Escaping The Mafia Don's Golden Cage

I stood over the fresh dirt of my four-year-old son's grave. My husband, the Don of the Stark family, didn't hold my hand for comfort. He only adjusted his cuffs and checked that the diamond necklace he forced on me looked good for the cameras.

"Stop crying," he whispered into my hair. "You're making a scene."

Two days later, I woke up to the sound of shattering glass in the nursery.

A strange boy stood there, smiling over the broken remains of my son's favorite snow globe.

"This is Cody," my mother-in-law said coldly. "He's family. He stays."