My husband, Dante Moretti. The Don of Chicago’s Moretti crime family.

A cold-blooded, merciless king.

He kept a woman stashed away in a house on the outskirts of the city.

An orphan he had saved from the slums, Angelina Hayes.

She was clean and fragile. That kind of innocence stirred something deep inside Dante Moretti.

He thought his little game was a secret. But I knew.

In my previous life, I confronted him at a Moretti family dinner, in front of everyone.

He didn't even flinch. He simply had his Consigliere hand me annulment papers.

I burned the papers.

Only then did he finally show his fangs.

He froze all of my family's legitimate businesses and launched a vicious, targeted assault.

On a rainy night, I received a call from the hospital.

My sister, Bella, had been attacked by a rival family and was critically injured.

Dante video-called me. "Sign the papers, or prepare for a funeral."

"Dante, please... don't..." I begged.

The line went dead. Moments later, my sister passed away.

However, I was reborn. Back to the day I first discovered Angelina.

This time, I didn't cry. I began to plot my escape—a perfect divorce, followed by a complete disappearance.

That night, I called my financial cleaner to prepare for my disappearance.

But the moment I vanished from his world, Dante went insane.

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1

In my past life, I had only ever dared to watch from a distance, sending my people to spy on Dante’s private study, its walls plastered with photos of Angelina Hayes.

But now, I was reborn.

I wanted to see with my own eyes the woman who made the most ruthless Don in Chicago let down his guard.

"Leo, I need you to liquidate every asset in my secret trust. Get the money moved offshore. You have three days."

After giving my financial cleaner, Leo Vance, his instructions, I had my lawyer draw up the annulment papers.

Then, I drove to the church shelter where Angelina volunteered.

She was crouching before a pile of worn-out children's books, carefully gluing the torn pages back together.

A child beside her was signing clumsily.

The afternoon sun streamed through the high, stained-glass windows of the church, casting a golden halo around her.

She looked like an angel who had fallen to earth, untainted by the mortal world.

No wonder Dante was utterly captivated by her.

"Watch out!"

Suddenly, a thug lunged at the child, trying to snatch the donation box he was holding.

I instinctively took a step back.

But Angelina surged forward.

She threw her arms open, shielding the terrified, trembling child with her own slender body.

The thug's knife slashed across her arm.

Blood instantly soaked her white T-shirt.

She flinched but didn't scream.

Instead, she quickly turned and held the frightened child tightly.

"Don't be afraid, it's okay. We'll handle this," she soothed.

I stared at her, frozen.

Angelina's blood dripped onto the cold church floor, a stark, red testament to her selflessness.

Ten minutes later, I took her to a clinic to have her wound treated.

Her skin was so fair it was almost translucent, and the cheap bracelet Dante had given her stood in stark contrast to the angry burn scar on her wrist.

"What happened here?" I asked.

Angelina lowered her head and smiled faintly.

"A burn from an old restaurant job. It's just a scar now; it doesn't hurt."

But I remembered something Dante's psychiatrist once said.

He hated scars.

They reminded him of the fire that had torched his childhood, and they made him despise the ink on his own skin that marked him as Moretti property.

Yet, for Angelina, he always made an exception.

I took a check from my purse and pressed it firmly into her hand.

"Use this to renovate the shelter. Consider it a gift."

In a month, our marriage would officially be over. I intended to leave with my dignity intact.

But Angelina shook her head, pushing the check back toward me. "Thank you, but I can earn the money myself."

Just then, her phone vibrated softly.

A sharp pain lanced through me when I saw the encrypted satellite phone number flashing on the screen.

That was Dante's private number.

A number I'd never been given in the thirteen years I'd been by his side.

On the video call, his voice was low and gentle, laced with a warmth I had never heard.

"You're hurt?"

Angelina's ears flushed. "It's just a small cut... You don't have to come."

I could already hear the deep rumble of an engine outside.

It had taken him only twelve minutes to abandon a critical family meeting and race from downtown to this slum.

When it came to the woman he loved, he was practically omniscient.

Angelina had suffered a minor injury, yet he had crossed the entire city for her without a second thought.

The moment he burst through the door, his gaze was fixed on only one person—the fragile, innocent woman he worshipped like a goddess.

There was no room for me.

I let out a soft, bitter laugh.

Once, I had been grazed by a stray bullet during a firefight, and he had simply sent a message through his Consigliere: "Don't die in the house. It's bad luck."

So, it wasn't that he couldn't love.

He just didn't think I was worthy.

I gave Angelina a polite smile and took a step back.

"He's here for you. I'll leave you two to it."

After Dante rushed off to the clinic with Angelina, I took the annulment papers and drove straight to his headquarters at the Moretti compound.

"Miss Romano, the Don is handling an urgent matter. He can't be disturbed," his Consigliere, Marco Vescovi, said, blocking my path.

Handling an urgent matter?

