Reborn: The Lethal Ex-Wife's Bloody Return

The rain in Chicago tastes bitter with the ashes and betrayal. I stood on the cracked asphalt of the industrial area, here at the very edge of the Valentis family's domain. The rain poured down heavily, and I watched as the taillights of a black SUV completely melted in the rain and fog. Two soldiers under Damian's command had just thrown me here like a bag of trash. "Stay, not as my wife, Iz, but as my mistress." Damian's last cruel ultimatum still echoes in my ears. Right now, he is about to marry the daughter of the Falcone family's strategist, Seraphina Ricci. And I, I chose exile. With the godfather's decree, my title, my sanctuary, my former life-all were stripped away clean. Amid the roar of the storm, a faint, trembling sob suddenly came. I turned my head abruptly. In the shadow of a rusty trash can, drenched and chilled by the rain, was my five-year-old son. "Mom?" Angelo. He had secretly hidden in the back seat of the car, afraid of losing me. At that moment, my heart shattered into a thousand pieces, yet it suddenly grew wings from the ruins. My exile became a desperate dual escape from then on. Two days later. A dilapidated motel in Indiana. The flickering red neon outside cast a hellish, blood-red glow over this dirty, cramped room. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of decay and impending death. Angelo lay on a stained mattress, his small chest rising and falling in ragged, wet, and shallow breaths. It was pneumonia. Damian froze all my accounts, and now I have nothing. No money, no doctor, no hope. "Please, baby, just a little bit." I pleaded, bringing a cup of warm instant soup to his chapped lips. He couldn't swallow at all. Those eyes, blazing from the high fever, were rolling unconsciously. The original despair gripped my throat like a beast. My gaze fell upon my wrist. That Cartier Love bracelet-Damian's wedding gift to me-now seemed no more than a sarcastic golden chain. I let out a desperate groan and ripped off the bracelet symbolizing my chains, hurling it fiercely into the corner. Extreme pain and sorrow transformed into a sacrificial resolve. Without hesitation, I bit my fingertips, letting the piercing pain spread through my ten fingers. This physical agony was nothing compared to the earth-shattering tearing sensation in my chest. "Swallow it down, my little angel," I trembled, leaning closer, pressing the warm crimson leaking from my fingertips against his pale lips. "Drain my life force, as long as you can live." But his tightly closed lips remained unresponsive. That bit of blood slid down his chin, in vain. I collapsed onto his frail body, utterly drowned in the boundless, endless sea of despair. Damián's perspective The flames in the glass fireplace were wildly licking, casting a warm golden light over the modern art in my top-floor apartment and illuminating the bustling skyline of Chicago through the floor-to-ceiling window. "A boy needs his father, dear." Seraphina whispered softly, her fingertips tracing the edge of a crystal champagne glass. She wore my ring, bore my surname, and the silk robe she wore had slipped halfway off her shoulders. "He also needs a decent mother. We must bring the child home." I took a sip of vintage champagne, the taste of victory seemed particularly sweet on my tongue. Isabella's exile strengthened my alliance with the Falcone family, making my power invincible. But Seraphina was right, allowing the heir of the Valentis family to be outside is a hidden danger I cannot ignore. I took out my phone from my pocket and dialed my most loyal soldier. "Leo, they found Isabella in a rust-belt town in Indiana. Go there, find the boy, and bring him back." I hung up the phone and completely forgot about it. It was as simple as ordering dinner. I casually scooped up my new queen in my arms, unaware of the tragedy spreading on the floor of a motel hundreds of miles away. Isabella's Perspective The silence in the motel was heavier than the raging rainstorm outside the window. Angelo's rapid breaths, which had struggled for two days, suddenly slowed. He stirred slightly. In the shadows of the red neon lights, his eyes, bright from the high fever, stared fixedly at me. In an incredibly fleeting moment, the pain faded from his face. He gave me a faint, pure smile-it was his last trace of reliance and love for this world, and for me. Then, that small hand, which had been weakly gripping my finger, completely dropped down. The faint sound of his breathing stopped forever. "Angelo?" I whispered, those two words like a bloody knife tearing through my vocal cords. "Angelo, no. Don't, don't..." I held him tightly in my arms, his body gradually losing heat, rocking gently, the surrounding silence turning into a deafening roar in my ears. I did not scream. That grief was too profound, too absolute, already beyond the limits of words and sound. In this cramped, decaying house, the innocent girl who had once loved Damiano Valentini died along with her son. Instead, it is something cold, hard, and eternal. It is the vow I carved with blood, tears, and a child's sudden stopped heartbeat. Blood for blood.