Marrying the Don to Become His Madre

On the night before our wedding, my fiancé, the heir to the Mafia, told me to surrender my title to another woman and become his mistress instead. So I left my wedding gown in a heap on the floor and chose to marry the Don. If I could not be his wife, I would become his Madre.

“Miss, Mr. William is here,” our maid, Sophia, announced as she opened the door, her voice quivering with nervous excitement. A personal visit from the heir was considered a great honor.

Before I could even turn around, William strode into the room, his eyes finding me with their familiar, practiced warmth. “Charlotte, you should let the designer handle the final touches. Why are you doing this yourself? You’ll hurt your fingers.”

I stood before the full-length mirror, draped in a custom-made, snow-white wedding gown. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Two weeks ago, Scarlett had plastered her upcoming birthday celebration all over social media. It was to be held on her family’s private yacht, and practically every socialite in Italy had received an invitation. William had promised her he would attend. So what was he doing here now?

I caught his gaze in the mirror. His eyes darted away briefly before he cleared his throat. “We need to talk.”

He paused, then forced himself to look at me again. “Scarlett refuses to be a mistress. I’ve considered it carefully… I have to give her the title of wife.”

My hands, which had been gently smoothing the intricate lace on the skirt, went completely still.

“Charlotte, it’s merely a formality. Just a title. I need you to give it to Scarlett. Please? She doesn’t understand our family’s ways, and she’s insisting I marry her. We just need to appease her for the time being. After the wedding, you’ll still be the one running the family’s affairs. Everyone knows you are the only woman I consider my true wife.”

The final shred of hope I had been clutching onto dissolved into nothing. I turned to face him directly. “So, you want me to be your mistress?”

William’s brow furrowed in clear irritation. “Charlotte, you were raised to be a matriarch. You understand these titles are only for public perception. Don’t be petty like other women.”

He continued, his tone now coaxing, “You’ve always been so reasonable. Don’t throw a fit like Scarlett does. You know, what I value most about you is your poise and elegance, how you never make unreasonable demands.”

“Today is Scarlett’s birthday. Promising her the position of future matriarch is the greatest gift I can offer her.”

My fingers closed around a decorative crystal sewn onto the bodice of my gown. Its sharp edge bit into my fingertip. A single drop of blood bloomed on my skin, then fell, staining the pristine white fabric like a solitary, perfect crimson rose.

“Miss, you’re bleeding!” Sophia cried out in alarm.

I stared at the red stain spreading over my chest, but William was already turning to leave. His footsteps were light, almost cheerful, as if he had just been discussing something as trivial as the weather.

Sophia hurried over with a small first-aid kit. “Miss, your hand… and the gown…”

I waved her off and remained standing alone before the mirror. The pure white dress was now defaced by that single drop of blood, transformed into a grotesque piece of art.

The sharp pain brought with it a wave of icy, crystalline clarity.

I reached behind me and began to undo the lacing of the gown. The heavy silk cascaded to the floor around my feet. I stepped out of the puddle of fabric and walked decisively to my closet.

“Sophia, prepare my most formal power suit. I am going to see Mrs. Victoria.”

Sophia froze. “Now? But your hand is still bleeding—”

“Yes,” I stated firmly, pressing a simple bandage over the cut. My gaze was unwavering. “Right now.”

Thirty minutes later, I was ringing the doorbell at her estate.