He Chose Another, Now He Calls Me Madre

I was chosen to be the fiancée of Lorenzo, the Mafia’s heir.

But at a family gala, Lorenzo was openly pursued by Chiara, the daughter of an arms dealer.

Chiara wasn’t like the other rule-abiding debutantes.She tore through the streets in a modified sports car, used a military-grade combat knife to cut her cigars, and drank the harshest whiskey neat.There was an untamed wildness about her, a fire Lorenzo couldn’t look away from.

He complained to the family elders, “How can a woman like that possibly be our Madre and run this entire family?”

His words dripped with disdain for her recklessness, yet his eyes were glued to her, tracking her every move as she raised her glass.

Then, on Lorenzo’s birthday, he announced his intention to make Chiara his mistress.

Chiara refused.”The women of my family are wives, never mistresses.And my husband’s heart must belong only to me.”

Lorenzo came to me, his voice hesitant.”Alessia, it’s just a title.I need you to give it to Chiara.Please? She doesn’t understand our family’s traditions, and she’s making a scene about marrying me.We just need to pacify her for now.Even if she marries me, you will still be the one to manage the family’s affairs.”

As I stood trying on my wedding gown, a sharp crystal bead on the bodice pierced my finger.A single drop of blood bloomed against the pure white satin.

The dress was ruined, but the wedding would go on.

Since he chose someone else to be his wife, I will become his Madre.

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 the mirror. His eyes flickered away before he cleared his throat. "I need to discuss something with you."

He hesitated, then finally met my eyes again. "Chiara refuses to be a mistress. I’ve thought it over… I have to give her the title of wife."

My hands, which had been adjusting the delicate lace on the skirt, froze.

"Alessia, it’s just a formality. A title. I need you to give it to Chiara. Please? She doesn’t understand our family’s rules and she's demanding I marry her. We just need to pacify her for now. After the wedding, you’ll still be the one managing the family's affairs. The entire family knows you are the only one I consider my true wife."

The last sliver of hope I’d been clinging to shattered. I turned to face him. "So, you want me to be your mistress?"

Lorenzo's brow furrowed in annoyance. "Alessia, you were raised to be a matriarch. You know these titles are just for appearances. Don't be petty like other women."

He continued, his tone placating, "You've always been so understanding. Don't throw a tantrum like Chiara. You know, what I admire most about you is your grace and elegance, how you never make demands."

"Today is Chiara's birthday. Promising her the position of future matriarch is the best gift I can give her."

My hand clenched a decorative crystal on my gown, its sharp edge digging into my fingertip. A bead of blood welled on my skin, then fell, staining the immaculate white fabric like a single, perfect rose.

"Miss, you're bleeding!" Maria cried out.

I stared at the crimson stain on my chest, but Lorenzo was already turning to leave, his footsteps light, as if he'd just been discussing the weather.

Maria rushed over with a first-aid kit. "Miss, your hand… and the gown…"

I waved her away and stood alone before the mirror. The pure white dress was now marred by a single drop of blood, a grotesque work of art.

The sting of pain brought a sharp, cold clarity.

I began to unlace the back of the gown. The silk pooled at my feet as I stepped out of it and strode to my closet.

"Maria, prepare my most formal power suit. I'm going to see Mrs. Isabella."

Maria froze. "Now? But your hand is still bleeding—"

"Yes," I said, placing a simple bandage over the cut. My gaze was firm. "Right now."

Thirty minutes later, I was ringing her doorbell.

"Miss Alessia?" Isabella's personal maid answered, her expression surprised. "The Madam wasn't expecting you."

"It was a last-minute decision. Is Mrs. Isabella available?"

"She is in the drawing-room. Please, follow me."

Isabella was seated on an antique French sofa, surrounded by a circle of high-society ladies. They were enjoying afternoon tea and pastries, chatting about the latest haute couture fashion week.

When she saw me, Isabella set down her porcelain teacup. "Alessia, what a surprise. Lorenzo mentioned you were having your final dress fitting today."

My mother, Caterina, who had accompanied me, watched as I walked before Isabella and sank to my knees. My mother gasped.

Isabella's eyes widened, and she immediately rose. "Alessia, what is the meaning of this?"

I looked her in the eye, my voice calm but resolute. "Madam, Lorenzo wishes to break our engagement. He has fallen for Chiara and intends to make her his wife."