My Eight Years as the Don’s Substitute

At the Mercer family's annual dinner, I accidentally wore a couture gown that belonged to Lucian's late wife.

The eight-year-old boy I had raised myself, in front of every key member of the Family, threw a glass of expensive red wine all over my pure white dress.

He just stood there, his cold, condescending expression a mirror of his father's.

"Don't think you can become the mistress of this house just by dressing like my Mamma."

"I swear, when I'm old enough to take over the family business, I'll make you disappear for good!"

The cold liquid soaked through the fabric, clinging to my skin.

But I felt nothing. My heart had frozen solid the moment I signed my life away eight years ago.

I looked at the child I had raised as my own for eight years.

There was no anger. The faintest smile touched my lips.

I leaned down and whispered in his ear,

"You won't have to wait that long, my little lion. I'm leaving, and it will be very soon."

I was a substitute, sent to the Mercer family to pay off my family's debt. For eight long years, I took care of my dead sister's Mafia husband and his heir.

At the family dinner, after I mistakenly wore my sister's gown, the nephew I had raised myself doused me in red wine. Meanwhile, the Don of Mercer family, kept bringing home women who looked even more like my sister than I did.

When Lucian brought the twenty-ninth and most convincing lookalike back to the estate, I finished packing my bags, ready to leave for a place where none of them would ever find me.

The early spring air in New York still held a biting chill, but the cold inside this mansion was the kind that seeped into your bones.

I ignored the mocking gazes at my back and walked straight to the art studio at the end of the attic.

All I had to do was wash out the wine stain, change into my own clothes, and I'd be one step closer to leaving the identity of Vera Rossi behind for good.

But the moment I pushed open the studio door, the scene before me made me freeze.

The easel was toppled on the floor. My nearly finished work had been slashed by a sharp blade.

The vast, blue sky I had painted on the canvas was torn to shreds.

"How ugly."

A sneer came from behind me.

"You call this junk art?" He pursed his lips, his eyes defiant. "Mamma only collected Dalí and Picasso. The junk you paint would only disgrace the walls of the Mercer estate."

I took a deep breath, my fingertips trembling uncontrollably.

"Axel, that was mine."

"In this estate, even you are property of the Mercer family," he said viciously. I shot him a sideways glance.

This time, I didn't bother with my usual attempts to soothe and placate him.

His bravado seemed to falter, and he looked away, a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

I walked silently to a corner of the studio, only to be met with an even more brutal sight.

The antique wooden chest I kept tucked away was smashed open. Its contents were strewn across the floor, soaked in black ink.

Lying in the center of the mess was the hand-embroidered tapestry my mother had left me before she died. It was the only piece of her I had left, a delicate scene of the Tuscan countryside stitched with love.

Now, it was ruined. The fabric was slashed down the middle, and the vibrant threads were stained an irreversible, oily black.

Beside the ruined tapestry lay a pair of scissors that belonged to Axel.

The ink dripped onto the floorboards and spattered my hand.

I stared at the ruined fabric, silent for a long time.

Finally, I crouched down stiffly, my hand hovering in the air, not daring to touch the threads that were now destroyed beyond repair.

Eight years ago, I had walked into this underworld with a free heart.

But the sprawling Mercer estate had no room for a single untamed soul.

They took my paintbrushes and shackled my dreams. They gave me a wailing infant and this small corner of memories as consolation.

It took me eight years to raise them.

But it only took an instant to lose them.

Then again, I had nothing left to lose.

I let out a long sigh, just as a familiar set of footsteps approached.

Before I could even stand, Lucian walked in.

The collar of his black shirt was slightly open, revealing the sexy line of his throat and a sliver of a tattoo.

He looked just like Axel, with the same coldness, the same arrogance.

Seeing the mess, Lucian waved a hand, and two soldati immediately stepped out of the shadows.

"Clean this up. Don't leave this filth here."

Within minutes, the ink on the floor, the ruined tapestry, and the shattered canvas frame were all gone.

Just like me. I had meticulously cared for this father and son for eight years, yet I had failed to make the slightest impression on them.

He walked over to me, looking down at me from his great height.

"Vera, you were in the wrong today."

"You have failed to teach our heir the meaning of respect and decorum."

"And in the future, stick to your own clothes."

He nonchalantly shifted all the blame onto me.

And every time, I had always instinctively obeyed.

Then, the hand wearing the family signet ring wrapped around my waist, pulling me hard against his unyielding chest.

He lowered his head, the rough pad of his thumb stroking my chin, his warm breath fanning the side of my neck.

"However, it is your birthday, so I can forgive this lapse in duty."

His hand slid down the curve of my waist. "As a reward for these eight years, you don't have to take the pill tonight. If you get pregnant, you can keep the child."

Since I first came to the estate, he had never remembered any date that was important to me, yet this year, he remembered my birthday.

But now, his every move sent a chill down my spine.

Lucian was a man of immense appetites and overwhelming possessiveness.

I had gotten pregnant within the first month we were together. Before I could even feel a flicker of joy, he sent a man with pills to induce a miscarriage.

"I will only ever love Rose, and Axel will be my only heir."

"If you have your own child, you'll inevitably be biased. You won't be able to care for Axel with all your heart."

After that, every time we were together, he would watch me swallow the pill. For eight years, without fail.

In the past, hearing that I didn't have to take the pill would have had me joyfully undoing his tie.

But today, all I could see was the shredded painting and the black stains on my mother’s embroidery.

For the first time, I pushed him away with all my strength.

Caught off guard, Lucian stumbled back a step, his brow instantly furrowing.

I looked him straight in the eye. "Don Mercer, our eight-year contract is up."

"Tomorrow, I'm leaving."