Mafia Wife, Unfit For An Heir

Temple Madison

Mafia | Completed

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The day my husband, a Mafia Underboss, told me I was genetically unfit to carry his heir, he brought home my replacement-a surrogate with my eyes and a working womb. He called her a "vessel" but paraded her as his mistress, abandoning me while I bled on the floor at a party to protect her and planning their secret future in the villa he once promised me. But in our world, wives don't just walk away-they disappear, and I decided to orchestrate my own vanishing act, leaving him to the ruin he so carefully built for himself.

Protagonist

: Katarina Jensen and Alessandro De Luca

Betrayal Revenge Pregnancy Mafia Personal growth

Chapter 21

12-30 17:15

Chapter 1

The day my husband, a Mafia Underboss, told me I was genetically unfit to carry his heir, he brought home my replacement-a surrogate with my eyes and a working womb.

He called her a "vessel" but paraded her as his mistress, abandoning me while I bled on the floor at a party to protect her and planning their secret future in the villa he once promised me.

But in our world, wives don't just walk away-they disappear, and I decided to orchestrate my own vanishing act, leaving him to the ruin he so carefully built for himself.

Chapter 1

Katarina POV:

The day my husband told me I was genetically unfit to carry his heir, he also introduced me to my replacement-a woman with my eyes, my hair, but a womb that worked.

It was a Tuesday. The sky over Manhattan was a bruised purple, threatening a storm that mirrored the one brewing in our penthouse apartment. Alessandro stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silhouette of power and cold control against the city lights. He hadn't touched me since the final test results came back from the family's private clinic.

"It's a mitochondrial defect, Katarina," he'd said, his voice flat, devoid of the comfort I desperately needed. "A clean lineage is everything. You know this."

I did know. I had known it the day I, Katarina Jensen, married into the De Luca family and became the wife of the Underboss. My purpose was singular: to produce an heir and secure Alex's position. For five years, I had failed.

Now, his father, Don Donato De Luca, was dying. His final decree had echoed through the family like a death knell: an heir, born within the next year, or Alessandro would be stripped of his title. The leadership of the Cosa Nostra's most powerful New York family would pass to his cousin. It was a fate worse than death.

"So, I've found a solution," Alex said, turning from the window. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken finality. He gestured toward the door, and a moment later, she walked in.

Her name was Aria Diaz. She was a ghost of me, a cheaper, rougher version. Same dark hair, same blue eyes, but where my posture was straight from years of ballet, hers was a defiant slouch. A hunger, a raw and desperate ambition, swam in her gaze. She looked at our home not with awe, but with calculation.

"She will carry the child," Alex stated, not asked. "It's a family matter. A transaction. She is merely a vessel."

A vessel. A container for the heir I couldn't provide. Hope, sharp and painful, pierced through my numbness. Maybe this was the only way. For the family. For Alex.

"Once the child is born," he continued, his eyes fixed on me, ignoring the woman standing beside him, "she will be gone. Everything will go back to normal."

But normal had already fractured. He started staying out late, claiming he needed to monitor Aria for her safety, to ensure the "asset" was protected. Our fifth wedding anniversary came and went. I spent it alone, staring at the diamond necklace he'd given me years ago, a symbol of a promise that now felt like a lie. I was becoming a ghost in my own life, a placeholder queen for a kingdom that was slipping away.

The first crack became a chasm a week later. I was driving back from a charity function when a black sedan slammed into my passenger side. It wasn't an accident. It was a message from a rival family, a test of De Luca strength. Shaken, bleeding from a cut on my forehead, I called Alex. No answer. His phone went straight to voicemail.

*Omertà*, the code of silence, meant I couldn't go to a public hospital. I drove myself to the family's discreet emergency clinic. As the doctor stitched my head, the silence of my husband was louder than the squeal of tires on pavement.

When I finally returned to the penthouse, the air was still and heavy. I walked into our bedroom, and my heart stopped. On my vanity, next to my bottle of Chanel No. 5, was a tube of lipstick. It was a cheap, garish shade of red I would never wear. A smear of it stained the white marble.

Aria. She had been here. In my room. In my private space. The security of the De Luca family, the impenetrable fortress Alex was meant to command, had been breached by a woman he called a "vessel."

The truth, however, came at a party a month later. It was a formal gathering of the family's most important business associates at a private club downtown. Alex was the perfect host, his arm possessively around my waist, a smile fixed on his face for the public. But his eyes were distant.

I excused myself for a moment, seeking refuge on a dimly lit terrace. Through an open door to a private office, I heard his voice. He was speaking with Mark, his Consigliere.

"I can't get enough of her, Mark," Alex was saying, his voice rough with an emotion I hadn't heard in years. "She's fire. Real. Not like... a perfect statue."

My blood ran cold.

"The villa in Lake Como," Alex continued, "get it ready. After the baby is born, I'm setting her up there. Her and the kid."

The villa. The one he'd promised me for our tenth anniversary. A place for *us*.

My hand trembled, and I knocked over a tray of empty glasses. They shattered on the stone floor. Alex and Mark fell silent. A second later, Alex appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of panic.

"Katarina. What are you doing here?"

"Who is she, Alex?" I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

"It's nothing," he hissed, grabbing my arm. "Aria is not here. You heard nothing. Mark," he barked over his shoulder, "this conversation never happened."

He pulled me away, his grip bruising. Later that night, when he thought I was asleep, I slipped his encrypted tablet from his briefcase. His password was still my birthday. The irony was a bitter pill.

There she was. Aria. Dozens of photos. Laughing in his car. Wearing his shirt in a bed that wasn't ours. And then I saw it: a folder labeled "Como." Inside were architectural plans for a nursery. Blueprints for a life that didn't include me.

The perfect statue had finally cracked. And I knew I couldn't just leave. In our world, wives of the Underboss don't just walk away. They disappear. But I would not be another victim. I would orchestrate my own exit, on my own terms, for the honor of a family he was so willing to betray.