After Three Years as the Godfather's Bed Companion, I Married His Brother

I was Donna's body double in bed—enduring the Don's brutal thrusts every night, only to kneel before Donna at dawn and repeat every whispered word he'd murmured against my pillow.

Until I couldn't take it anymore. In bed, I begged Don to give me a title—even mistress would do.

He laughed, tilting my chin up with cold contempt: "You're nothing but Tiffany's maid. Making you my mistress would be a public slap in her face."

I closed my eyes in despair.

Chad's devotion to Tiffany was something the entire family knew.

The next day, I knelt before the old Donna and volunteered to marry her eldest son—the one born with a congenital heart defect, the one who wouldn't live past thirty.

The old Donna wept with gratitude: "By the old Sicilian custom, marrying him means that when he dies, you die with him—have you truly thought this through?"

I nodded solemnly: "I will never regret it."

In my peripheral vision, Chad's and Tiffany's faces went white as ash.