Reborn: The Lethal Ex-Wife's Bloody Return

The rain in Chicago tastes bitter with the ashes and betrayal.

I stood on the cracked asphalt of the industrial area, here at the very edge of the Valentis family's domain. The rain poured down heavily, and I watched as the taillights of a black SUV completely melted in the rain and fog. Two soldiers under Damian's command had just thrown me here like a bag of trash.

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

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

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

In the shadow of a rusty trash can, drenched and chilled by the rain, was my five-year-old son.

"Mom?"

Angelo. He had secretly hidden in the back seat of the car, afraid of losing me. At that moment, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, yet it suddenly grew wings from the ruins. My exile became a desperate dual escape from then on.

Two days later. A dilapidated motel in Indiana.

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

"Please, baby, just a little bit." I pleaded, bringing a cup of warm instant soup to his chapped lips.

He couldn't swallow at all. Those eyes, blazing from the high fever, were rolling unconsciously.

The original despair gripped my throat like a beast. My gaze fell upon my wrist. That Cartier Love bracelet-Damian's wedding gift to me-now seemed no more than a sarcastic golden chain. I let out a desperate groan and ripped off the bracelet symbolizing my chains, hurling it fiercely into the corner. Extreme pain and sorrow transformed into a sacrificial resolve. Without hesitation, I bit my fingertips, letting the piercing pain spread through my ten fingers. This physical agony was nothing compared to the earth-shattering tearing sensation in my chest.

"Swallow it down, my little angel," I trembled, leaning closer, pressing the warm crimson leaking from my fingertips against his pale lips. "Drain my life force, as long as you can live."

But his tightly closed lips remained unresponsive. That bit of blood slid down his chin, in vain. I collapsed onto his frail body, utterly drowned in the boundless, endless sea of despair.

Damián's perspective

The flames in the glass fireplace were wildly licking, casting a warm golden light over the modern art in my top-floor apartment and illuminating the bustling skyline of Chicago through the floor-to-ceiling window.

"A boy needs his father, dear." Seraphina whispered softly, her fingertips tracing the edge of a crystal champagne glass. She wore my ring, bore my surname, and the silk robe she wore had slipped halfway off her shoulders. "He also needs a decent mother. We must bring the child home."

I took a sip of vintage champagne, the taste of victory seemed particularly 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 Valentis family to be outside is a hidden danger I cannot ignore.

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

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

I hung up the phone and completely forgot about it. It was as simple as ordering dinner. I casually scooped up my new queen in my arms, unaware of the tragedy spreading on the floor of a motel hundreds of miles away.

Isabella's Perspective

The silence in the motel was heavier than the raging rainstorm outside the window.

Angelo's rapid breaths, which had struggled for two days, suddenly slowed. He stirred slightly. In the shadows of the red neon lights, his eyes, bright from the high fever, stared fixedly at me.

In an incredibly fleeting moment, the pain faded from his face. He gave me a faint, pure smile-it was his last trace of reliance and love for this world, and for me. Then, that small hand, which had been weakly gripping my finger, completely dropped down.

The faint sound of his breathing stopped forever.

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

I held him tightly in my arms, his body gradually losing heat, rocking gently, the surrounding silence turning into a deafening roar in my ears. I did not scream. That grief was too profound, too absolute, already beyond the limits of words and sound. In this cramped, decaying house, the innocent girl who had once loved Damiano Valentini died along with her son.

Instead, it is something cold, hard, and eternal. It is the vow I carved with blood, tears, and a child's sudden stopped heartbeat.

Blood for blood.

Isabella's perspective

Dr. Rossi stared at the boy lying on the stainless steel operating table, barely alive, then looked at me with those snobbish eyes. "I won't treat anyone without ten thousand dollars in cash, sweetheart. This isn't charity."

I didn't even blink. Although I didn't have a single penny on me, I held a bargaining chip a hundred times more deadly than any banknote.

"I have no cash," I began, my voice flat and lifeless. "But I have intelligence that can save you from spending the rest of your life in federal prison. Tomorrow night, the FBI will raid the underground casino on Eighth Street. The undercover agent's name is Miller, codename 'Viper.' He will meet his contact at the docks at midnight."

Rossi's face turned deathly pale, all color draining from his complexion. Under Rossi's gaze, a mixture of shock and awe, I pushed aside the mountain-like burly assistant. My hands, once used to play Chopin for Mafia elites, now transformed into the calmest wings of redemption. Using the first-aid techniques honed in that dark world, I deftly and precisely drained the compressed fluid from Angelo's chest. With a weak, low gasp, his violently heaving chest miraculously calmed, settling into long, rhythmic breaths.

Rossi watched me, his expression a mixture of fear and fascination with the monster I had transformed into. "You can stay," he murmured, taking a step back.

Hours later, as I held my sleeping son in that blood-soaked inner room, I knew perfectly well what was happening in Chicago, three hundred miles away. Memories of my past life replayed in my mind with nauseating clarity.

At that very moment, in the glass penthouse of the Lucrete Building, my fate was sealed. My grandfather, Marco Moretti, known as "The General," was bowing to Lorenzo Falcone. To protect me from the elaborate schemes orchestrated by the matriarch of the Falcone family, my grandfather was being forced to relinquish our family's control over the Port of Chicago.

I could almost hear Lorenzo's smooth, aristocratic voice. He casually tossed an antique coin between his fingers as he glanced at Damian Valenti, who stood to the side, utterly dejected.

"To solidify your marriage with Miss Richie, the Moretti family has handed over the port," Lorenzo probed the new godfather. "In exchange, I declare your marriage to Isabella Moretti null and void. Damian, what do you think of this deal?"

