A Reborn from Blood

: Reborn from Blood, No Longer Your Shadow

Thick crimson blood spread across the cold, concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, soaking through a dress whose original color was now completely unrecognizable. My trembling hands pressed desperately against my heavily swollen belly, trying to protect the fragile, seven-month-old life inside.

But the tearing agony in my lower abdomen, accompanied by the rapid loss of warmth pooling beneath me, ruthlessly declared that it was already too late.

Gunfire echoed deafeningly around me. My vision had long since blurred, yet my pupils remained fixated on the only thing that mattered—the man standing ten paces away.

Lorenzo Romano.

The most ruthless and cold-blooded Mafia Don in Chicago's underground. The man I had loved for ten whole years. My husband.

At this moment, he was using his broad, sturdy back to firmly shield a trembling woman beneath him. Even amidst the hail of bullets, his every movement exuded endless tenderness and frantic anxiety.

That woman was not me. It was Elena—the illegitimate daughter of a rival family, Lorenzo’s first love and the unspoken white rose hidden deep in his heart for years.

When the shootout erupted, I had desperately reached out to him. But Lorenzo hadn't even spared me a sideways glance. Without a moment’s hesitation, he bypassed his heavily pregnant wife, lunged toward Elena, and pulled her into safe cover. I, on the other hand, was left completely exposed in the enemy's deadly crossfire.

"Lorenzo..." I coughed up a large mouthful of blood mixed with ruptured organs, my voice shattering into pieces. "Our... our baby..."

He didn't look back. He was cupping Elena's face, asking in a voice filled with fear and panic—a tone I had never, ever heard him use: "Are you hurt, Elena? Look at me. Don't be afraid."

A suffocating hollow sensation ripped through my heart, aching far more intensely than the bullet holes in my stomach.

For three entire years, I had been the perfect Mafia wife. I took assassination bullets for him, smoothed over the difficulties caused by the family elders, and even betrayed my mother's family—the Moretti family—by handing over the largest arms smuggling port on the East Coast, all just to secure his throne as the Don.

I foolishly believed that as long as I gave enough, this block of ice would eventually be warmed.

What a massive, pathetic joke.

I gave everything for him, yet he stood by and watched me and our unborn child die a gruesome death, all for another woman.

My vision finally plunged into total darkness. The despairing cry of my unborn child seemed to echo endlessly in my mind. In the very second my heart stopped beating, a thought fueled by boundless, bone-deep hatred etched itself into my soul:

*If there is a next life, I would rather rot in hell than love you even a fraction of an inch again!*

...

*Gasp—!*

My eyes snapped open, and I jolted up from the vanity chair, greedily sucking in mouthfuls of air like a drowning person. My hands flew frantically to my stomach, but instead of finding bullet holes, they met smooth, firm skin and the silky touch of fabric.

I froze, slowly lifting my head to look into the vanity mirror before me.

The mirror reflected a woman with striking features and sharp, piercing eyes. She was dressed in a deep red evening gown, the color of fresh blood. Her raven hair was perfectly pinned up, and her entire demeanor radiated the haughty, cold elegance of a top-tier Mafia heiress.

I didn't die in that dark warehouse.

My gaze darted to the grandfather clock in the corner of the bedroom, then to the calendar on the desk—October 14th.

My breath caught in my throat. I remembered this day vividly. It was the annual national Mafia Syndicate Gala. More importantly, it was exactly two years before I died in that warehouse!

I... had been reborn.

A trembling laugh, laced with both bitterness and wild ecstasy, escaped my lips. My eyes turned bloodshot. God had actually given me a second chance. The phantom pain still lingering in my abdomen was the brutal price paid by the foolish Isabella of the past.

*Knock, knock, knock.*

Two impatient taps sounded against the door.

"Isabella." A low, profoundly oppressive male voice rang out from the hallway. "The car is waiting. Tonight’s gala is crucial. I expect no mistakes from you."

Lorenzo.

