voice was not loud, but it cut through my father’s groveling like a shard of obsidian. His gaze remained locked on me, pinning me in place. The faint clink of cutlery from the main dining room seemed a world away. You thank me for what? For allowing you to sell your own child like livestock at an auction?

My father paled, the blood draining from his face. No, it's not- I just-

You just offered up the one thing of value you had left, Vincent continued, his tone a low, dangerous growl. You offered me your daughter. A twenty-two-year-old woman whose life was supposed to be her own. You did this to cover the debts of a weak man who cannot control his appetites.

Every word was a lash, not against my father, but against the fragile reality I had inhabited. The fear that had been a cold knot in my belly ignited into white-hot rage.

Don't talk about him like that, I snapped, my voice shaking but clear. Both men turned their heads to look at me, my father in shock, Vincent with a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

He's still my father, I said, the words tasting like ash.

Vincent gave a short, humorless laugh. He took a step