The Unwanted Mistress Becomes The Rival's Queen

I retreated to the guest room at the far end of the hall.

It was smaller, colder—the kind of sterile space reserved for a distant cousin or a servant you barely wanted to acknowledge.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, the silence of the house pressing against my ears.

My hands gripped the stiff sheets, holding on until my knuckles bleached white.

For eight years, I had been his sanctuary.

I was the one who scrubbed the war from his skin when he returned with blood on his hands.

I was the anchor who held him when the nightmares of his father’s cruelty woke him screaming in the dark.

But in the brutal hierarchy of the Outfit, a mistress was just a placeholder.

A widow carrying a "blood heir," however? She was a saint.

The door to my room clicked open.

I didn't look up, assuming it was Damien coming to offer another apology wrapped in a velvet box.

"Cozy," a voice drawled.

I snapped my head up.

Vivian stood in the doorway.

She had discarded the hospital gown. Now, she was wrapped in one of Damien's black silk robes, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate her slender arms.

It was the robe I wore on Sunday mornings.

"What do you want, Vivian?" I asked, my voice tight.

She sauntered into the room, dragging a manicured finger along the dusty dresser.

"I just wanted to see where the help sleeps," she said, flashing the massive emerald on her ring finger.

The Jones Family ring. The ring of the Donna.

"You're supposed to be on bed rest," I said, standing up.

"And you're supposed to be a secret," she countered, stepping into my personal space.

"Do you know what the men call you, Estelle? The Don's mattress. Comfortable, disposable, and easy to replace."

"Get out," I said, a tremor running through my words.

"This is my house now," she hissed, her eyes narrowing into venomous slits.

"My child will be the King of this city. And you? You're just a lingering bad smell."

She stepped back suddenly, her heel catching on the edge of the rug.

But she didn't trip.

She threw herself backward.

It was a calculated surrender to gravity, a performance worthy of a golden statue.

She hit the floor with a sickening thud and immediately shattered the silence with a scream.

"Estelle, no! Don't hurt the baby!"

The door burst open before I could even inhale.

Damien rushed in, weapon drawn, his predator's gaze sweeping the room for a threat.

He saw Vivian on the floor, clutching her stomach, sobbing hysterically.

Then he saw me, standing over her.

He didn't ask what happened.

He holstered his gun and crossed the distance in a blur.

He slammed me against the wall.

My head cracked against the plaster, stars exploding across my vision in a blinding white flash.

"What did you do?" he roared, spit flying onto my cheek.

"I didn't touch her!" I screamed back, clutching my throbbing skull. "She threw herself down!"

"Liar!" Vivian wailed from the floor, her voice trembling with practiced fear.

"She said she would kill it! She said she wouldn't let Aaron's son take her place!"

Damien turned to look at her, the color draining from his face.

He scooped her up, his movements frantic and desperate.

"Call the doctor!" he bellowed at the guards hovering in the hallway.

He looked back at me, and for the first time in eight years, the man I loved was gone.

In his place stood a cold, lethal stranger.

"If my brother's blood is spilled," he said, his voice a terrifying, low rumble, "there is no mercy. Not even for you."

He carried her out, leaving me alone with the echo of his threat.

Ten minutes later, the Consigliere's private physician arrived.

I stood in the doorway of the Master Suite, watching Damien pace by the bedside like a caged animal.

"Is the heartbeat steady?" Damien asked, wiping a sheen of cold sweat from his brow.

"It's strong, Don Jones," the doctor assured him. "But she needs absolute quiet. Stress could trigger a detachment."

Damien nodded, exhaling a breath he seemed to have been holding for an hour.

He ushered the doctor out and retreated to the bathroom to wash the panic from his face.

I walked into the room.

Vivian opened her eyes.

She saw me and smiled—a slow, predatory stretching of lips that didn't reach her eyes.

"He's so easy to manipulate," she whispered.

"All you have to do is mention 'Family Honor' and he stops thinking."

"You're sick," I breathed. "You'd risk your own child for this?"

Vivian laughed, a dry, brittle sound that grated on my nerves.

"What child?" she whispered, her eyes glinting with malice.

"I drugged him, Estelle. I drugged Damien three weeks ago. I needed a timeline that matched."

She paused, savoring the confusion on my face.

"But the baby? It's not a Jones."

My blood ran cold.

"You're lying."

"Am I?" She smirked, leaning back against the pillows I used to fluff.

"Aaron was sterile. Why do you think we never had kids? But Damien doesn't know that."

Her smile widened, cruel and victorious.

"And a mistress's word is worth nothing against a widow's claim."