The Rossi family has a rule. If you want to be the next Donna, you have to prove yourself. Make three hundred million dollars, clean money, in a single year.

All on your own, no family help.

I spent ten years trying to do it for Vincent. I built ten companies from the ground up.

But every single time, just as I was about to cross that finish line, something would go wrong. Everything would just… collapse.

This year, I finally did it.

I ran to his study, audit in hand, my heart hammering against my ribs. I thought I’d finally won. Instead, I learned my entire life was a lie.

He handed my entire empire to Ava—my father's bastard.

All because she supposedly saved his life once, and he wanted to make her the real Donna.

I gave up. On him. On my family's dream of rising with his.

Then I picked up the phone and called the Outfit in Chicago.

"Your marriage proposal," I said. "I accept."

Ten years I worked to marry Vincent. And it was all a lie.

I stood outside Vincent's study, audit in hand, when I heard the words that turned my blood to ice.

"Boss, Isabella’s gallery is about to pass the final audit." That was Marco, Vincent’s right-hand man. "If she actually pulls it off…"

"She won't." Vincent cut him off. His voice was cold as ice. "I've got accounting ready to drop a tax bomb on her. They'll ‘find a problem’ first thing in the morning."

My stomach dropped.

"But boss, this is the ninth time. You don't think she'll get suspicious?"

"So what if she does?" Vincent sneered. "She's obsessed with me. She'd never dare defy me. Besides, I need more time to get Ava ready."

Ava. My father's bastard. Again.

"Boss, are you really going to…"

“Marry Ava? No.” There was a strain in Vincent’s voice. “Isabella fought for me for ten years. I can’t just throw her away.”

“It’s just… Ava is different. She’s innocent, fragile. She has no place in this family without me. She needs my protection. She’s not strong like Isabella. And besides, she saved my life. Without me, Isabella would have thrown her to the wolves a long time ago.”

I leaned against the wall, the world spinning.

Ten years.

All those nights hunched over ledgers until my eyes burned.

All those years I buried my art, my passions, molding myself into the perfect Donna he claimed to want.

All those "accidents," all those failures… he planned every single one.

"What's the status on the assets from Isabella's failed projects?" Vincent continued.

"We funneled the assets to Miss Ava through a few shell companies, just like you ordered. Her books are clean. She's on the board now, a real player."

I almost laughed.

Of course.

The businesses I’d built, even the ones that "failed," their assets were never really lost. They were just funneled to his little girlfriend.

This was Vincent Corleone. The heir to the biggest family in New York.

The man I'd loved for ten years.

I took a breath. Then I pushed open the door.

"Vincent."

He whipped around, his face flashing from surprise to a kind of guilty calm.

Marco faded into a corner.

"Isabella. You're here." Vincent stood up. "I was just handling some family business…"

"I know." I walked to his desk and dropped the report on it. "I came to give you some good news."

Vincent’s eyes flickered to the report. I saw a flash of nerves.

"The gallery's audit report came in," I said, my voice bright. "The final profit…"

"Miss Isabella! Miss Isabella!"

The head of accounting burst in, his face split by a grin.

"Great news! Incredible news!" he panted. "That French court painting sold at Sotheby's last night for 300 million! The gallery's profits tripled! Even with the tax adjustments, we're golden!"

The color drained from Vincent's face.

I watched the panic flash in his eyes. And just like that, the last ember of hope inside me died.

So that's all I was to him. A pawn he could move around whenever he wanted.

"Ahem." I cleared my throat. The accountant turned to me.

"Actually, I just looked closer," I said, picking up the report. Under Vincent's stunned gaze, I tore it in half. "Looks like we hit a snag."

The accountant's jaw hit the floor. Vincent’s face went from horror to a wave of impossible relief.

"You can go," I told the accountant. "And remember, not a word of this to anyone."

"Y-yes, Miss Isabella."

The door clicked shut. I turned to Vincent.

His mask was back on. Cool. Superior. As if I'd imagined his panic.

