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