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.