Just hearing his name sent my blood plunging into an icy abyss. A visceral wave of disgust and intense hatred shot straight to my brain.

In my past life on this exact day, the moment I heard his voice, I would have instantly tucked away all my sharp edges, put on a gentle, pleasing smile, linked my arm through his, and willingly played the role of the silent, obedient shadow behind him.

Because tonight was the night Lorenzo planned to announce to the entire national Mafia that he was fully absorbing the Moretti family's arms port into the Romano syndicate. In my previous life, not only did I not object, but I thought it was a proof of my love, personally handing over my final trump card to this ungrateful bastard.

I reached up and wiped away the residual tears from the corners of my eyes. Expressionless, I picked up a dark red lipstick from the vanity and traced a sharp, ruthless curve over my lips.

The woman in the mirror no longer held a trace of that humble, desperate-to-please aura. In its place was the sheer ruthlessness that the sole legitimate heir of the Moretti family rightfully possessed.

*Lorenzo, you want my mother's power? Dream on.*

***

Inside the penthouse banquet hall of the InterContinental Hotel, crystal chandeliers refracted luxurious light. The massive mahogany round table was surrounded by the Dons and high-ranking executives of major Mafia families from across the country.

I sat to Lorenzo’s right. He was still as breathtakingly handsome as I remembered—a jawline carved from marble, deep ash-grey eyes resembling an abyss, and the commanding aura of a supreme predator. But now, looking at that face, my heart held nothing but dead silence.

Sitting at the far edge of the round table was Elena, dressed in a pure white gown. She attended as a so-called "guest of a neutral family." Her weak, innocent appearance was entirely out of place among this pack of bloodthirsty wolves. I watched coldly as Lorenzo's gaze drifted toward her every few minutes, completely incapable of restraining himself, terrified that she might feel the slightest bit wronged.

In my past life, I swallowed this public humiliation and forced a smile just to save his face. But today?

Lorenzo stood up and raised his tumbler of whiskey. The noisy banquet hall instantly fell dead silent.

"Gentlemen," Lorenzo’s voice was deep and filled with authority. "Tonight, the Romano family enters a new era. As you all know, the Moretti family's arms port has always operated independently. But starting tonight, I will take over all shipping lines and dispatch control of the Moretti family. This merger will cement our absolute dominance on the East Coast."

He didn't even spare me a glance. His tone was a matter-of-fact absolute. He fully expected me to sit there like a well-trained dog and silently consent to his usurpation of power.

The surrounding Dons began exchanging knowing smiles, raising their glasses in preparation for a toast.

"I object."

My voice wasn't loud, but it struck like a thunderbolt, instantly exploding across the banquet hall.

The air froze. Dozens of glasses halted mid-air, and dozens of pairs of eyes, filled with shock and scrutiny, snapped toward me.

Lorenzo stiffened violently, his brows knitting tightly together. He slowly turned his head, a storm of warning brewing in those grey eyes. "Isabella, what are you doing? This matter has already been decided."

"It was decided by you and your underlings, Lorenzo. You never once sought my consent." I stood up unhurriedly, my red gown cascading like a blooming spider lily. I stared straight into his oppressive eyes without a shred of retreat.

"The Moretti port runs on the blood of my mother’s family." I raised my voice, ensuring every boss at the table heard me clearly. "I am the sole legitimate heir to the Moretti family. I hereby announce that the Moretti family will retain absolute independence. From tonight onward, control of all arms routes will be personally taken over by me."

A collective gasp echoed through the room.

A Mafia wife daring to publicly veto a Don's decision at the highest-level round table? This wasn't just a loss of face; it was a resounding, vicious slap across Lorenzo's cheek!

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened so hard his muscles twitched. He stared at me in disbelief, looking as if he didn't recognize the sharp-edged woman standing before him. He took a step closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous, teeth-gritting whisper meant only for me:

"Enough, Isabella. Sit down and shut your mouth. Do not embarrass us here."

