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 all miscarry? It's horrifying. If Vincent hadn't stayed with me, my baby could've been lost too. How could you be so cruel?"

Her eyes filled with fake tears, every word framing me as the monster.

Stunned, I shook my head, but before I could speak, heavy hands slammed me to the ground.

"You witch! Drugging them while I was gone? So jealous you'd kill them and their kids?"

Curled on the floor, pain ripping through me, I caught Lucy's smug smile flickering behind him.

"I didn't... it was her—"

"Still lying?" His roar shook the hall. "Your jealousy's hurt people before. I won't tolerate it again."

He turned to the women on the floor. "Each of you—slap her. Then you'll be sent to the best recovery center."

The guards shoved me into the center, blood still streaming down my legs like it didn't matter.

The women crept forward, tears in their eyes. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Corleone..."

One by one, the blows landed. My ears rang. Half my face went numb.

When the hall finally emptied, Vincent looked pleased with himself. He took the baby—wrapped in a luxe blanket—from a maid, Lucy clinging to his arm.

His gaze flicked over my blood-soaked body, my swollen face. For a second, something passed through his eyes. Then it was gone, iced over.

"Don't blame me for letting them hit you," he said flatly. "You cost them their babies—I had to punish you in front of everyone. Needed to show I won't cover for you anymore.

"Step out of line again, this is what you get. And don't even dream of touching Lucy's kid's inheritance rights."

I shook, staring up at him.

So... I wasn't the only one who'd come back.

No wonder a few sweet words from Lucy had him twisted.

No wonder he claimed this wasn't my first offense.

Because in the last life, he'd done the same—sentencing me and my babies to death for her.

My eyes burned, heavy with tears I refused to let fall.

"Avila Alberoni," his voice cracked sharp, "stop playing victim. I already had the doc induce Lucy's labor. She delivered before you.

"I told you—whoever gives birth first, her kid is the heir. Being my legal wife doesn't change a damn thing."

A broken laugh slipped out as I clutched my bleeding body.

"I took the suppressant to delay labor. I stepped aside for the three of you. So why won't you let me bring my babies into this world? Why drug me too? Why do you want them dead..."

He froze, brows furrowing.

"Quit lying. Your due date was last night. I asked the doctor. You already gave birth."

Through the pain, I grabbed his pant leg with my blood-slicked hand, pressing it to my still-swollen belly.

He jerked back, disgust flashing, and flung my hand off. "Lucy just gave birth—she can't stand the smell of blood.

"Drop the act. If you want to prove you weren't trying to hurt her, then tomorrow, at the Family press conference, you'll admit you're infertile and begged Lucy to carry for you.

"Then you'll hand over your shares, your property, your trust funds—to her and the child. After that, you'll serve them without complaint.

"Try anything, lay a finger on her, and I won't just punish you. Your father—rotting in the Family clinic—won't be left in peace either."