My Eight Years as the Don’s Substitute

At the Mercer family's annual dinner, I accidentally wore a couture gown that belonged to Lucian's late wife.

The eight-year-old boy I had raised myself, in front of every key member of the Family, threw a glass of expensive red wine all over my pure white dress.

He just stood there, his cold, condescending expression a mirror of his father's.

"Don't think you can become the mistress of this house just by dressing like my Mamma."

"I swear, when I'm old enough to take over the family business, I'll make you disappear for good!"

The cold liquid soaked through the fabric, clinging to my skin.

But I felt nothing. My heart had frozen solid the moment I signed my life away eight years ago.

I looked at the child I had raised as my own for eight years.

There was no anger. The faintest smile touched my lips.

I leaned down and whispered in his ear,

"You won't have to wait that long, my little lion. I'm leaving, and it will be very soon."

I was a substitute, sent to the Mercer family to pay off my family's debt. For eight long years, I took care of my dead sister's Mafia husband and his heir.

At the family dinner, after I mistakenly wore my sister's gown, the nephew I had raised myself doused me in red wine. Meanwhile, the Don of Mercer family, kept bringing home women who looked even more like my sister than I did.

When Lucian brought the twenty-ninth and most convincing lookalike back to the estate, I finished packing my bags, ready to leave for a place where none of them would ever find me.

The early spring air in New York still held a biting chill, but the cold inside this mansion was the kind that seeped into your bones.

I ignored the mocking gazes at my back and walked straight to the art studio at the end of the attic.

All I had to do was wash out the wine stain, change into my own clothes, and I'd be one step closer to leaving the identity of Vera Rossi behind for good.

But the moment I pushed open the studio door, the scene before me made me freeze.

The easel was toppled on the floor. My nearly finished work had been slashed by a sharp blade.

The vast, blue sky I had painted on the canvas was torn to shreds.

"How ugly."

A sneer came from behind me.

"You call this junk art?" He pursed his lips, his eyes defiant. "Mamma only collected Dalí and Picasso. The junk you paint would only disgrace the walls of the Mercer estate."

I took a deep breath, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably.

"Axel, that was mine."

"In this estate, even you are property of the Mercer family," he said viciously. I shot him a sideways glance.

This time, I didn't bother with my usual attempts to soothe and placate him.

His bravado seemed to falter, and he looked