Rising From The Grave As A Queen
I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Clayton.
The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister’s engagement party.
"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.
Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.
"Ivy? You're... we buried you."
They hadn't buried me.
They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.
Clayton’s shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.
He accused me of faking my death for attention.
He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.
He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.
"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."
But he made a fatal mistake.
He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.
He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.
Before Clayton’s fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.
Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.
"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."
I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.
I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.
I came back to bury them.
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Chapter 3
Ivy Richardson POV
I slid into the back of the waiting town car and immediately locked the doors.
My hands were steady, but my chest felt constricted, as if invisible bands were tightening around my ribs.
Seeing Clayton had been like prying open a door to a room I had burned down years ago.
The phantom smell of smoke still lingered in the back of my throat.
I pulled out my phone.
The screen lit up with a priority notification.
Secure Video Link.
I tapped the screen to accept.
The face that filled the display was the only thing that still tethered me to the earth.
Collin Anderson.
He was sitting in his office in New York, the Manhattan skyline blurring behind him. His dark hair was disheveled, a sign he had been running his hands through it in frustration.
His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, scanned my face instantly for bruises.
"Did he touch you?"
No hello.
No pleasantries.
Just the immediate, lethal protectiveness that defined our marriage.
Collin wasn't just a Capo; he was a weapon that Alaric Richardson kept sheathed in velvet, waiting for the command to strike.
"He didn't touch me," I said, my voice softening.
"I saw Clayton. He's exactly as small as I remembered."
Collin's jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone.
"I should be there," he growled.
"I should be the one standing between you and that filth."
I smiled, shifting the phone so he could see I was safe within the leather interior of the car.
"I need to do this part alone, Collin."
I took a steadying breath. "I need to bury Ivy Dillard properly so that Ivy Richardson can live."
A small, joyous noise came from off-screen.
"Leo."
My son climbed into his father's lap, his messy curls bouncing with energy.
"Mama!" he chirped, holding up a toy car. "Daddy says you're fighting dragons."
My heart squeezed painfully.
Leo was four years old, innocent and perfect.
He was the reason I had survived the rebirth. He was the reason I would burn the Dillard legacy to the ground.
"Yes, baby," I said, my voice thick with emotion.
"Mama is fighting the dragons so they can never come near you."
Another face appeared on the screen, looming over Collin's shoulder.
Alaric Richardson.
The Capo dei Capi.
The man who had found me broken in a hospital bed and offered me a choice: die as a victim or live as a predator.
He looked older, his face lined with the hard decisions of a ruler, but his eyes were razor-sharp.
"Do you have the documents for your mother's estate?" Alaric asked.
His voice was pure gravel and authority.
"Yes, Dad," I replied.
I called him Dad because my biological father had lost the right to that title the moment he buried an empty box and washed his hands of me.
"Good," Alaric said.
"Remember, Ivy. Blood is loyalty, not just DNA."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"If they disrespect you, they disrespect the Outfit. And we do not tolerate disrespect."
I nodded.
I knew exactly what that meant.
The Richardson army was on standby. One word from me, and Chicago would burn.
I hung up the phone as the car pulled up to the high-end mall.
I needed a distraction. A peace offering to my own frayed nerves.
I wasn't Ivy Dillard anymore.
I was a Richardson.
And Richardsons didn't hide.