The Godfather’s Stand-In Bride

Three years ago, in Dominic's basement, Dante blew out that pervert's kneecap with a single bullet, dragging me straight out of hell. I thought it was a miracle sent by God.

For the past three years, the entire New York underworld knew I was the apple of the Godfather's eye. He would cancel top-tier mafia summits and rush back, just to hand me a glass of warm milk when my cramps flared up, staying pressed against my ear all night to coax me to sleep.

I thought it was a hopeless, intoxicating devotion.

Until tonight. Only then did I realize that I was never the Godfather's bride, but merely a perfect human shield.

Twice in my life, I played the role of a caged canary.

The first time was the year I married Dominic Greco. He locked me in his basement, treating me as a toy to be played with at any moment, tossing me to his men for amusement whenever the mood struck him. I thought I just needed to be obedient to survive, right until I met Dante Vitale. He and his men bathed Dominic's lair in blood, dragging me out of that windowless room.

The second time, I belonged to the most terrifying, ruthless Mafia Godfather in the New York underworld.

Married for three years, he spoiled me beyond reason. No matter where I went, he sent a full detail of personal bodyguards to follow my every step. Rumors swirled throughout the entire New York underworld that the Don of the Vitale family had fallen completely for me.

I, too, believed that this time I had finally earned true devotion on my own.

Until the banquet at the Vitale Estate.

Top mob bosses filled the seats on both sides of the long mahogany table. Dante sat at the head, patiently cutting the ribeye on my plate into perfectly even, bite-sized pieces.

"Eat a little more," he murmured, turning his head so his warm breath brushed my ear. "You've lost so much weight lately. It hurts my hands to hold you."

Across from us, a few old men offered faces full of flattery. "Don Vitale truly loves his wife deeply."

Dante didn't look up; he casually wiped a speck of sauce from the corner of my lips with his thumb.

Just then, the phone in his pocket buzzed. He glanced down at the screen.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said, standing up to press a kiss to my forehead. "There's a minor hiccup with the shipment at the South End branch. I'm going to step out for a cigar, and I'll be right back. Be a good girl and wait for me here."

Not long after he left, my stomach pitched in an uncontrollable wave of nausea. Suppressing my panic, I made an excuse to leave the dining hall, wanting to head down to the underground wine cellar for some sparkling water.

The heavy door to the cellar was not completely shut.

Immediately after, I heard my adoptive father Salvatore’s raspy voice.

"You've kept this act up for three whole years, even I was almost fooled." He coughed twice, letting out a sharp, cold sneer. "Putting this woman on a high pedestal, parading her around for everyone to see to use her as a meat shield. Killing with a borrowed knife... you played that hand beautifully."

I stood frozen in the shadows outside the door. My fingertips instantly turned to ice.

Dante's voice drifted out. "As long as the Rossi family's enemies—the ones hellbent on putting Serafina in the ground—are convinced that Isabella is my only weakness, all the assassinations, bombs, and kidnappings will accurately crash down on her instead."

Enzo's voice rang out next. "But what if she doesn't survive the crossfire?"

"That's her fate," Dante replied, exhaling a slow drag of smoke. "Without me three years ago, she would have rotted away in Dominic's basement long ago. Over these three years, I've given her countless wealth and glory. Her life was a debt she owed me anyway."

I stood in the darkness, clamping my hands desperately over my mouth. Tears smashed silently against the back of my hand.

My mind reeled, flooded by memories of all his tenderness over the past three years.

It turned out it was never devotion. It was an elaborate play he orchestrated for another woman.

Leaning heavily against the stone wall, I stumbled my way back to the main house and bolted straight up to his private study on the second floor.

The screen of his encrypted tablet on the desk was still glowing faintly.

Relying purely on the string of digits I had caught a glimpse of on his phone earlier today, I punched in the passcode: 0914.

It wasn't my birthday. It wasn't our wedding anniversary.

The screen unlocked.

The home screen bore a single, pinned private photo gallery. I tapped it open.

The very first picture showed a private island. Dante wore a crisp white shirt, holding a blonde woman's face with both hands, kissing her deeply. The woman's profile bore a damned seventy-percent resemblance to my own. Wrapped around her delicate wrist was a ruby bracelet—the exact same piece he had bought for me a week ago, only to snatch it back the very next day, claiming, "The clarity is flawed; it's not worthy of you."

I recognized her instantly. Serafina Rossi. The cherished daughter of a blood-rival syndicate.

The photo's timestamp read the 15th of last month. That was the exact day he claimed he was dealing with a violent gang shootout. I had knelt by the window praying to God, begging for his safety all night long.

Before I even had the chance to swipe to the next photo, a message notification dropped from the top of the screen.

[Dante, my hand got cut by wine glass shards. It hurts so much. Can you come over right now?]

Immediately after, every single chat log and received message was instantaneously wiped clean remotely. The screen snapped back to a pitch-black silence.

Out in the hallway, familiar deliberate footsteps approached.

I had no time to retreat. I could only shove the tablet back into its exact position, spin around, and lean back against the heavy desk, gasping for desperately needed air.

The doorknob turned.

Dante pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Catching sight of me, his thick brows furrowed slightly as he walked over in long strides. "Why did you run off up here?"

I stared at him. I stared at the face that had just passionately kissed someone else in that photo. I forced the corners of my mouth up. "My stomach felt a bit off. I just wanted to come up and catch my breath."

He stayed silent. His dark gaze swept across the surface of the desk, darting a quick look toward the safe.

Then, he stepped closer, snaking his arms around my waist from behind and tucking his sharp jaw against the crown of my head.

"Why are your hands so cold?" he asked softly, wrapping his fingers over mine. "Are those damn cramps acting up again? Do you want me to tell all of them to get the hell out so I can carry you to bed?"

My entire body went completely rigid.

For the first time, I felt that his embrace was chillingly, terrifyingly cold.

But I didn't push him away. I took a deep breath, and using every single ounce of strength I had left, I buried my face into his chest, letting out a muffled, "Mhm," exactly like I always did.