Dumped the Don, Kept the Kids

The day I went into labor with the twins, I bribed the family doctor to shoot me up with every heavy-duty suppressant he could get his hands on. Anything to stall the birth.

Why? Because in my last life, Vincent—my husband, the Don—claimed to have a low sperm count.

To guarantee an heir, he lined up ten mistresses and told the whole house: whoever popped out a son first, her kid would be the next Corleone Don.

He promised if I delivered first, he'd ditch the others. Said our baby would inherit the throne.

I bought every word.

When I found out I was carrying twins, I couldn't stop shaking—I thought I'd won.

But after I gave birth, he tossed me and the babies into the freezing wine cellar and locked the place down.

"Lucy came from nothing. I just wanted to give her kid a name. You started rumors, pushed her into despair, and now she's dead—her and the baby. You're vile. Not fit to be the Don's wife. Think about what you've done. I'll open the door in three days."

Then he had the butler seal it shut.

What he didn't know?

That night, the cellar caught fire.

Me and my babies? Burned alive.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back—right before labor.

This time, I'm not staying.

Soon as I deliver and get back on my feet, I'm taking my kids and disappearing for good.

I called in the Corleone doc and demanded the last shot of suppressant.

He went pale. "Mrs. Corleone, you can't stall anymore. One more delay and you and the twins won't make it."

I bit down hard, but before I could answer, Vincent's bodyguard stormed in and ripped me off the delivery bed.

The doctor's voice cracked behind us. "Her vitals are crashing! You move her now, you're killing three lives!"

The guard didn't even flinch, just dragged me straight into the grand ballroom where the Family's press conference was already set up.

Vincent's other women were lined up too, some heavy with child, close to bursting.

Then came the bitter liquid, shoved down each of our throats by his men—an abortion drug that burned like acid.

The room erupted. Screams everywhere.

"Even if Mrs. Corleone delivers, none of us are getting picked! So why kill our babies? Ah—it burns! Somebody help!"

The suppressant couldn't hold me back anymore. Warm blood spilled down my silk nightgown.

My cry snapped the room. The women froze, eyes wide.

"She was drugged too? She's in labor!"

"If it's not her kid... then whose? Who's trying to wipe us out?"

Shaking, I forced myself up. "Get the doctor! Someone's gonna die in here!"

Lucy walked in like she owned the place—white suit sharp, heels clicking, Vincent at her side. She glowed, nothing like a woman fresh from labor.

Vincent's face hardened as he took in the mistresses writhing on the floor.

Lucy's gasp was all sugar. "Avila! What did you do? Why did they