I married into the Chicago Outfit, and for five years, I worshipped my husband, Mario, as if he were a god.

To the outside world, I was a brilliant art restorer.

At home, I was his docile, perfect wife.

Mario and I were the ultimate power couple in everyone's eyes.

Until I overheard a hushed conversation between him and his Consigliere.

"Don, Priya is coming back. Will that plaything, Marissa, be easy to deal with?"

"Just a bedwarmer. Our marriage isn't even in the family books. We can make her disappear anytime."

In that moment, I actually breathed a sigh of relief.

Good. This was just ending a sham marriage, not desecrating a sacred love.

They didn't know that in my world, love was long dead.

My five years as the Don's wife had woven me a web of connections and wealth.

I wanted power. I wanted freedom.

I wanted to seize the throat of fate with my own two hands.

Men? They were merely stepping stones to the throne.

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1

I have to admit, hearing myself demoted from "beloved wife" to "bedwarmer" felt like a dagger to the heart. Thankfully, the sting was only momentary.

The next second, I masked all emotion and, with a radiant smile, pushed open the heavy door to the VIP room of the underground boxing club.

"My apologies for the delay, gentlemen. Allow me to pour you a drink."

I picked up the whiskey bottle, my movements elegant and submissive. On the surface, I was the same as always, but my heart had frozen solid.

The woman who held Mario's heart was back.

Would the endless wealth and protection he'd once promised now be revoked?

I glided into Mario's arms and, just as I always did, traced a light finger across his chest, whispering sweet nothings against his ear.

Only this time, Mario didn't pull me to his side. Instead, he quietly pushed me away.

He even smoothed down the expensive suit where I had touched him, a flicker of disgust on his face, the coldness in his eyes undisguised.

I was the daughter of a fallen family. My mother was a renowned master art restorer in Europe.

She had died in a fire that was ruled an accident.

My father and his mistress seized all the assets my mother left behind, sold me off like chattel, and even duped a rival family into hunting me down, convincing them I carried valuable intelligence.

Just as I was about to end it all in a derelict warehouse at the docks, I met Mario.

His power was a beast that tore through the darkness that had consumed me.

From that moment on, I saw him as my god, my savior.

For him, I was an elegant facade in public and a perfect pet at home, my entire world revolving around his.

For five years, I had worshipped him as a monarch, never a lover.

And now, I was truly grateful that I had been too afraid to genuinely fall for the king of the underworld.

The fact that he was only using me to fill a void was, against all expectation, a huge relief.

He saved me, and he used me. I didn't hate him for it.

I had repaid my debt with five years of servitude.

As of now, we were even.

The ring of Mario's satellite phone shattered my thoughts.

"Hello, Priya."

His voice was still deep, but it held an unfamiliar warmth. The harshness in his eyes softened, and the corners of his mouth even curved into a slight smile.

It wasn't hard to tell. Mario was hopelessly in love with the woman on the other end of the line.

Fine by me. His true queen had returned. It was time for the counterfeit to make her exit.

"Mmm, okay. I'll be right over."

One call from Priya, and the party came to an abrupt end with Mario's departure.

"Find your own way back."

Unlike the hidden tenderness in his voice for Priya, his words to me were cold, commanding, indifferent.

"Of course, Don. Don't worry about me. I'll be waiting for you at home."

I remained as sweet as poisoned honey, playing my part to perfection.

Privately, I believed a relationship that began with a rescue shouldn't end in betrayal.

From beginning to end, I had always hoped Mario would get what he wanted.

I used a burner phone to send an encrypted message to Lorenzo, far away in Sicily.

When he heard I was ready to initiate the plan, Lorenzo, who was always so composed, couldn't hide the excitement in his voice.

Late that night, as I slept soundly, Mario slipped into my bed, reeking of blood and the night's chill.

He trapped me from behind, his rough, calloused hands roaming beneath my silk nightgown.

His queen is back, isn't she? Shouldn't he be saving this for the woman he loves?

There's an old Sicilian proverb: a man is a king from the waist up, a beast from the waist down.

They can so clearly separate the woman in their heart from the woman beneath them.

Privately, I thought Mario was a world-class liar.

He had acted so well, so convincingly, that I'd once believed he had truly given me sanctuary.

And I, desperate to repay the debt of my life, had used every trick in the book to please him.

This time was no different. I met his brutal passion with my most convincing moans.

In truth, I was a liar too.

In moments when I should have been lost to passion, my only concern was whether my performance was seductive enough.

Back then, I didn't care about my own pleasure; I just had to ensure my savior was satisfied.

I had placed his masculine need to conquer on a pedestal.

Ironically, his sweat and gasps were all a lie.

He was like a king, desperate to prove he possessed the "perfect trophy," and I was that trophy.

He would get his satisfaction from me, and then he could go welcome his queen with a clear conscience.

He never turned on the lights when we had sex. I used to think it was just one of his quirks.

Now I realize it was because, with the lights on, he couldn't pretend I was Priya.

In all these years, I had never once defied him in bed.

This time was no different.

He's my savior, after all. I had to keep him placated for now.

I couldn't show any cracks in my facade until I had liquidated my secret assets—the off-the-books classical art and real estate.

That night, he was insatiable.

Though I felt numb inside, I played along with feigned passion.

The next morning, I dragged my exhausted body out of bed to straighten his tie and fix his cufflinks.

This time, he didn't kiss my forehead and say, "My good girl," like he used to.

Instead, his expression was cold. He casually picked up his jacket from the sofa, his tone distant.

"Don't touch my things from now on."

His eyes were filled with annoyance.

I sneered inwardly, but on the surface, I forced a tearful, devastated expression.

"What's wrong, Don? Didn't you say you loved it when I took care of everything for you?"

After all these years, playing the part of the weak, dependent woman was second nature.

His gaze flickered for a moment.

"I'll have the limited-edition Aston Martin delivered to you this afternoon."

It was probably a pang of guilt. Seeing my hurt expression, a flicker of pity had crossed his face.

Hearing this, I immediately broke into a smile, my eyes crinkling, looking just like a child who'd been given candy.

"I won't be back tonight. Have the driver pick you up tomorrow afternoon to accompany me to a family meeting."

He scoffed at my shallow display.

Although I couldn't care less if he came back, for the sake of that vintage sports car, I stood on my toes, wrapped my arms around his neck like a snake, and planted a loud kiss on his cheek.

"Oh, the Don isn't coming home... My nights will be so long and lonely," I whined.

Mario impassively pushed me off him—the parasitic vine clinging to his body—and pulled a briefcase full of cash from a drawer.

"Then go have some fun."

The moment Mario left, I wiped my mouth where I had kissed him, then opened my encrypted laptop to forge the new identity documents Lorenzo had sent.

In a month, at most, I would vanish from the face of the earth.

Before that, I had to find a way to liquidate the art and estates in my possession.

Mario really was a bastard.

The meeting he wanted me to attend was a welcome ceremony for Priya.

It was also the first time I'd laid eyes on her. The resemblance was uncanny; she looked startlingly like me.

I gave a helpless, bitter smile.

It seemed Mario's dramatic rescue back then was all thanks to the woman standing before me.

If I hadn't been her mirror image, why would a man like Mario—the Don of Chicago—ever have spared a glance for a ruined orphan like me?

"I see you found a cheap copy to keep your bed warm, Mario."

Priya's personality was pure fire. She shot me a lazy, dismissive glance, her words dripping with venom.