"Isabella, you did the right thing," he said, walking toward me, reaching for my hand. "Rushing things isn't our family's way."

I stepped back, avoiding his touch.

I'd been working for 10 years. Was that rushing?

The bitterness and hurt churned inside me.

I had to test him. One last time.

"Vincent," I said, my voice tight. "My mother’s memorial is in three days. It would honor her—and our ten years—if we were married by then. I’ll make up the profits next year. I’ll double them."

Vincent visibly relaxed.

He sat back down in his chair, putting on that condescending air again.

Like he wasn't the one panicking a minute ago. Like I'd imagined it all.

"Isabella, you disappoint me."

I blinked. What?

"Tradition is tradition," he said, his tone turning serious. "The conditions of the marriage contract must be met. That's a rule passed down for generations. You're being emotional, Isabella. You don't have the composure of a Donna."

I almost laughed out loud.

Emotional?

I had busted my ass for him for ten years.

For ten years, I put away my paintbrushes, gave up my art, turned down a chance to study at the Louvre.

I buried the artist inside me and became a shark in the boardroom. All because he said his wife needed a sharp mind, not a foolish heart.

And now he was calling me emotional?

"Vincent, I just thought…"

"Thought what?" he cut me off, standing up. His tone softened a little. "Alright, Isabella, I know you're eager to marry me. I know our mothers arranged this years ago. But rules are rules…"

"My mother's memorial is important to me," I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. "If I could be your wife on that day, it would mean everything."

"Enough." Vincent walked to the window, his back to me. "The dead are dead. The living have business to attend to. You should be focused on how to finish the job."

I stared at his back, feeling something burn in my chest.

"The job?"

"Of course, the job." He turned, looking at me like it was obvious. "You think marriage is a game? The position of Donna requires real strength and intelligence. And right now, you don't measure up."

Not measuring up.

I remembered what Marco said—they'd gotten Ava ready to "compete."

So in Vincent's eyes, this ten-year engagement wasn't about love. It was a tryout.

And I wasn't even the only one auditioning.

"Vincent, you…"

"Oh, Vincent!"

A syrupy voice cut me off.

The study door opened and a girl in a black silk nightgown ran in.

Her long hair was loose on her shoulders, her face sleepy and soft. She was only wearing slippers.

Ava.

She jumped into Vincent's arms, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I was looking all over for you," she cooed, nuzzling his chest. "I woke up and you were gone. Why weren't you in bed?"

Vincent’s face instantly softened. His hand went to her waist, a natural, easy motion.

"I was handling something," he murmured, his voice full of a tenderness I'd never heard before. "Why didn't you sleep in?"

"I can't sleep when you're not there," Ava said, tilting her head up to kiss his chin.

I just stood there. A third wheel. An outsider.

This was Vincent Corleone. The same man who was just lecturing me about "family tradition."

He was holding the daughter of the woman who drove my mother to her death, acting like this right in front of me, and I was supposed to just stand there and watch?

"Vincent," my voice was colder than I expected. "We're still talking."

Ava finally seemed to notice me. She turned her head, a perfect smile on her face.

"Oh, Isabella," she said, her voice sickly sweet. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here."

I suddenly remembered the territory dispute three months ago.

The Russians tried to take our docks in Brooklyn. Talks broke down, guns came out.

Ava was there. Afterward, she ran into Vincent's arms, face covered in blood, sobbing that my men hadn't protected her and she'd been cut by flying glass.

Vincent nearly took my head of security's head off and forced me to apologize to her. On my knees.

But looking at her now, her skin was flawless. Perfect. Not a single mark.

Where was the scar?

If it was really glass, how could the wounds have healed so perfectly, without a single mark?

Unless the wounds were self-inflicted. A perfect little show for her perfect hero.

"Ava, your face healed nicely," I said, staring at her. "Can't even tell you were ever hurt."

Her smile froze for a second, then went right back to innocent.

