Reborn To Reign: Choosing The Monster Over The Prince
The bullet tore through my chest, ending my life as the perfect mafia princess.
My fiancé, Connor Walls, watched me bleed out on the cold tile floor while he calmly cleaned his gun.
Standing beside him was my cousin Jana, the girl I trusted with my life, looking at him with adoration as I took my last breath.
I died realizing that the "Golden Prince" of the Chicago Outfit was actually a monster who had beaten me behind closed doors for years.
And the man I had been terrified of—his brother Brannon, the "Butcher"—was the only one who had ever truly protected me.
I died full of regret, hatred, and the metallic taste of blood.
But then, I gasped, my body jolting upright on a blue gym mat.
My skin was smooth. My heart was beating.
Connor stood above me, young and arrogant, offering me a hand.
I was twenty-one again.
The beatings, the betrayal, the murder—none of it had happened yet.
Connor smiled, thinking I was still the naive girl he planned to break and discard.
He thought I would walk into the Rite of Choice tonight and obediently become his property.
He was wrong.
That night, under the crystal chandeliers, the Don asked me to pledge myself to the heir.
The entire room held its breath, waiting for the rehearsed "I do."
I looked at Connor, then turned my gaze to the terrifying shadow in the corner.
"The debt requires a union with the Walls bloodline," I said, my voice steel. "It does not specify the heir."
I pointed at the monster everyone feared.
"I choose Brannon Walls."
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Chapter 3
Abby Talley POV
The orchestra swelled, a crescendo that signaled the beginning of the Rite.
I moved toward the dais where the Don sat ensconced on a velvet throne, watching his kingdom with tired, heavy eyes.
But Jana intercepted me.
She held a glass of red wine, her knuckles tight around the stem. Her eyes were bright with malice. She timed it perfectly.
Just as I passed a group of Capos and their wives, Jana lunged forward, feigning a stumble on her high heels.
The wine splashed across the front of my red dress, leaving a dark, startling stain on the silk.
"Oh my god!" Jana shrieked, dropping the glass.
It shattered on the marble floor with a violent crash. "Abby! Why did you push me?"
The room went deathly silent.
Jana fell to her knees, sobbing dramatically. As she fell, her hand brushed against the broken glass, and she cried out in pain. "I was just trying to congratulate you! Why are you so jealous?"
It was a performance worthy of the stage. In my past life, I would have stammered, apologized, and scrambled to help her up.
Instead, I stood still, looking down at her.
"Get up, Jana," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "You're embarrassing yourself."
Connor appeared instantly. He didn't look at the spilled wine. He didn't ask what happened.
He saw an audience, and he saw an opportunity to assert his dominance.
"What is wrong with you?" Connor shouted, his voice booming across the silent ballroom.
He grabbed my shoulder and spun me around to face him.
"She's your cousin! She has nothing, and you treat her like trash because you're insecure?"
"She threw the wine, Connor," I said calmly. "Ask the Capo behind me. He saw it."
But Connor didn't care about the truth. He cared about the narrative. He cared about breaking me down publicly so that no one would question it when I disappeared into his penthouse later.
"Don't lie to me!"
His hand moved faster than I could react.
A sharp sting bloomed across my cheek, and the world went silent. The impact was less a sound and more a sudden, deafening pressure that stole the air from the room.
My head snapped to the side. A dull, throbbing ache began to spread from my jaw.
The gasp from the room sucked the air out of the space.
In our world, striking a Made Man was a grave offense. Striking a woman under the Don's protection, at a formal ceremony, was… complicated.
But Connor was the Golden Boy. He was the heir. He banked on his privilege protecting him.
Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head back to face him. My cheek throbbed, but I didn't touch it. I didn't cry.
Connor looked momentarily stunned by his own violence, or perhaps by the fact that I hadn't crumbled. Then, his arrogance returned.
"You needed to be calmed down," he announced, loud enough for the Don to hear. "She's hysterical. Look at her."
I wasn't hysterical. I was ice.
"Is that how you treat what you claim to value, Connor?" I asked, my voice clear.
"Do you damage it before the ink is even dry?"
"You think you can escape my influence?" he sneered, leaning in close. "I can take everything from you. I can throw you on the street. You are nothing without me."
I looked past him.
The shadows in the far corner of the room seemed to detach themselves from the wall. A figure was moving. Not walking—stalking.
The crowd parted, not out of respect this time, but out of pure, primal fear.
Brannon Walls stepped into the light.
He was huge, broad-shouldered and towering, a monolith of a man. A scar ran through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent scowl.
He didn't look at Connor. He didn't look at the Don.
His dark, empty eyes were locked with lethal focus on the red mark blooming on my cheek.