I tilted my head slightly, looking at him as if he were a complete stranger, a mocking sneer curving my lips.

"I am not throwing a tantrum, Don Romano. I am making a business declaration." I took a direct step back, putting distance between us.

At that moment, Elena, sitting across the table, seemed to sense the volatile tension. She quickly stood up, speaking in a fragile, reprimanding tone: "Miss Isabella, please don't be like this... Lorenzo is only doing this for the good of the family. Making him lose face in public like this is too unreasonable..."

My gaze instantly shot toward her like a poisoned dagger.

The white dress, the innocent face—this was the exact woman who had killed my child.

"Who gave you the right to speak here?" I sneered coldly, releasing the full, crushing aura of a noble heiress without holding back. "An illegitimate daughter being allowed to sit in this room is already a divine blessing. Dare to speak out of turn one more time, and I will have your tongue ripped out right now."

Elena's face instantly turned ghastly pale. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes as she shrank back, looking pitiful and terrified.

"Isabella! That's enough!" Seeing his beloved wronged, Lorenzo erupted in fury, slamming his hand violently onto the table. "Apologize to her! Now!"

"In your dreams."

I rebuked him mercilessly, casually picking up my velvet clutch from the table.

"I, Isabella Moretti, bow to absolutely no one. Lorenzo, you want my guns and artillery? Fine. Pay the market price. Tell your accountant to line up outside my office tomorrow morning."

With that, I didn't give him a single chance to retort. I turned on my heel crisply, my stilettos clicking sharply against the marble floor as I strode toward the luxurious double doors of the banquet hall.

The entire hall was dead silent, save for the crisp rhythm of my footsteps.

I could feel Lorenzo's gaze—filled with shock, sheer fury, and utter disbelief—nailing into my back like a branding iron.

*Watch closely, Lorenzo.*

As I pushed open the heavy doors and the night breeze brushed against my face, a bloodthirsty smirk curled on my lips.

*The game has only just begun.*

A Reborn from Blood

: Stepping Over the Blood

The ride back to the Romano estate was the most peaceful I had felt in years.

For the entirety of my previous life, I had lived in a constant state of high-strung anxiety. I worried about Lorenzo’s safety, his mood, his family’s approval, and, most pathetically, whether he had spared a thought for me that day. Now, looking out the tinted window of my bulletproof Rolls-Royce at the neon lights of Chicago, my chest felt incredibly light.

As soon as the car pulled up to the sprawling, iron-gated mansion, I gave my first order to the head butler, Marco.

"Move all my belongings to the east wing's master guest suite. Change the locks. From now on, no one enters without my explicit permission. That includes your Don."

Marco’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief, but the cold, absolute authority in my gaze silenced any questions he might have had. "Right away, Donna Isabella."

Once inside my new suite, I immediately picked up the encrypted phone. I dialed a number that, in my past life, I had been foolish enough to block at Lorenzo's behest.

"Uncle Dante," I said when the gruff voice answered.

"Isabella? My God, I heard what happened at the syndicate gala. The entire underworld is buzzing. You actually humiliated Romano in front of the Commission?"

"I took back what belongs to us," I corrected smoothly. "Listen to me carefully. Double the guards at the Moretti ports immediately. Lock down all shipping schedules. If any of Romano's capos try to muscle their way in tomorrow to take over the routes, break their legs and throw them into the harbor."

Dante let out a booming, hearty laugh. "Now *that* is the blood of a Moretti talking! Consider it done, my dear. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up."

Hanging up the phone, a genuine smile touched my lips. In my past life, I had alienated my own family to prove my loyalty to Lorenzo. I had stripped myself of my armor, leaving myself utterly defenseless when he ultimately chose Elena over me.

Never again.

It was past 2:00 AM when the heavy oak front doors downstairs slammed open with a violent crash.

The commotion was impossible to ignore. Shouts echoed through the foyer, followed by the heavy thud of boots. I tied my silk robe tightly around my waist and walked out onto the grand mezzanine overlooking the entrance hall.