"Yes, Vincent found the best doctor for me," she said, hugging his arm tighter. "He takes such good care of me."

Vincent shot me a smug look, like he was showing off a prize.

I couldn't take it anymore.

I reached down and picked up the torn pieces of the audit report, ready to show them the truth.

To let Vincent see how his little "accident" had failed.

To let him know I'd won, and he had to marry me.

"Vincent, actually, I was just…"

"Don't," Ava suddenly rushed over, grabbing my hand, her eyes welling up with tears. "Isabella, please, don't argue with Vincent anymore."

"What?"

Her eyes were full of tears, looking pitiful and weak.

"Vincent was shot," she whispered, her voice cracking. "He took a bullet for me. The doctor said any serious stress could reopen the wound. He could bleed out."

Took a bullet?

My heart stopped.

"When?" I rushed toward Vincent. "You're hurt?"

My hands went to his shirt, trying to check for a wound.

Vincent flinched, trying to push me away, but the movement was stiff. He'd clearly pulled something.

"Three days ago," Vincent said, turning his head away. His voice was cold. "There was a situation at the docks."

"The Russians were crazier than we thought," Ava said, clinging to Vincent's side, her voice laced with a practiced fear. "They just started shooting. Vincent, to protect me…"

She traced a finger over his chest.

"The bullet almost hit my heart. But Vincent jumped in front of me, shielded me with his own body. He's my hero."

I looked at Vincent, waiting for him to deny it, to explain.

He said nothing. Like taking a bullet for her was the most natural thing in the world.

A sharp pain shot through my chest.

I remembered Mexico, three years ago. A dangerous deal.

The other party was a notorious cartel, but they controlled the black market for art in Central America.

Before I left, I went to Vincent to ask for backup.

"It's too dangerous," I'd said. "I need more men."

"This is your test, Isabella," Vincent had said, looking troubled. "The family can't make an exception for you. If you can't handle this, how can you be the Donna?"

"But Vincent…"

"Rules are rules," he cut me off. "You can walk away from the deal, but you can't ask the family to bend the rules."

I took a bullet during that negotiation to close the deal.

When I woke up, Vincent was by my bedside, looking exhausted. The nurses said he'd been there for days.

I thought he was worried. I thought he loved me.

I thought he only stayed away because the family made him.

So I forgave him.

What was this, then?

"Remember Mexico?" I demanded, my voice shaking with rage. "You left me to bleed in Mexico and called it a test. But you take a bullet for her, and that's just business?"

Vincent's face darkened. "It's different."

"How is it different?!" I finally screamed. "Because she's your so-called 'savior'?"

"What else?" Vincent's reply was ice. "Isabella, I owe Ava my life. Thirteen years ago, at your family's estate, if she hadn't pulled me out of that pool, I'd be dead. I'll spend my entire life repaying that debt. I appreciate what you do for the family, but it doesn't compare to saving my life."

My world shattered.

Hilarious.

It was just so damn hilarious.

Thirteen years ago, on a summer afternoon, the girl who jumped into the pool, who dragged his drowning ass to the side, who cried while giving him CPR… that was me.

Ava just stood there, screaming her head off.

Afterward, she was the one who ran to everyone, crying about how brave she'd been, how she'd saved Vincent.

I was so traumatized I came down with a fever and was out for three days, missing my chance to set the record straight.

So that was it. The root of this ten-year joke.

All his favoritism, all his protection, it was all for a stolen moment of heroism.

"The person who saved you that day, Vincent," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "It wasn't her."

"It was me."

Vincent's eyes turned cold and disappointed, like he was looking at a lunatic. "Isabella, I know you're jealous. But you don't get to rewrite history and slander a hero."

"I'm not!" I said desperately. "That day, she was wearing a red dress, and I was in…"

"Enough!" Vincent snapped, his eyes full of disgust. "I don't want to hear you spin any more lies to hurt Ava. When did you become this kind of woman, so willing to do anything to win?"