My gaze drifted to the narrow crack in the heavy oak door.

What drifted from the crack in the door wasn't the voice of a Capo reporting on family business, but the soft, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.

In what was supposed to be one of the most secure offices in Chicago, the screen wasn't displaying the family's accounts.

It was monitoring Angelina's vital signs in real time.

The man who could orchestrate a bloody turf war without batting an eye was now staring at a medical monitor, his face a mask of raw panic.

How absurd.

I still remembered, early in our marriage, I was delivering documents to him when my finger caught the edge of a bullet casing, drawing a single bead of blood.

The moment Dante saw it, he’d flung the cigar cutter across the room.

"Eliana, I hate imperfection in any form," he had said coldly, his fingers clamping around my wrist. "Clean it up. Don't let me see it again."

From that day on, I wore double-layered gloves even to prune the thorns on my roses.

"Miss Romano..." Marco's voice pulled me from the memory.

I let out a bitter laugh. "It's fine. Just have him sign this when he's free."

Marco nodded, took the document from my hand, and disappeared into the office.

I thought I would have to wait.

Surely he would watch Angelina's heartbeat on the monitor a little longer before sparing me a shred of his attention.

But in less than thirty seconds, the door opened.

Marco handed the document back to me.

Dante's jagged signature was already scrawled on the last page.

He hadn't even looked at the terms.

My fingers clenched the agreement, a suffocating tightness seizing my chest.

Ever since I was fifteen, I knew I would marry Dante.

He was the ruthless king of a dark empire—cold, untouchable, incapable of love.

And I had naively believed that if I were perfect enough, I could be the exception.

It turned out that role had long been reserved for someone else.

Now, with a few strokes of his pen, he had turned all my foolish hopes into a cruel joke.

When I returned to our estate, I ordered the maid to take down the massive portrait symbolizing the union of our two families.

"But...this painting is your favorite. You commissioned the most famous artist in Edevia for it..."

She was right.

I had once seen that painting as proof that I had tamed this cold-blooded man—I had trapped him in a gilded frame and made him my husband.

But I forgot that a leopard never changes its spots.

Dante hadn't changed; he'd just been biding his time.

"Burn it," I said dismissively. "I don't want it to be an eyesore for his new 'angel'."

The cooling-off period for the annulment was about to end.

During this time, Dante hadn't returned to the estate once.

That evening, I was wandering aimlessly when I found myself at the café outside the church.

To my surprise, I saw Angelina inside.

She was still wearing that faded shirt, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing the unhealed wound on her arm.

Suddenly, she looked up and saw me. Her eyes lit up, and she hurried over.

"Thank you for your help the other day. My boyfriend would like to take you to dinner, to thank you."

In my past life, Dante had said that Angelina was different from the women who chased his power—her eyes were clear and innocent, like a blank slate.

I used to find that laughable.

But now, meeting her clear, sincere gaze, I couldn't bring myself to argue.

"There's no need. I was just passing by," I said evasively.

After we sat down, her eyes suddenly reddened.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She lowered her head, tears spilling from her lashes. "I think I might be pregnant. But he's been avoiding me these past few days. Do you think… he doesn't want the baby?"

So, they had slept together.

I should have expected it, but the truth still felt like a cold hand squeezing my heart.

I had foolishly hoped that Dante's obsession with her was just a phase, that he would grow tired of it and eventually return to me.

It seemed I was only deluding myself.

"Do you think he's... seeing someone else?"

That question sent a chill down my spine.

If she discovered Dante's identity and his marriage, with her conscience, she'd surely leave.

And knowing him, he would unleash his fury on me—and on my sister, Bella.

In my past life, when Bella was attacked by a rival family, Dante was the first to get the news.

But he stopped the family's doctor from going to save her.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms, forcing myself to remain calm.

"No, don't overthink it," I told her softly.

After comforting her, I made an excuse to use the restroom. I pulled out my phone and called Leo.

"Move up Bella's flight to Switzerland. Tonight. Book the ticket and tell her to head to the airport now."

The moment I hung up, I called Bella.

Her voice, warm and familiar, came through the receiver—and a cold dread washed over me.

"Eliana, did you and Dante have a fight?" she asked.

I wanted to tell her everything. That in our past life, she died. That he had my legs broken, then locked me away in a mental asylum to rot.

He would never allow anyone to threaten the life he had built for his precious Angelina.

The memories churned in my gut. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood, choking back a sob.

"Eliana, whatever you do, I'll always be on your side. We only have each other," Bella said.

Her voice was a warm balm, but it only amplified my terror.

I was afraid Dante would find out she was leaving and, in a rage, drag her back just as he had in our past life.

I was afraid this call was being monitored.

I was afraid all my plans would fall apart.

Most of all, I was afraid Bella wouldn't run fast enough, and he would catch her again.

"I love you, Bella. Wait for me. We'll be together again soon."