Chapter 3

Isabella's perspective

Dr. Rossi stared at the boy lying lifeless on the stainless steel operating table, then looked at me with his greedy eyes. "I won't treat you without a hundred thousand dollars in cash, sweetie. This isn't a charity."

I didn't even blink. Although I had no money at the moment, I was holding a card far deadlier than cash.

"I don't have cash," I said, my voice calm and emotionless, "but I have information that can save you from spending the rest of your life in federal prison. Tonight, the FBI will move in. The location is an underground spot on Eighth Street. The undercover agent's name is Miller, code name 'Snake.' He'll meet his contact at midnight."

Rosy's face instantly turned deathly pale, drained of all color. Under the mixed gaze of shock and awe, I pushed away the mountain-like assistant. These hands, once reserved only for playing Chopin for mafia elites, had now become the most composed wings of redemption. Relying on the first aid skills honed in that dark world, I quickly stabilized Angeلو's breathing. With a faint sigh, his violently undulations chest miraculously calmed down, settling into long, rhythmic breaths.

Rossi watched me from the side, eyes full of fear, yet deeply fascinated by the monster I had become. "You can stay," he murmured, taking a step back.

Hours later, in that bloodstained inner room, I held my sleeping son, clearly knowing what was happening in Chicago three hundred miles away. Memories of my past life played back disgustingly clearly.

Right now, in the glass-top apartment of the "Lucrèce" building, my fate is being nailed to the gallows. My grandfather-the "General" Marco Moretti-is bowing to Lorenzo Farkone. To save me from the slander meticulously woven by the mistress of the Farkone family, my grandfather was forced to give up our family's control over the Chicago port.

I can almost hear Lorenzo's smooth, aristocratic voice. He casually tosses an antique coin between his fingers, glancing at Damian Valentini, standing by the side with a heart of ash.

"To solidify your marriage with Miss Ricci, the Moretti family has surrendered the port," Lorenzo probes this new godfather. "In exchange, I declare your marriage to Isabella Moretti null and void. Damian, how do you feel about this deal?"

And Damien, without the slightest hesitation, coldly replied: "My wife is only Seraphina Rich."

"You won't regret it?"

"Never."

Only one word, and Damien stripped me of all the protection I had in the Valentis family, throwing me into the wolves. He discarded us like trash. But he didn't know that the woman he discarded had quietly crawled back to the mortal world.

A week later, the pungent dust from the Gary limestone quarry filled my throat.

I swung the heavy hammer, the violent impact shaking my arms. My hands were already raw and bleeding, the blood seeping into the rough canvas gloves. I needed clean cash to buy antibiotics for Angelo, and I also needed this cruel, almost self-destructive heavy labor to forge this body into a weapon.

Amidst the swirling white dust, a fleet of black Cadillacs parked at the edge of the desolate mine pit.

I didn't stop what I was doing.

Maria, the most loyal servant of our family, stumbled out of the car, surrounded by heavily armed Moretti family soldiers. She spent days navigating the dirty streets, bribing bartenders and informants, just to find her former mafia queen in this wasteland.

"Miss!" Maria's voice broke into heart-wrenching sobs. She ran through the mud, knelt before me, indifferent to the mud staining her spotless dress. "Oh, dear, Miss Isabella... look at what you've suffered. Let's take you home."

I slowly lowered the hammer, took off my glove, and carelessly wrapped my bleeding palm with a dirty cloth. My eyes were like a pool of stagnant water, showing no shock or relief as she had expected.

I know they will come today. But in a past life, they were a whole week late. By the time they arrived, they could only afford a small wooden coffin for Angelo.

"I know, Maria," I said calmly, my gaze falling on the armored cars waiting to take us back to Chicago as I looked past her crying figure, "Help me pack the children's luggage."