Downstairs, Lorenzo was shrugging off his ruined suit jacket. His white dress shirt was torn at the shoulder, soaked in a horrifying amount of fresh, dark blood that dripped steadily onto the pristine marble floor.

He had been ambushed.

It wasn't uncommon. The display of disunity between us at the gala must have emboldened a rival faction to take a shot at him on his way back.

In my past life, seeing him like this would have sent me into a state of blind panic. I would have sprinted down those stairs, tears welling in my eyes, screaming for the customized medical kit. I would have spent the next two hours painstakingly cleaning and stitching his wound, my heart breaking with every flinch he made.

Lorenzo knew this. He relied on it.

Hearing my footsteps, Lorenzo looked up. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tight against the pain, but those abyss-like grey eyes held that familiar, arrogant expectation. He slumped heavily onto the expensive velvet sofa in the center of the living room, pressing a bloody hand to his shoulder.

"Isabella," he gritted out, his voice a low, commanding rasp. "Bring the medical kit. Now."

He didn't mention the gala. He didn't ask if I was okay. To him, my earlier rebellion was just a wife's hysterical tantrum. Now that he was bleeding, he fully expected me to instantly revert to the obedient, desperately loving nurse I had always been.

I slowly descended the grand staircase, my expression completely placid.

Lorenzo’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly as I approached. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk of triumph flashed across his lips. *See?* He must have thought. *She can't help herself. She still loves me.*

I walked past the cabinet where the first-aid kit was kept without even glancing at it. Instead, I walked straight into the adjacent open kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and poured myself a glass of ice water.

The silence in the living room grew deafening.

I took a slow, refreshing sip, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

Lorenzo's brows snapped together. The pain was making him lose his usually iron-clad patience. "Did you go deaf, Isabella? I said get the kit! I took a bullet graze to the shoulder!"

I walked back into the living room, holding my glass. I stopped a few feet away from the sofa, looking down at him. The blood was now dripping from his arm, forming a small, gruesome puddle on my favorite Persian rug.

"I can see that," I said, my voice as chillingly indifferent as a winter breeze. "And you're staining the rug. Tell the maids to scrub it out before it sets."

Lorenzo froze. The command died on his lips. He stared at me, his eyes searching my face for any sign of the frantic worry, the desperate devotion he was so used to.

He found nothing but an empty, glacial void.

"What the hell is wrong with you tonight?" he roared, the sudden movement causing fresh blood to spurt from his wound. He hissed in pain, clutching his arm tighter. "I am bleeding, Isabella! Suture the damn wound like you always do!"

"Like I always do?" I let out a soft, mocking chuckle. "I am the Donna of the Moretti family, Lorenzo. I am not your personal medic, and I am certainly not your maid."

His eyes widened, shock finally breaking through his arrogant facade. "You're my wife!"

"A title that seems to mean very little when you're busy consoling your bastard-born white rose at the Syndicate table," I replied smoothly. "If you need stitches so badly, call the syndicate doctor. Or better yet, call Elena. I'm sure she’d love to play nurse. Just make sure she doesn't faint at the sight of blood."

"Don't bring Elena into this! She has nothing to do with your insane behavior today!" Lorenzo growled, his face twisting with a mix of fury and genuine bewilderment. He tried to stand up, attempting to use his physical presence to intimidate me. "You are pushing my limits, Isabella. Fix my arm, right now, and we will pretend today never happened."

He really thought he was offering me mercy. He thought his forgiveness was a prize I was still begging for.

I looked at the blood pooling near his expensive leather shoes. Then, without a single change in my expression, I took a step forward.

Instead of reaching out to help him, I elegantly lifted the hem of my silk robe and literally stepped *over* the puddle of his blood.

"Goodnight, Don Romano. Try not to bleed to death on my furniture."

I walked past him toward the stairs.

