His Angel's Final Ashes

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."