His Mistress, The Don's Wife

The day before the Moretti family's annual charity gala, I got a call. It was Julian Thorne, my ex-fiancé, who had vanished three years ago.

"Elara, I left without a word because Bianca was pregnant. I had to do the right thing—be a man, be responsible. I had to marry her, to give her and the child my name."

His voice was as confident as ever, as if his betrayal had been some noble sacrifice.

"You've been waiting for me these past three years, haven't you? I've already worked it out with Bianca. She's agreed to let us be together. I'll come for you in a few days."

Three years ago, my engagement to Julian Thorne was meant to be an alliance between our two powerful families. Instead, he eloped with his childhood sweetheart, Bianca Rossi, leaving my family in peril.

Without the Thorne family's protection, our territory was swiftly carved up by rivals. My grandmother was publicly humiliated during a conflict and suffered a fatal heart attack not long after.

When I needed him most, he was gone.

Hearing my silence, Julian's voice came through the line again, dripping with patronizing generosity.

"Elara, I know this is hard on you. But I promise, once you're with me, you'll have everything Bianca has. I can give you anything you want—anything but the title of Mrs. Thorne."

I glanced down at the ring on my finger, the one Dante Moretti had placed there himself—the signet ring of the Moretti Donna.

The entire situation was utterly absurd.

He wanted to make me his mistress?

Did he really think he could without asking the Don of Chicago, my husband, Dante Moretti?

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1

At the grand opening of a top-tier private club in Chicago, the VIP section was already buzzing.

Unexpectedly, Julian Thorne, who usually kept a low profile, was there.

The moment he saw me, a smug, knowing look spread across his face.

"Hanging up on me, only to show up here early, waiting. Elara, you've learned to play hard to get." He closed the distance between us, his voice low. "That's fine. It'll keep the other women from eating you alive once you're mine."

As soon as he finished, his smile vanished, his eyes flashing a warning. "But don't you dare use those tricks on Bianca and our child. They're innocent. They've suffered enough, and I won't have them tainted by your games."

He paused, then added in a self-congratulatory tone, "Look, with or without a title, you and Bianca are equal in my heart. I love you both."

Everything he said implied Bianca was purer, more innocent than me. But I vividly remembered the nights after he'd first introduced Bianca as his "childhood sweetheart." I'd get provocative messages from her almost daily—photos of them drinking together, their bodies pressed close at parties.

Even after three years, the images were still sharp, still nauseating.

"Julian, three years have passed," I said coolly. "What makes you think I'd still be waiting for you? Did it ever occur to you that I might belong to someone else now?"

He mistook my coldness for a game, a confident smirk playing on his lips.

"Who else could you possibly belong to? Me." He raked his eyes over me, a sneer on his lips. "Who's a better prospect? You're saddled with a fallen family and a mountain of debt. Other men would run for the hills. Who would want a burden like you?"

His tone was dripping with the arrogance of someone bestowing charity.

"Only I would overlook your past and still give you a life of luxury. Isn't that better than some useless title?"

Julian, as always, was lost in his own reality. In his mind, I was still Elara Vance, the broke designer struggling to keep her family's legacy from crumbling.

But he was wrong. After my grandmother's death, Dante Moretti brought me to his estate and made me his wife. In the three years Julian was gone, I had married the most powerful man in Chicago.

And here he was, thinking I was still bitterly awaiting his return.

How amusing.

"Alright, I know you're just wearing this ring to spite me," he said, pointing at my hand. "If you really wanted to be done with me, you wouldn't have come to a place like this. You just want more compensation."

He pulled a checkbook from his pocket as if rewarding a pet.

"Here. A million dollars. As a settlement."

He glanced disdainfully at my ring. "And this cheap prop?" He gestured at my finger. "Get rid of it."

With that, he lunged forward and seized my wrist.

In the next instant, the ring my husband, Dante Moretti, had given me—a symbol of our family's honor—was ripped from my finger and casually tossed into a nearby flute of champagne.