On the eve of our wedding, my fiancé, the heir to the Mafia, told me to give my title to another woman and become his mistress. So I left my wedding gown on the floor and chose to marry the Don. If I couldn't be his wife, I would become his Madre."Miss, Mr. Lorenzo is here," our maid, Maria, announced as she pushed the door open, her voice trembling with excitement. A personal visit from the heir was an honor.Before I could turn, Lorenzo strode into the room, his gaze landing on me with its usual warmth. "Alessia, you should let the designer handle the alterations. Why do it yourself? You'll prick your fingers."I stood before the full-length mirror, dressed in a custom-made, pure-white wedding gown. He wasn't supposed to be here.Two weeks ago, Chiara had splashed her birthday party all over Instagram. It was to be held on her family’s private yacht, and nearly every socialite in Italy was invited. Lorenzo had promised her he would be there. So why was he here now?I met his gaze in
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