Reborn To Ruin: The Mafia Queen's Revenge

I spent twenty-one years trying to be the perfect Mafia Princess, treating my illegitimate sister, Mia, with nothing but grace.

That kindness is exactly what got me killed.

My husband, Luca, didn't take me on a honeymoon. He dragged me into the soundproof basement of our estate.

Mia was there, too. Not to help me, but to gloat.

She laughed as she admitted to poisoning our mother with arsenic, watching with glee as Luca brought a serrated knife to my chest.

"You were always too soft, Sera," he sneered, carving through my skin while I begged for mercy.

I died in that cold, dark room, choking on my own blood and the bitter taste of betrayal.

But I didn't stay dead.

I woke up gasping for air, clutching a chest that was smooth and unscarred.

The calendar on my nightstand read May 12, 2018.

It was five years ago. The very morning I was scheduled to sign the marriage contract that would seal my fate.

I looked at the paper on the vanity.

In my last life, I signed it with a trembling hand.

This time, I flicked open my silver Zippo and watched the flames eat Luca's name.

I didn't pack a dress. I packed a pistol and a stack of cash.

I was going to Las Vegas.

There was only one man dangerous enough to help me destroy the New York families.

I walked into the underground fight club, locked eyes with the deadliest man in the room, and smiled.

"Dante Cavallaro," I said.

"I'm here to make you a King."

Chapter 1

Sera POV

The phantom sensation of a serrated knife carving through my skin woke me screaming, though the sound died in my throat.

My lungs heaved, desperate for air that didn't smell like mildew and dried blood. I clawed at my chest, expecting to find the gash Luca had left there, but my fingers met smooth, unbroken skin.

The expensive silk of my nightgown clung to my sweat-drenched body.

I wasn't in the basement. I wasn't dead.

I scrambled for the phone on the bedside table. The light blinded me for a second before the numbers swam into focus.

May 12, 2018.

It was five years ago. Five years before Mia poisoned my mother. Five years before Luca Vance, the man I was supposed to marry, watched his men drag me into the dark.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling. The silence of the Moretti estate was heavy, suffocating. Downstairs, I knew my father was likely drinking scotch in his study, proud that he had secured a union with the Vance family.

On the vanity table sat the contract. The paper was thick, cream-colored, and binding. An arranged marriage to Luca Vance, a rising Capo who would eventually become a monster.

I stood up. My legs felt weak, but my mind was sharpening with every second. The terror of the torture chamber was fading, replaced by a cold, hard stone in the center of my chest.

I walked to the vanity and stared into the mirror. The girl staring back was twenty-one, beautiful, and naive. But her eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of a woman who had seen her own grave.

I picked up the contract.

In my past life, I had signed it. I had tried to be the perfect Mafia Princess. I had tried to be kind to Mia, my father's illegitimate daughter, even when she looked at me with envy that could peel paint.

That kindness had gotten me killed.

I walked to the fireplace. I didn't bother with a match. I used the lighter Luca had given me as an engagement gift, a silver Zippo engraved with our initials.

I flicked the flame to life. It danced, hungry and bright.

I held the corner of the marriage contract to the fire. The paper curled, turning black, then ash. I watched the flames eat my name. I watched them eat Luca's name.

It felt like the first deep breath I had taken in years.

I didn't pack clothes. Clothes were heavy. I packed cash. I opened the safe behind the painting of the Virgin Mary-a safe my father thought only he knew the combination to. I took every stack of bills inside.

I grabbed my passport.

I went to the desk and pulled out a sheet of stationery. I didn't write a tearful goodbye. I didn't beg for forgiveness.

*I resign.*

Two words. That was all they deserved.

I slipped a small, pearl-handled pistol into my purse. It was a decorative thing, meant for a lady, but it could still put a hole in a man if he got too close.

I walked out of my bedroom door and didn't look back. The hallway was dark. I moved like a ghost, the way I had learned to move when I was trying to avoid Luca's temper in the future.

I slipped out the servant's entrance. The night air was cool against my flushed skin.

A black sedan was waiting at the end of the driveway. I had called the service three minutes after I woke up.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asked, his eyes scanning me in the rearview mirror.

"The airport," I said.

"And then?"

"Las Vegas," I whispered.

New York was a cage. Vegas was a jungle. And in the jungle, you didn't need a pedigree. You just needed teeth.

Sera POV

Las Vegas was a neon scar slashed across the dark expanse of the desert. It smelled of desperation, cheap perfume, and old money laundering as new.

I loved it immediately.

Aunt Sofia was waiting for me in the VIP lounge of the Inferno Casino. She had been banished here years ago by my father-a sentence for the crime of possessing too much ambition in a body meant for silence.

She looked at me over the rim of her martini glass. Her eyes were sharp, assessing. She didn't look like a woman who had been exiled. She looked like a queen holding court in hell.

"You have the look of a woman who just burned down a church, Sera," she said, her voice curling like smoke.

"I burned down a marriage," I corrected. "I need a job, Sofia. And I need protection."

She laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "You are a Moretti. You are soft. You are made for silk sheets and nursery rhymes."

I withdrew the pearl-handled pistol from my purse and set it on the table. Metal met marble with a heavy, deliberate thud.

"I am not soft," I said. "Not anymore."

Sofia stared at the gun, then back at me. A slow smile spread across her red lips.

