Reborn Heiress: Pampered By The Ruthless Don
The man smiling in the silver frame on my vanity was the very same man who, in exactly three months, would wrap his hands around my throat.
I knew this because I had already died.
I had felt the freezing, silty water of the Hudson River fill my lungs while Alexander watched the life drain from my eyes, his mistress laughing in the background.
I had hovered like a ghost above my own funeral, watching the betrayal continue even after my death.
My mother, the perfect Mafia widow, stood stoically next to my killer, unaware she had sold her daughter to a butcher. My fiancé checked his watch, bored, waiting to liquidate my inheritance.
But then I saw him.
Darrian Golden. The Don of the rival clan. The enemy.
He stood in the pouring rain, his expensive suit soaked through, staring at my coffin as if the world had ended. When the earth hit the wood, he didn't just cry; he roared in primal agony. My fiancé killed me, but my enemy was the only one who mourned me.
"The Commission is waiting," my mother’s voice snapped the timeline back into place.
She stood in my doorway, demanding I set the engagement date to secure the territory. She saw a charming Capo; I saw the rat who had cut my father's brake lines.
In my first life, I was a trembling bird. In this life, I was the match that would burn the cage down.
I smashed the photo frame against the marble table, the sound cracking through the room like a gunshot.
"Contact the Golden Clan," I commanded.
My mother went pale. "He is a savage, Azalea. He butchers men for sport."
"Tell Don Golden that Azalea Kidd is offering a parley," I said, looking out the window at the city that would soon be ours.
"Tell him I am offering the only thing he has ever wanted: Me."
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Chapter 4
I woke to the sharp sting of antiseptic and the low rumble of hushed voices.
My arm throbbed violently where the needle had been shoved in.
I felt hollowed out, lightheaded, as if my bones had been replaced with fragile glass.
"She's awake," Alaric's voice cut through the haze.
He was standing at the foot of my bed, methodically peeling an orange. The citrus scent clashed nauseatingly with the sterile air.
Darrius was leaning against the door, checking the slide of his gun.
"How is the patient?" Darrius asked, his tone dripping with mockery. "Did we save the precious mistress?"
"Azalea is fine. She needed a transfusion for 'shock'," Alaric laughed, tossing a piece of peel onto the floor. "Boss just wanted to teach the Princess a lesson. Remind her who owns the blood in her veins."
"It's a waste," Darrius muttered, holstering his weapon. "We should just marry her off to Alexander and be done with it. Once he secures the territory, we can stage an overdose. She's worth more as a tragedy than a wife."
I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed to slits.
They thought I was asleep.
They thought I was broken.
*Investment.*
*Tragedy.*
*Overdose.*
The words floated in the air, toxic and heavy, settling into my lungs like smoke.
They weren't just bad men; they were vultures waiting for me to stop twitching.
I waited until Alaric turned to throw the rest of the orange peel in the trash.
Then, I sat up.
The world tilted, grey spots dancing wildly in my vision, but I forced myself to focus.
I yanked the IV line out of my hand.
Blood welled up instantly, dripping hot and red onto the white sheets.
"Whoa, easy there," Alaric said, spinning around. "You're not discharged, Princess. Alexander said you stay until you learn some manners."
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
My bare feet hit the cold floor, sending a shock up my spine.
I stood up.
I swayed, grabbing the IV pole white-knuckled for support.
"Get out of my way," I rasped.
"Or what?" Darrius chuckled, stepping forward to block the door. "You gonna slap me too?"
"I'm leaving," I said, my voice gaining steel. "And if you touch me, I will scream loud enough to bring the nurses, the police, and the press down here. Alexander doesn't want a scene right now. He wants the transition to be smooth."
I was bluffing about the police—Alexander owned them—but the press was a wildcard even he couldn't control yet.
Darrius hesitated.
I used that fraction of a second.
I pushed past him, my shoulder colliding with his chest.
It hurt me more than him—like hitting a brick wall—but I didn't stop.
I walked into the hallway, my hospital gown fluttering like a broken wing.
"You're making a mistake, Azalea!" Alaric called after me, his voice echoing down the corridor. "There's nowhere to go. The Kidd family is *us*. You leave, you're nothing."
I didn't turn around.
I walked to the elevator, pressing the button with a bloody finger.
The doors slid open.
I stepped inside and watched their faces disappear as the doors sealed me in.
"I am not the Kidd family anymore," I whispered to my pale reflection in the metal doors. "I am the reckoning."