"Isabella!" he bellowed behind me, his voice cracking with a foreign emotion—a sudden, creeping panic. "Where the hell do you think you're going? Come back here!"

I didn't stop. I didn't turn around. I didn't even pause my graceful ascent up the stairs.

Behind me, the sound of glass shattering echoed through the hall as Lorenzo, in a fit of absolute rage and helpless frustration, swept a heavy crystal vase off the side table.

As I closed the door to the east wing and locked it with a satisfying *click*, I touched my flat stomach. In my past life, his blood on my hands was the symbol of my devotion. In this life, his blood was nothing more than a stain on my floor.

A Reborn from Blood

: The Predator's Respect

The scent of salt and rusted metal hung heavy in the crisp morning air at the Moretti shipping yards.

By 9:00 AM, I was standing on the elevated catwalk of Warehouse 4, flanked by Uncle Dante and two dozen heavily armed Moretti enforcers. Below us, rows upon rows of shipping containers held enough military-grade firepower to overthrow a small country.

"The perimeter is secured, Donna Isabella," Dante reported, his eyes scanning the docks. "But as expected, the Romanos aren't taking yesterday's announcement lying down."

Right on cue, a convoy of sleek black SUVs rolled through the main gates.

They came to an aggressive halt in the center of the loading bay. Car doors slammed open, and fifty of Lorenzo's top made men poured out, their hands resting menacingly on the holsters beneath their tailored suits.

Finally, the rear door of the lead Maybach opened. Lorenzo stepped out.

His arm was in a sling—a stark reminder of last night's events—but his posture remained rigid with arrogant authority. His dark grey eyes immediately locked onto me standing on the catwalk, his jaw tightening into a familiar, dangerous line.

"Isabella!" his voice boomed across the concrete yard, echoing off the metal containers. "Come down here. This childish rebellion ends now."

I rested my hands on the cold steel railing, looking down at him with the detached interest of someone observing a stray dog. "This is Moretti territory, Lorenzo. You are trespassing."

"You are my wife! What is yours is mine!" he snapped, taking a step forward. His capos mirrored his movement, closing in on the warehouse. "I have a meeting with the head of the Volkov Bratva in twenty minutes to finalize the Eastern European distribution lines. You will open these containers and authorize the shipment. Do not make me force you."

Ah, the Russian deal.

In my past life, this was the exact deal that cemented Lorenzo’s absolute power. He had used my family’s weapons to negotiate a highly lucrative alliance with the Bratva. I had signed the authorization papers without a second thought, completely unaware that the profits from this deal would be funneled directly into buying Elena a lavish estate in the Hamptons.

"The weapons stay where they are," I said coolly. "If you promised the Russians firepower, you’ll have to pull it out of your own ass. Or perhaps Elena has a secret stockpile hidden under her white dresses?"

Lorenzo’s face twisted in sheer fury. "You have lost your damn mind. Secure the warehouse!" he barked to his men. "If the Morettis resist, put them on the ground!"

Dante and my men instantly raised their assault rifles. The clicking of safeties being switched off echoed ominously in the yard. A full-blown Mafia bloodbath was seconds away.

Suddenly, the deafening roar of armored engines drowned out the tension.

A second convoy entered the docks. But these weren't standard luxury SUVs. They were military-grade, matte-black G-Wagons. They didn't just drive in; they aggressively boxed in Lorenzo’s cars, cutting off any route of escape.

Dozens of massive men poured out, armed with heavy tactical gear. The air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

The Volkov Bratva had arrived.

From the center G-Wagon emerged a man who seemed to command the very shadows around him. He was exceptionally tall, with broad shoulders tailored perfectly into a charcoal three-piece suit. His hair was dark, but it was his eyes that commanded attention—they were a piercing, glacial blue, like the surface of a frozen Siberian lake. A jagged, faded scar ran down the side of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar, adding to the terrifying aura of a true apex predator.

Viktor Volkov. The Pakhan of the Russian Mafia. The most feared man on the Eastern Seaboard.

