Reborn Heiress: Pampered By The Ruthless Don

The man smiling in the silver frame on my vanity was the very same man who, in exactly three months, would wrap his hands around my throat.

I knew this because I had already died.

I had felt the freezing, silty water of the Hudson River fill my lungs while Alexander watched the life drain from my eyes, his mistress laughing in the background.

I had hovered like a ghost above my own funeral, watching the betrayal continue even after my death.

My mother, the perfect Mafia widow, stood stoically next to my killer, unaware she had sold her daughter to a butcher. My fiancé checked his watch, bored, waiting to liquidate my inheritance.

But then I saw him.

Darrian Golden. The Don of the rival clan. The enemy.

He stood in the pouring rain, his expensive suit soaked through, staring at my coffin as if the world had ended. When the earth hit the wood, he didn't just cry; he roared in primal agony. My fiancé killed me, but my enemy was the only one who mourned me.

"The Commission is waiting," my mother's voice snapped the timeline back into place.

She stood in my doorway, demanding I set the engagement date to secure the territory. She saw a charming Capo; I saw the rat who had cut my father's brake lines.

In my first life, I was a trembling bird. In this life, I was the match that would burn the cage down.

I smashed the photo frame against the marble table, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.

"Contact the Golden Clan," I commanded.

My mother went pale. "He is a savage, Azalea. He butchers men for sport."

"Tell Don Golden that Azalea Kidd is offering a parley," I said, looking out the window at the city that would soon be ours.

"Tell him I am offering the only thing he has ever wanted: Me."

Chapter 1

The man smiling in the silver frame on my vanity was the very same man who, in exactly three months, would wrap his hands around my throat.

He would watch the life drain from my eyes while his mistress laughed in the background.

I knew this because I had already died.

I had already felt the freezing, silty water of the Hudson River fill my lungs.

I had already felt the betrayal snap my ribs long before the current did.

And I had already seen my own funeral.

I had hovered like a ghost above the wet grass, watching the only man who truly loved me fall to his knees and scream until his voice shattered the silence of the cemetery.

It wasn't the man in the picture.

"Azalea, are you listening to me?"

My mother's voice snapped the timeline back into place.

Emilee Wallace stood in the doorway of my penthouse bedroom, clutching a tablet against her chest like a shield.

She looked immaculate, as always.

Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in her silk blouse.

A perfect Mafia widow.

A perfect pawn.

"The Commission is waiting," she said, her voice tight with the anxiety of a woman terrified of losing her status. "Alexander is downstairs. He expects an answer about the engagement date today. The alliance secures the territory. It's what your father would have wanted."

I looked at her reflection in the mirror.

She didn't know she was selling her daughter to a butcher.

She only saw Alexander Booth as the charming Capo, the man who stepped up when my father, the Don of the Kidd crime family, died.

She didn't know Alexander was the one who had cut the brake lines on my father's car.

I stood up, smoothing the fabric of my dress.

My hands didn't shake.

In my first life, I was a trembling bird, desperate for a cage to feel safe in.

In this life, I was the match that would burn the cage down.

"I have an answer," I said.

I walked over to the vanity.

I picked up the heavy silver frame holding the photo of Alexander and me-a picture taken the day he promised to protect me forever.

I looked at his handsome, lying face.

The face of a usurper.

A rat.

I raised the frame and smashed it against the marble edge of the table.

The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Glass shattered, flying across the room like jagged diamonds.

The photo tore down the middle, severing his arm from my shoulder.

My mother gasped, dropping her tablet. "Azalea! What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm finding it," I said, my voice low and steady. "Tell Alexander to leave. Tell him there will be no engagement. Not today. Not ever."

"You can't do that," she hissed, stepping over the broken glass to grab my arm. "He controls the soldiers. He controls the routes. Without him, we are vulnerable. Who else is powerful enough to hold the Kidd territory? Who else would even look at you with the respect due to a Don's daughter?"

I pulled my arm from her grip.

The memory of the funeral flashed in my mind again.

Rain pouring.

A sea of black umbrellas.

And him.

Darrian Golden.

The Don of the rival Golden Clan.

The enemy.

The monster mothers used to scare their children.

He hadn't bothered with an umbrella.

He stood in the rain, his expensive suit soaked through, staring at my coffin as if the world had ended.

When the earth hit the wood, he didn't just cry.

He roared.

A sound of pure, primal agony that terrified even the priest.

My fiancé had stood there with dry eyes, checking his watch.

But my enemy had mourned me.

"Contact the Golden Clan," I told my mother.

