His Mafia Queen, My Substitute Heart

From the back cover

My perfect marriage to Don Dante Moretti, the most powerful man in the New York mob, ended the moment my father died. I was twenty-four, pregnant with his heir, and I believed I was his queen.

But for two days, while I planned a funeral alone, my husband was unreachable. Then a friend sent me a photo. Dante in London, his hand tangled in the hair of the woman beside him.

It was my cousin, Valentina.

He came home with lies about a dead phone and a difficult summit. That night, I found his private journal, and my world disintegrated.

He had married me because I had "Valentina’s eyes." I was a substitute.

Our unborn child wasn't a product of love. It was a project. A girl he planned to name Elena, after Valentina, calling her a "perfect, tiny piece of the woman I can never truly possess."

I wasn't his wife. I was a stand-in. The love I felt for him didn't just die. It was murdered.

The next morning, I slid a folder across the kitchen island. "Donation forms," I said. He didn't even look before scrawling his signature on what were actually our finalized divorce papers.

His arrogance was my weapon. As he slept beside me that night, smelling of lies and my cousin, I made an appointment at a private clinic. He wanted a legacy?

I would give him nothing.