Damian, without the slightest hesitation, coldly replied, "My only wife is Serafina Richie."

"You won't regret it?"

"no way."

With just one word, Damian stripped me of all the protection I had received from the Valenti family and threw me into the clutches of wolves. He abandoned us like trash. But he had no idea that the woman he had discarded had crawled back from hell.

A week later, the acrid dust from the Gary limestone quarry filled my throat.

I swung the heavy hammer, the violent impact reverberating through my arms. My hands were raw and bleeding, blood seeping into my rough canvas gloves. I needed clean cash to buy antibiotics for Angelo, and I also needed this cruel, almost self-destructive physical labor to forge my body into a weapon.

Amidst the white dust and mist, a convoy of black Cadillac Escalades came to a stop at the edge of this desolate mine.

I didn't stop working.

Maria, our family's most loyal servant, stumbled out of the lead car, flanked by heavily armed Moretti family soldiers. She had spent days navigating the filthy streets, bribing bartenders and informants, all in an attempt to find her former Mafia queen shoveling stones amidst the ruins.

"Miss!" Maria's voice broke into a heart-wrenching sob. She ran through the mud and knelt before me, not caring that the mud had soiled her spotless clothes. "Oh God, Miss Isabella...look at your suffering. We've come to take you home."

I slowly put down the hammer, took off my gloves, and carelessly wrapped my bleeding hand with a dirty cloth. My eyes were like still water, showing neither the shock nor relief she had expected.

In my previous life, they arrived two days after I lost Angelo. When they arrived, they only had time to buy him a small wooden coffin. That version of me was already shattered beyond words, my heart utterly dead.

But this time, everything is completely different.

"I know, Maria," I said calmly, my gaze passing over her weeping figure to the armored vehicles waiting to take us back to Chicago. "Help me pack the children's luggage."

Isabella's Perspective

Dr. Rossi stared at the barely breathing boy on the stainless steel operating table, then looked at me with his greedy eyes. "No cash of a hundred thousand dollars, I won't treat you, sweetie. This isn't charity."

I didn't even blink. Although I didn't have a single dollar on me now, I held a stake far deadlier than cash.

"I don't have cash," I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion, "but I have information that can save you from spending the rest of your life in a federal prison. Tonight, the FBI will raid the underground casino on Eighth Street. The undercover agent's name is Miller, code-named 'Snake.' He will meet his handler at the docks at exactly midnight."

Rosy turned deathly pale, the color draining from his face instantly. Under the mixed shock and awe in Rosy's eyes, I pushed the massive assistant, who was as tall as a hill. The hands that had once only played Chopin for the elite of the mafia had now become the most composed wings of salvation. Relying on the first aid skills honed in that dark world in the past, I drained the oppressive fluid from Angela's chest with astonishing precision. With a soft sigh, his violently ups and downs chest miraculously calmed down, turning into long and regular breaths.

Rossi watched me from the side, filled with fear, yet utterly fascinated by the monster I had transformed into. "You can stay," he muttered, stepping back.

Hours later, as I held my sleeping son in that blood-stained back room, I knew clearly what was happening in Chicago, three hundred miles away. Memories of my past life replayed in my mind with repulsive clarity.

At this very moment, in the glass-top apartment of the "Lucree" building, my fate is being nailed to the gallows. My grandfather, known as "The General" Marco Moretti, is bowing to Lorenzo Farcone. To save me from the carefully woven slander of the mistress of the Farcone family, my grandfather is being forced to give up control of our family over the Chicago port.

I can almost hear Lorenzo's smooth, aristocratic voice. He casually tosses an antique coin while looking at Damián Valentín, standing by his side with a heart of ashes.

"To solidify your marriage with Miss Ricci, the Moretti family has surrendered the port," Lorenzo probes the new godfather. "In exchange, I declare your marriage to Isabella Moretti null and void. Damián, how do you feel about this deal?"

And Damien, without the slightest hesitation, coldly replied: "My wife is only Seraphina Rich."

"You won't regret it?"

"Never."

With just one word, Damien stripped me of all the protection of the Valenti family and threw me into the wolves. He discarded us like garbage. But he didn't know that the woman he threw away had already crawled back from hell.

A week later, the pungent dust from the Gary limestone quarry filled my throat.

I swung the heavy iron hammer, the violent impact vibrating through my arms. My hands were already raw, blood seeping into the rough canvas gloves. I needed clean cash to buy antibiotics for Angelo, and I also needed this cruel, almost self-abusive heavy labor, to forge this body into a weapon.

In the white dust haze, a fleet of black Cadillac Carlyle cars stopped at the edge of this desolate mine pit.

I didn't stop what I was doing.

Maria, the most loyal servant of our family, stumbled down from the carriage, flanked by heavily armed Moretti family soldiers. She spent days navigating the dirty streets, bribing bartenders and informants, just to find her former Mafia queen moving stones in this wasteland.

"Miss!" Maria's voice broke into heart-wrenching sobs. She ran through the mud to kneel before me, completely unconcerned about the mud staining her spotless dress. "Oh, God, Miss Isabella... look at what you've suffered. We're coming to take you home."

I slowly lowered the iron hammer, took off my gloves, and wrapped the bleeding palm with a dirty cloth carelessly. My eyes were like a pool of stagnant water, without the shock or relief she expected.

I know they will come today. But in my previous life, they were a whole week late. By the time they arrived, they only just managed to buy a small wooden coffin for Angelo.

"I know, Maria," I said calmly, my gaze passing over her weeping figure as I looked toward the armored vehicles waiting to take us back to Chicago. "Could you help me pack the children's luggage?"