Her face went pale, the blood draining away so fast she looked like a corpse herself. "The... the Goldens? Darrian Golden? He is a savage, Azalea. He butchers men for sport. He's been trying to dismantle your father's legacy for years."

"He is the only one strong enough to kill the rats in our walls," I said.

I walked to the window, looking down at the street where Alexander's black SUV waited.

I knew Alaric, Darrius, and Jefferey were down there too.

My father's "loyal" soldiers.

The ones who had held me down while Alexander injected the sedative before tossing me off the boat.

"Send the message, Mother," I commanded, turning back to her. "Tell Don Golden that Azalea Kidd is offering a parley. Tell him I am offering the only thing he has ever wanted."

"Which is?" she whispered, terrified.

"Me."

The water in the rooftop pool was a perfect, crystalline blue.

It was deceptive, mimicking the very depths that had claimed my life once before.

I stood near the edge, a glass of untouched champagne sweating in my hand, watching the sun bleed below the New York skyline.

The air was heavy, thick with humidity and the sharp, chemical sting of chlorine.

Alexander had cornered me here.

He wasn't happy about the message I had sent to the Goldens.

News traveled fast in the underworld.

Faster than bullets.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Azalea," Alexander said, invading my personal space.

He smelled of expensive cologne masking something foul-the scent of moral rot.

He wore his arrogance like a suit of armor, confident that I was still just a confused girl throwing a tantrum.

"Darrian Golden will peel your skin off just to send me a message. You think he wants a wife? He wants a hostage."

"I think I prefer a wolf to a snake," I replied, refusing to meet his gaze.

Isolde Booker laughed.

It was a light, tinkling sound, brittle as glass.

She lounged on a deck chair nearby, wearing a white bikini that left nothing to the imagination.

In my past life, I had bought her that bikini.

I had brought her into this penthouse, treated her like a sister because she was an orphan with a sad story.

I didn't know she was warming Alexander's bed while I was busy planning our wedding.

"Oh, Azalea," Isolde cooed, rising and sauntering toward us. "You're just stressed. The pressure of the legacy is getting to you. Alexander is only trying to protect you."

She reached for my arm, her nails painted a blood red.

I stepped back instantly. "Don't touch me."

Isolde smirked.

She glanced at Alexander, a silent, conspiratorial signal passing between them.

Then, she threw herself backward.

It was a clumsy, theatrical stumble, calculated for an audience of one.

She shrieked, her arms flailing, and her hand snagged the strap of my dress.

She yanked hard.

My center of gravity vanished.

The world tilted sideways, and then the water rushed up to meet me.

*Splash.*

The cold was a shockwave.

It paralyzed me for a heartbeat.

My dress, heavy with beads and silk, drank up the water instantly, dragging me down like a lead anchor.

Panic, sharp and familiar, clawed at my throat.

*Not again. Not again.*

I kicked, fighting the crushing weight.

Through the distorted, shimmering surface, I saw them.

Alaric and Darrius, the guards assigned to "protect" me, were rushing toward the pool.

But they didn't reach for me.

"Isolde!" Alexander shouted, diving in.

He swam right past me.

He kicked a spray of water into my face as he reached for his mistress, who was flailing in the shallow end, perfectly safe.

The guards knelt by the edge, reaching out to help Alexander lift Isolde out.

I was sinking.

My lungs burned.

The chlorine stung my eyes, blurring the betrayal into a wash of color.

I watched them fuss over her on the pool deck.

"She pushed me!" Isolde was sobbing, choking on air. "She tried to kill me, Alexander!"

"It's okay, baby, I've got you," he soothed her, wrapping a towel around her shaking shoulders.

Nobody looked at the water.

Nobody looked for the heiress of the Kidd family.

A cold, hard rage ignited in my chest.

It burned hotter than the fear.

I wasn't going to die here.

Not this time.

I kicked harder, my muscles screaming in protest.

I clawed at the water, dragging the dead weight of my dress upward.

My hand breached the surface, grasping the cold metal of the ladder.

I hauled myself up, gasping, coughing water onto the expensive tile.

I lay there for a moment, shivering violently.

My hair was plastered to my skull.

My mascara ran in dark rivulets down my cheeks.

I looked like a ruin.

Alexander turned to look at me, his eyes cold and annoyed. "Look what you did, Azalea. You're hysterical. Go to your room before you embarrass the family further."

Alaric smirked, offering me a hand. "Need a lift, Princess?"

I looked at his hand.

The hand of a traitor.

I slapped it away.

I pushed myself up, my legs trembling but holding my weight.

Water dripped from my dress, pooling around my feet.

"I don't need your help," I said, my voice raspy but cuttingly clear.