Lorenzo immediately smoothed his expression, forcing a diplomatic, welcoming smile. He turned his back on me to address the Russian.

"Viktor," Lorenzo greeted, extending his good hand. "You're early. Forgive the mess. I am just dealing with a minor internal family issue before we load your shipments."

Viktor didn't take the hand.

He didn't even look at Lorenzo.

Those glacial blue eyes bypassed the Romano Don entirely and swept upward, locking directly onto me standing on the catwalk. The corner of his mouth curved up in a faint, highly intrigued smirk.

He bypassed Lorenzo's outstretched hand as if the Romano Don were nothing more than thin air. With slow, measured steps, Viktor walked toward the metal staircase leading up to my position.

Lorenzo froze, his hand still suspended in the air. "Viktor? The negotiations are down here."

Viktor stopped at the base of the stairs and finally cast a sideways, mocking glance at Lorenzo. "Negotiations, Romano? From what I hear, you don't actually own the toys you're trying to sell me."

Lorenzo’s face flushed a deep, humiliated red. "It's a misunderstanding with my wife. The goods are mine to sell—"

"I don't do business with middlemen," Viktor cut him off, his thick Russian accent laced with lethal authority. "And I certainly don't do business with men who cannot even command the respect of their own household."

Leaving Lorenzo completely speechless and humiliated in front of his own men, Viktor ascended the stairs.

My guards tensed, but I raised a hand, signaling them to stand down. I watched the Russian boss approach, my posture straight and unwavering.

Viktor stopped a foot away from me. Up close, the sheer physical power radiating from him was intoxicatingly dangerous. Yet, unlike Lorenzo’s oppressive, stifling dominance, the way Viktor looked at me held a distinct, undeniable thread of respect.

He reached out and gently took my right hand.

Below us, Lorenzo let out a low, feral growl. "Volkov, step away from my wife!"

Viktor completely ignored him. Keeping his eyes locked on mine, he bowed his head slightly and pressed a slow, lingering kiss against my knuckles.

"Donna Isabella Moretti," Viktor murmured, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I was told the Moretti heir was a silent shadow. It seems the rumors were entirely wrong. You are a queen walking among fools."

I didn't pull my hand away. Instead, I met his gaze with a sharp, matching smirk. "The fools just had very loud voices, Mr. Volkov. I’ve simply decided to stop listening to them."

Viktor chuckled, a rich, dark sound. He finally released my hand. "I need fifty crates of your highest-grade artillery by the end of the week. My price is twenty percent above market value, in untraceable gold bullion. Exclusively contracted with the Moretti family. Do we have a deal?"

He wasn't negotiating with Lorenzo. He was negotiating directly with me, acknowledging my absolute authority over my empire.

"Thirty percent," I countered smoothly. "And you handle the border transport."

Viktor’s eyes darkened with raw, unfiltered appreciation. "Done."

"No!" Lorenzo roared from below, slamming his fist against the metal railing of the stairs. His face was contorted with a violently ugly mix of jealousy, wounded pride, and sheer panic. "The deal was with the Romano family! Isabella, you cannot do this! I forbid it!"

I finally looked down at my husband. He looked so small, so utterly pathetic, stripped of the power he had stolen from me.

"You forbid nothing, Lorenzo," I said, my voice echoing coldly across the silent docks. "This is my port. My weapons. And my ally." I gestured gracefully toward Viktor. "Now, take your men and get off my property. Before my new business partner decides you are an obstacle to our trade."

Viktor turned slightly, his hand resting casually on the customized weapon at his hip. The dozens of heavily armed Russians below immediately leveled their guns at Lorenzo and his men.

Lorenzo stared at me. For the first time in ten years, the look in his eyes wasn't arrogance, or condescension, or even anger.

It was pure, unadulterated fear.

He finally realized he wasn't just losing his obedient wife. He was losing his empire, and a far deadlier predator had just stepped in to claim the queen he had discarded.