Reborn From Fire: The Mafia King's Bride

The fire that melted my skin should have been the end of my story.

I had been the perfect mafia wife. I obeyed my father, I married Dante Genovese, and I even birthed his daughter.

But in return, he locked us in a safehouse and lit a match.

He watched from behind a steel door as I burned to ash, all because his mistress, Sofia, was jealous and wanted me out of the picture.

My own brother had spiked my champagne to ensure I was too weak to fight back.

I died screaming, my lungs filling with smoke and the scent of my husband's betrayal.

But when I gasped awake, I wasn't in hell.

I was in the bridal suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

My hands were smooth. My skin was unblemished. The date on the digital clock burned red in the darkness.

It was three years ago.

It was the night of our engagement. The night it all began.

Dante was in the bathroom right now, humming contentedly as he washed off the scent of his mistress before coming to claim his "lawful prize."

In my past life, I waited for him. I let him take me, thinking my submission would earn his love.

Not this time.

I didn't run to the lobby for help. My family had sold me out.

Instead, I took the elevator to the Penthouse floor.

To the territory of the Outfit.

To the door of Matteo Moretti—The Butcher. The only man ruthless enough to make Dante tremble.

When the door opened, revealing a man with eyes like ice and a gun in his hand, I didn't flinch.

I fell to my knees and looked up at the monster who could save me.

"I am Elena Vitiello," I whispered, the drug in my veins setting my blood on fire.

"And I have a proposition."

Chapter 1

Elena POV：

The fire that had melted my skin should have been the end of my story. But when I gasped awake, my lungs didn't fill with smoke-they filled with the expensive scent of sandalwood and betrayal.

The cologne of the husband who lit the match.

I bolted upright in the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a bird throwing itself against a cage.

My hands flew to my face.

Smooth. Unblemished.

No blisters. No peeling flesh. No searing memory of the flames, or of Dante Genovese watching from behind the safety of a locked steel door.

I looked around the room.

It wasn't the safehouse.

It was the Presidential Suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

The date on the digital clock by the bedside burned into my retinas in red neon.

It was three years ago.

It was tonight.

The night of the Peace Treaty Gala. The night my brother, Luca, had spiked my champagne to ensure I would be pliable enough to consummate my arranged marriage to Dante.

Heat coiled in my belly.

Not the heat of the fire that killed me.

The heat of the aphrodisiac.

It was starting.

The bathroom door creaked. Steam billowed out, carrying the sound of low, content humming.

Dante.

He was in there, washing off the scent of his mistress, Sofia, before he came to claim his lawful prize.

In the life I had already lived, I had waited. I had been a good girl. I had let him take me, thinking it would make him love me. I had birthed his daughter.

And he had burned us both to ash because Sofia was jealous.

A wave of nausea hit me, stronger than the drug in my veins.

I swung my legs off the bed.

My knees buckled, but I forced myself to stand.

I grabbed a champagne flute from the nightstand and shattered it against the marble edge.

The sound was sharp, final.

I stared at the jagged stem. I didn't want a weapon. I needed a wrecking ball.

I picked up the hotel phone.

My fingers trembled, but not from fear. From rage.

I dialed the number I had memorized from years of stalking his phone records.

"Hello?" Her voice was breathless. Sofia.

She was downstairs in the lobby bar, waiting for Dante to text her that it was done. That he had bedded the Vitiello princess and secured his alliance.

"He wants you," I rasped. My voice sounded wrecked-perfect for the role I was playing.

"Dante?" she asked, her voice pitching up.

"He says I'm boring," I lied, the words tasting like bile. "He needs you to finish what I can't start. Room 402. The door is unlocked."

I hung up before she could ask questions.

The drug was working faster this time. Or maybe my rage was accelerating it.

My skin felt tight. My blood was boiling.

I needed to leave.

But first, I needed to rewrite history.

I stumbled to the door and undid the latch.

I waited in the shadows of the entryway.

Two minutes later, the elevator dinged.

Sofia hurried down the hall, her cheap sequined dress catching the sconce light. She looked eager. Desperate.

She pushed the door open.

"Dante?" she whispered.

"In the bathroom," I choked out, stepping from behind the door.

She jumped, looking at me with wide, triumphant eyes. She thought I was defeated. She thought she had won.

"He's waiting," I said, pointing to the steam-filled room.

She didn't hesitate. She practically sprinted toward the bathroom.

The moment she crossed the threshold of the bedroom, I slipped out into the hallway.

I pulled the heavy suite door shut.

The automatic lock clicked into place.

I leaned against the wood, breathing hard.

Inside, Dante was drugged on his own ego, expecting a submissive wife. Instead, he was about to get the woman he truly wanted.

And by morning, the Vitiello family would know that Dante Genovese had chosen a whore over their daughter on his wedding night.

But I wasn't safe yet.

I was in the Genovese wing of the hotel.

If his guards saw me, they would drag me back.

I pushed off the door.

The hallway stretched out, long and dizzying.

I couldn't go to the lobby. Luca was there. He would just put me back in the room, thinking he was saving our family.

I needed sanctuary.

No. I needed a monster to kill a monster.

I stumbled toward the service elevator.

My vision blurred. The heat in my body was becoming unbearable. I needed a man. Any man.

No.

Not just any man.

I pressed the button for the Penthouse floor.

The elevator climbed.

The Penthouse didn't belong to the Genovese family. It didn't belong to the Vitiellos.

It belonged to the Outfit.

It belonged to Matteo Moretti. The Butcher.

The man who controlled the ports, the unions, and half the city's police force. The man who had skinned a rival Capo alive for insulting his mother.

He was the only man Dante feared.

The elevator doors opened.

I fell out onto the plush carpet.

The hallway was silent.

There was only one set of double doors at the end.

I dragged myself toward them.

My body was screaming for release. My mind was screaming for vengeance.

I reached the door and pounded on it with my fist.

"Open up," I gasped.

Nothing.

I hit it again. "Please."

The lock clicked.

The door swung inward.

A wall of muscle blocked my view.

I looked up.

Matteo Moretti filled the doorway. He was wearing black dress pants and a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark ink of tattoos that climbed his throat.

His eyes were like ice. Cold. Dead.

He held a glass of whiskey in one hand and a gun in the other.

"You have five seconds to explain why you're still breathing," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my chest.

I fell to my knees at his feet.

I grabbed the fabric of his pants.

"I am Elena Vitiello," I panted, the drug setting my senses on fire. "And I have a proposition."