My Ex Called Me Infertile—Now I Carry the Mafia Don’s Twins

On our first wedding anniversary, I walked into my husband's office and found him having sex with my best friend.

He didn't even apologize. Instead, claiming he was disgusted that I hadn't produced an heir in a year of marriage, he threw divorce papers in my face.

Five years later, I returned to New York with my new husband—Cassian Vitiello, the Godfather of the North American underworld.

Vincent ran into me at the docks. He handed me a business card, offering me a job as a nanny for his mistress's son.

What he didn't know was that the woman he was mocking was now the Donna—the woman the entire East Coast underground feared.

——

The private yacht slowly docked.

Several black SUVs were waiting on the pier. A man stood at the front, dressed in a sharp suit, holding a glass of champagne and craning his neck to look around.

It was Vincent Romano, my ex-husband.

I was coming down from the top deck, holding a broom I had just taken from a maid—my son, Matteo, had just knocked over a plate of cookies, and I was used to handling things myself.

"Boss, isn't that Alessia?" a subordinate behind him pointed at me.

Vincent stunned for a second when he saw me, then a smug smile spread across his face. "I knew it. She couldn't make it on her own. She was bound to come crawling back."

"God, it really is her," his friend jeered. "Romano, your ex-wife is a cruise ship cleaner?"

"I thought she climbed the social ladder! Turns out she's just back to beg for our boss's charity?"

Vincent looked like he was about to spit out his champagne laughing. He blocked my path with that arrogant look I hadn't seen in five years.

"Alessia, look at you," he looked me up and down, his eyes filled with cheap superiority. "I thought you might actually make something of yourself after leaving New York. Turns out you're swabbing decks?"

I stopped and looked at him, amused.

In the past, to please him, I always wore tight dresses that made it hard to breathe. Now, because of my pregnancy, Cassian forbade me from wearing anything restrictive. The seemingly simple cashmere coat I wore was a custom piece from a Milanese workshop.

These idiots didn't understand that true power doesn't need to print a logo on its forehead.

"Move," I said calmly.

He didn't move; instead, he leaned in closer. "Don't be stubborn. I know times are tough. Actually, Frankie's son needs a nanny. Room and board included, three thousand a month. For old times' sake, the job is yours."

He pulled a business card from his pocket and practically forced it into my hand.

Just then, the screech of brakes cut through the air. A pink Maserati drifted in, stopping almost sideways at the edge of the dock.

Francesca stepped out in red-bottomed heels, twisting her waist as she walked over, the latest Hermès Birkin bag on her arm. Behind her trailed a nanny who looked about to lose her mind over a crying child.

"Vincent! Who are you talking to?" She took off her sunglasses. The moment she saw me, her eyes—heavy with eyeliner—lit up. It was the excitement of a hunter spotting wounded prey.

"Oh my God. Alessia?" She covered her mouth, her feigned surprise sharp as nails on a chalkboard. "Why are you sweeping floors here? Couldn't afford a return ticket?"

"Honey," Vincent wrapped his arm around her waist, looking for praise, "I'm helping her. I offered her the job taking care of little Vinnie. You know she was always good at housework."

Francesca glanced at me with disgust, lowering her voice just enough for everyone to hear. "Her? Is she even capable? But I heard this woman can't even reproduce. Don't let her bring that bad luck to my son."

The crowd erupted in laughter.

I looked at the card in my hand, then at the nauseating couple. The humiliations of five years ago felt incredibly laughable in this moment.

I raised my hand and, in front of everyone, dropped the card gently into Vincent's champagne glass.

The bubbles fizzed; the paper quickly turned to mush.

"Vincent," my voice was soft, but it instantly silenced the surroundings. "Do you know the name of this ship?"

The smile on Vincent's face froze, and he frowned in annoyance. "What?"

I leisurely raised my left hand, pointing to the massive crest on the ship's hull that refracted the blood-red sunset light—an iris wrapped in thorns.

"That is 'The Scarlet Iris'. Vitiello family territory."

I turned, resting my left hand on the railing.

"You mentioned a job offer?" I looked back at a pale-faced Vincent. "I suggest you ask the dock master who exactly they cleared the entire port for tonight. I doubt it was for a 'cleaner'."

Before he could respond, an elderly butler with silver hair, dressed in a tuxedo, ran out of the cabin.

"Madam!" he called out as he reached me.

Under the terrified gazes of Vincent and Francesca, the old butler bowed deeply before me, his tone fearful and respectful.

"The convoy is waiting outside. We are ready to depart."