My Don’s Mistress Got My Billions

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."