Reborn: The Lethal Ex-Wife's Bloody Return

Chapter 7

Word Count: 774 | Released on: Today at 10:16

en and Seraphina stepped onto the sun-drenched pavement. I tried to pull Angelo away, but it was too late. Se

g. His eyes swept over me with the absolu

distance so as not to brush against us. "Poor child. You must have suffered so much out there with your mother." She turned to Damien, he

ened in mild annoyance, as if we were nothing mor

lation. I saw the subtle, triumphant shift in her eyes. She realized Damien didn't care about t

grip on Angelo's hand and walked away, disa

Grand Hall smelled of old leather, cigar smoke, and unspoken tension. Before Maria c

voice laced with venom. "Everyone in our circle is laughing at us for tak

colded softly, though her face bore a look

d over my dusty clothes with undisguised contempt. The b

My grandmother, Elena Moretti, descended the stairs. Her sharp eyes

wrist, leaving only my aunt, Mrs. Moretti

like a refugee," Elena said, her voice a quiet, terrifying rumble. "

ere arriving so soon-" my aun

in the corner. "Since your maid cannot even prepare a clean change of clothes for he

o save face. Elena had just drawn a line in the sand: I was untouc

g out at the Chicago skyline. Because of the twenty years of blood and betrayal I had lived thro

stead, she would call the one person whose greed and obsession with

twisting the narrative. *The poor boy is suffering... Isabella's reputat

ld take the bait. She would declare that she was coming to the Moretti estat

I turned away from the window, listening to the sound of my son's quiet breathing from the next r

Chapter End

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Reborn: The Lethal Ex-Wife's Bloody Return

Li Xiamo Mafia

“I was the wife of Damien Valenti, the most ruthless mafia Don in Chicago. But to cement his power and marry a rival family's daughter, he exiled me to the slums without a single dime. "Stay not as my wife, Izzy, but as my whore." That was his final ultimatum before dumping me out of his black SUV like trash. Terrified of losing me, my five-year-old son, Angelo, secretly hid in the car to follow me. Two days later, in a squalid Indiana motel, Angelo caught severe pneumonia. I had no money and no doctor. In sheer desperation, I sliced my own wrist with broken glass, pressing my bleeding arm to his pale lips, begging him to drink and live. But my little boy died in my arms. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, Damien was sipping vintage champagne with his new bride, casually dismissing the life of his own flesh and blood. The grief turned me into a monster. I spent twenty years clawing my way through the underworld to destroy his empire, only to die with a bullet in my chest. I gave him my absolute devotion, yet he traded our family for political power without a single ounce of hesitation. Opening my eyes again, I was back in that hellish neon-lit motel room. Angelo was burning with fever and fighting for air, but he was still breathing. This time, I wasn't the naive girl who loved Damien Valenti. I was a woman holding two decades of their darkest secrets, and my vendetta had just begun.”