I stared at Alexander, then at Isolde, who was hiding a smile behind her towel.

"Enjoy the water," I whispered.

"It's the last time you'll see me drown."

The Charity Gala was a shark tank draped in velvet and dripping in diamonds.

Every major crime family in the city had descended upon the ballroom. The air didn't just buzz; it hummed with the static of illicit deals being struck and human lives being bartered over crystal flutes of champagne.

I stood in the shadows of the corner, clad in a dress the color of midnight. My mother had begged me to stay home, citing my "instability" after the pool incident, but I had refused.

Tonight was the auction.

Tonight, the "Ocean Heart" sapphire was on the block.

It was a massive, abyssal blue stone set in platinum. My father had gifted it to my mother on their tenth anniversary. It was more than jewelry; it symbolized the legitimacy of the Kidd leadership.

Alexander had stolen it from my mother's safe under the guise of "safekeeping," only to put it up for auction to liquidate assets for his new drug routes.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the auctioneer's voice boomed through the speakers. "Lot 45. The Ocean Heart."

The bidding began.

I raised my paddle, my hand trembling slightly. "Fifty thousand."

Alexander, standing across the room with Isolde clinging to his arm like a decorative parasite, let out a low, mocking laugh.

He lazily raised his paddle. "One hundred thousand."

He was bidding on his own stolen property just to humiliate me. To demonstrate to the Commission that he possessed both the capital and the power, while I held nothing.

"One hundred and fifty," I countered, my voice tight.

"Two hundred," Alexander drawled, sounding bored.

The room fell into a heavy silence.

Everyone was watching.

They knew the history. They knew he was stripping me of my inheritance, piece by agonizing piece.

"Five hundred thousand," I choked out.

It was every cent of liquid cash I could access without his signature.

Alexander smiled.

It was a cruel, predatory expression that didn't reach his eyes.

He strolled toward the stage, whispered something to the auctioneer, and produced a checkbook.

"One million," he announced, turning to face the crowd. "Sold."

The gavel banged down like a gunshot.

Alexander took the necklace from the velvet cushion.

He held it up to the light. The sapphire caught the chandelier's glow, radiating light like a captured star.

Then, he dropped it.

He lifted his heavy, Italian leather oxford and brought it down hard.

The platinum setting crunched.

The stone didn't shatter-corundum is tough-but the setting was annihilated, the metal twisted and ruined beyond repair.

He kicked the debris across the parquet floor toward me.

"It was old-fashioned anyway," he declared, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. "Time for new leadership. New symbols."

Something inside me snapped.

It wasn't a bone; it was the chain of my restraint.

I crossed the distance between us in three long strides.

Before his guards could react, before he could even raise a hand, I swung.

*Crack.*

My palm connected with his cheek with the force of a whip.

The sound echoed through the ballroom, sharper than breaking glass.

His head snapped to the side.

A red handprint instantly bloomed on his pale skin.

Silence.

Absolute, terrified silence.

No one struck a Capo in public.

It was a death sentence.

Alexander turned back to me, his eyes black with murder.

He raised his hand to strike me back.

Suddenly, a scream pierced the air.

"No! I can't take it anymore!"

Isolde.

She stood on the balcony overlooking the ballroom, a dramatic spotlight seemingly finding her by design.

She held a small fruit knife from the buffet table to her wrist.

"If you hurt him, I'll die! I'll kill myself!"

She slashed.

A shallow cut, barely a scratch, but blood welled up against her skin.

She swooned, collapsing theatrically into the arms of a waiting waiter.

"Isolde!" Alexander roared, forgetting me instantly. "Get the car! Get the doctor!"

He whipped around to his men. "Grab Azalea. She's coming with us. Isolde has a rare blood type. O-negative. Azalea matches her."

"What?" I stepped back, horror dawning. "I'm not giving her my blood."

"You don't have a choice," Alexander snarled. "Grab her."

Alaric and Darrius seized my arms.

I fought.

I kicked and screamed.

But they were soldiers, and I was just a girl in a gown.

They dragged me out the back exit, my heels scraping uselessly against the marble floor.

An hour later, I was strapped to a hospital bed in a private clinic owned by the family.

A thick needle was jammed into my arm.

I watched my dark red blood flow through the tube, filling a plastic bag.

Across the room, Isolde lay in a bed, playing on her phone, looking perfectly fine.

She winked at me.

I felt the room spin.

They were draining me.

Literally draining the life out of me to feed his whore.

My vision blurred.

Darkness crept in at the edges of my consciousness.

"Darrian..." I whispered into the sterile air.

It was a desperate prayer to a monster.

"Burn them all."