The Heir He Never Knew

I spent five years as Dominic Santoro’s wife in name only.

Five years hidden behind closed doors, buried under his sheets, erased from his world.

When he finally agreed to take me back to Chicago—to stand beside him, to be seen—I thought I had won.

I bought a new dress.

Soft. Elegant. Worthy of a Don’s woman.

The night before we left, he looked at me through the mirror and said calmly,

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

I asked why.

He adjusted his cufflinks like I was nothing more than background noise.

“Juliana Lancaster is back. Tonight is our engagement.”

Russian Bratva. Lancaster blood. A marriage alliance.

Seeing my silence, he laughed—careless, cruel.

“What’s with that look? Didn’t we agree on this when we married? Brotherhood. Loyalty. No love.”

Then he turned, eyes sharp and mocking.

“Victoria Miller… you didn’t actually fall in love with me, did you?”

I stood there, frozen.

Because inside the inner pocket of his tailored suit—

was my pregnancy report.

And the Don of Chicago had no idea the woman he was about to sacrifice was carrying his heir.

I was Don Dominic Santoro’s wife for five years.

At least, that’s what the contract said.

In reality, I was his shadow, his fixer, his favorite weapon—and the woman he came to when the night got too quiet.

An hour ago, he had me pinned against the vanity, my dress half-unzipped, his breath warm against my neck.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, fingers working the zipper down my spine. “Relax.”

I did.

The mirror caught everything—the way his suit jacket had already been tossed aside, the way his hands knew my body better than my own, the way I melted for him despite myself.

“Lighter,” I whispered as he moved closer, the sudden his penis entered my body stealing my breath and making my body arch toward his instinctively.

Our heated bodies pressed together, skin against skin, until there was no space left between us.

In the mirror, the sight of him lowering his head, his lips tracing a reverent path over my chest, pulled me under completely, a soft sound escaping me before I could stop it.

When it was over, his fingers traced the tattoo on my chest, slow and deliberate.

Then, his next words shattered the fragile warmth.

“Take the makeup off. Change into pants.”

My hand froze mid-motion. The lipstick on my mouth smeared crookedly, turning my reflection into something ridiculous.

I turned. “Why?”

He faced the mirror, adjusting his tie with meticulous care.

“Juliana Lancaster is back in the country. Tonight is our meeting.”

The name slid under my skin like ice.

Lancaster. Russian Bratva royalty.

“You being dressed like this,” he added, tone indifferent, “would send the wrong message.”

I didn’t speak.

He glanced at me, amused.

“What’s that look for? Didn’t we agree on this when we married?”

He leaned closer, eyes sharp, voice almost mocking.

“Brotherhood. Loyalty. No romance.”

Then, with a soft laugh:

“Victoria Miller… you