"Then you should meet my nephew."

She led me down into the architectural bowels of the casino. The air grew hotter, heavy with sweat and aggression. The chime of slot machines faded, replaced by the wet slap of fists against flesh and the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd.

An underground fight club.

In the center of the ring, a man was systematically taking apart an opponent twice his size. He moved with a lethal grace, efficient and brutal. He didn't fight with anger; he fought with a terrifying indifference.

He dodged a heavy swing and drove his elbow into the other man's temple. The crack echoed through the room. The opponent dropped like a stone.

The victor stood over the body, his chest heaving slightly. He was covered in sweat and tattoos that looked like warnings.

"That is Dante Cavallaro," Sofia said. "The Black Sheep. The man New York is terrified of."

Dante looked up. His eyes locked onto mine across the crowded room. They were dark, endless pits. He didn't look away. He didn't smile. He looked at me like I was a problem he needed to solve, or a prize he intended to take.

He climbed out of the ring, the ropes groaning under his weight, and ignored the towel a handler offered him. He walked straight to us. Up close, he radiated heat and violence. He smelled of iron and expensive soap.

"Who is this?" he asked Sofia, though his gaze remained fixed on me, unblinking.

"Sera Moretti," I answered for myself.

"The runaway bride," Dante mused. His voice was deep, a subterranean rumble that vibrated in my chest. "I heard you left Luca Vance at the altar. Or rather, before you even got there."

"He deserved it," I said.

Dante stepped closer. He was towering over me, using his size to intimidate. It was a test.

"You have soft hands, Princess," he said, reaching out to graze his knuckles against my cheek. His touch was rough, calloused-sandpaper against satin. "You won't last a week in this city."

I grabbed his wrist. I didn't pull away. I dug my nails into the sensitive skin of his inner arm, hard enough to register as a threat.

"I have information, Dante. I know about the shipment coming in from Mexico next week. I know the fed on your payroll has flipped. And I know that without me, you'll be a corpse by Friday."

Dante's eyes narrowed. The indifference vanished, replaced by a predator's focus. He didn't pull his hand away. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear.

"If you are lying to me, Sera, I will feed you to the desert myself."

"I am not lying," I whispered back.

"Good," he said, pulling back to look at me. "Then welcome to the pack."

Sera POV

The desert highway was a long, black ribbon stretching into unforgiving nothingness. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, creating mirages that distorted the horizon.

I sat in the passenger seat of Dante's armored SUV. He was driving, one hand casual on the wheel, the other resting on the center console inches from his gun.

We had been working together for three months. In that time, we had seized three rival casinos and dismantled a human trafficking ring that had dared to set up shop on his turf.

He still didn't trust me completely. But he wanted me. I could feel it in the way his eyes tracked me when I walked across a room, in the way he stood just a little too close, his presence a heavy, magnetic weight.

"You're quiet today," Dante said, his voice breaking the silence.

"I'm thinking," I replied.

"About what?"

"About the sniper."

Dante frowned, glancing sideways at me. "What sniper?"

In my past life, I had read the police report until the words were burned into my retinas. *Dante Cavallaro, assassinated on Route 15, three miles past the border.* A single shot to the head. It was the event that had thrown the West Coast families into chaos and allowed Luca to expand his power.

"Pull over," I said, my voice tight.

Dante didn't slow down. "We are late for the meeting with the Cartel, Sera. Stop playing games."

"I'm not playing!" I shouted. "Pull over now!"

When he didn't react fast enough, I reached for the wheel. Dante cursed viciously and slammed on the brakes. The heavy SUV skidded to a halt on the gravel shoulder, dust billowing up around us like a suffocating cloud.

"Are you insane?" he growled, turning to face me. His face was twisted in furious disbelief.

"Get down!" I screamed.

I didn't wait for him to react. I unbuckled my seatbelt and threw myself across the center console, tackling him. My body covered his, pressing him hard against the driver's side door.

The glass shattered an instant later.

A sound like a thunderclap tore through the air. I felt a hot, searing pain explode in my left shoulder. The impact threw me harder against Dante.

Another shot pinged off the armored frame of the car.

Dante moved instantly. He shoved me down into the footwell, his body covering mine now, a human shield. He had his gun out before I could even process the pain.

"Stay down," he ordered. His voice was ice cold.

He kicked the door open and rolled out onto the asphalt. I heard three rapid shots. Then silence.

I clutched my shoulder. Blood was seeping through my white blouse, warm and sticky against my fingers.

Dante appeared in the open doorway a moment later. He looked at the blood on my hands. His face went pale, a look of genuine horror that I had never seen on him before.

"You took a bullet," he said. It wasn't a question; it was a devastating realization.

"I told you," I grit out, fighting the dizziness. "I told you about the sniper."

He reached in and pulled me out of the car, lifting me into his arms as if I weighed nothing. He didn't look at the dead assassin on the ridge. He only looked at me.

"Why?" he asked, his voice rough. "Why did you do that?"

"Because," I gasped, the pain starting to make the world swim. "I need you alive, Dante. We have an empire to build."

He pressed his forehead against mine. His skin was burning feverishly.

"You are mine, Sera," he growled against my skin, the words vibrating through me. "You hear me? You don't die. You don't leave. You belong to me now."

I smiled weakly before the darkness took me.

I knew. That was the plan all along.