Reborn: The Lethal Ex-Wife's Bloody Return

The rain in Chicago carries the taste of ashes and betrayal, so bitter it makes one want to vomit.

I stand on the cracked asphalt of the industrial area, at the edge of the Valentis family's territory. The heavy rain pours, and I watch the taillights of the black SUV completely melt in the rain fog. Damian's men just threw me here like trash.

"Stay, not as my wife, Iz, but as my mistress."

Damian's last cruel ultimatum still echoed in my ears. Now, he was about to marry the daughter of the Falcone family's strategist-Seraphina Ricci. And I, chose exile. With the godfather's decree, my title, my sanctuary, my former life-all were stripped away clean.

In the roar of the storm, a faint, trembling sob suddenly came. I turned my head abruptly.

In the shadow of a rusty trash bin, drenched by rain and shivering with cold, was my five-year-old son.

"Mom?"

Angelo. He was afraid of losing me and had secretly hidden in the back seat of the car. At that moment, my heart shattered into a million pieces, yet wings sprouted from the ruins. From then on, my exile became a desperate double escape.

Two days later. A dilapidated motel in Indiana.

The flickering red neon lights outside cast a hellish blood-red glow into this dirty and cramped room. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of decay and impending death. Angelo lay on a stained mattress, his small chest rising with quick, shallow, wet breaths. Pneumonia. Damian froze all my accounts, and now I have nothing. No money, no doctor, no hope.

"Please, baby, just a little bit." I held a cup of warm instant soup, leaning close to his chapped lips.

He couldn't swallow at all. Those eyes, burning from the high fever, moved unconsciously.

Despair gripped my throat like a beast. My gaze fell upon my wrist. That Cartier Love bracelet-Damian's wedding gift-was now nothing but a mocking chain. I let out a despairing groan, tore off the bracelet that symbolized chains, and threw it hard into the corner. The ultimate pain and sorrow transformed into a sacrificial resolve.

I tasted the rust of my own blood, that warm and savory liquid slipping from my lips-compared to the earth-shattering tearing in my chest, this pain means nothing.

"Swallow it, my little angel," I leaned forward, trembling, pressing the warm bloodstains from my lips to his pale ones, "Drink my life, as long as you can live."

His lips were tightly closed, showing no reaction. A trace of blood uselessly slid down his chin. I lay on his frail body, completely submerged in the boundless sea of despair.

Damian's perspective

The flames in the glass fireplace crazyly licked, casting warm golden light on modern art in the top-floor apartment, illuminating the bustling skyline of Chicago through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Boys need their father, dear." Seraphina whispered, her fingertips lightly tracing the edge of a crystal champagne glass. She wore my ring, bore my name, and the silk robe had slipped halfway off her shoulders. "He needs a decent mother. We must take the child home."

I took a sip of the vintage champagne, the taste of victory was exceptionally sweet on my tongue. Isabella's exile strengthened my alliance with the Falcone family, making my power invincible. But Seraphina was right, allowing the heir of the Valentini family to be in exile was a potential risks I couldn't ignore.

I took out my phone from my pocket and dialed my most loyal soldier.

"Léo, they found Isabella in a small town in a rust belt in Indiana. Go there, find the boy, and bring him back."

I hung up the phone and soon forgot about it. As simple as ordering dinner. I casually picked up my new queen, unaware of the tragedy spreading on the motel floor hundreds of miles away.

Isabella's perspective

The silence of the motel was heavier than the heavy rain outside the window.

Angelo struggled with rapid breathing for two days, then it suddenly slowed. He shifted slightly. In the shadows of the red neon lights, his eyes, bright with fever, stared directly at me.

In an incredibly fleeting moment, the pain faded from his face. He gave me a faint, pure smile-that was his last attachment and love to this world, to me. Then, that small hand, which had been gently holding mine, fell silently like a falling leaf.

The faint light of life was completely extinguished.

"Angelo?" I whispered, these two words like a bloody knife tearing open my vocal cords, "Angelo, no... don't, don't..."

I held him tightly in my arms, his body gradually losing its warmth, I gently rocked him, the surrounding silence turning into a deafening roar in my ears. I did not scream. The grief was too deep, too absolute, long exceeding the limits of language and sound. In this cramped, decaying house, the innocent girl who had once loved Damiano Valentini, died together with her son.

Instead, it is something cold, hard, and eternal. It is a vow engraved with blood, tears, and the sudden cessation of a child's heartbeat.

Blood for blood.