Divorced, Yet the Mafia Boss Wants Me Back

When the 99th unanswered call to Julius rang into silence, Anastasia finally lost all reason. Clutching her younger brother's critical condition notice, she slammed the accelerator down and crashed straight through the front doors of Deep Dive Club.

She raced up the stairs to the top floor, panic burning in her throat—but when she arrived, she froze at the sight before her.

Beneath the thirty-meter-deep azure pool, two figures were entwined in a desperate, breathless embrace.

Julius held the woman beneath him so tightly there was not a sliver of space between them. Their only oxygen was exchanged in their kiss—wild, suffocating, drowning in both pain and pleasure.

The sight stabbed through Anastasia's eyes like shards of glass.

The woman's face, flushed with passion, overlapped in her mind with the one in the photograph hidden inside Julius's pocket watch.

And in that instant, Anastasia finally recognized her.

No wonder—no wonder Julius had gone berserk days ago, shooting his partner's men when he saw her being harassed.

The woman was Irene, the one who had betrayed him years ago—the vanished "Red Rose", his lover who'd stolen confidential files and driven him into a living hell.

He had loved her so completely, so madly.

Loved her enough to turn his back on his own allies, loved her enough to ruin multimillion-dollar deals just to take her away. Loved her enough to abandon Anastasia's brother—the one who had fought and bled beside him—at the sound of a single call from Irene... so that while her brother lay unconscious in the ICU with a ruptured femoral artery, Julius could be here—making love underwater with the woman he'd lost and found again.

Anastasia's hand didn't tremble as she raised her gun.

Her gaze was icy, her aim steady as she fired.

Bang! Bang!

The tempered glass shattered, and a torrent of water burst forth, hurling the tangled lovers onto the marble floor.

"Achoo."

The air-conditioning chilled the soaked marble; Irene shivered violently, curling into Julius's arms.

"Have you had enough, Anastasia?!" Julius's voice was a whip of fury. His expression turned to ice upon seeing her.

"Irene's health is fragile. She's been through shock today—she can't take the cold like you can."

Anastasia laughed, the sound brittle like glass. "If her body's so fragile, she should stay in a greenhouse, not in a pool screwing you."

Her voice trembled with rage. "You kept the doctor locked in here to watch over her in case she fainted during your little tryst—did it ever cross your mind that my brother is fighting for his life in the ICU because of you?"

"And you dare say I'm the one making a scene?!"

Tears burned her eyes. The image of her brother's pale, blood-soaked body refused to fade.

She hurled the crumpled notice at him—but Julius didn't even glance at it.

He sneered. "If your brother can't handle a minor injury, then he doesn't deserve to stay in the company. Perkins Group has no use for the weak."

He added carelessly, "You can have the doctor. But Little Pea just got her first vaccine—she can't be left alone. Once the dog wakes up, you can take Dr. Schumann to see your brother."

He stepped over the soaked paper as if it were nothing, pulled on his jacket, and draped it tenderly around Irene's shoulders.

Anastasia stared at him, disbelief hollowing her chest.

In Julius's heart, her brother's life—was worth less than a dog's.

Anxious, she lunged toward the suite to drag the doctor out herself, but pain exploded across her shoulder—Julius shoved her down hard onto the floor.

"You're getting more and more out of line," he said, frowning impatiently.

"I heard your father's business is in trouble lately. Maybe a bit more hardship will remind you how to behave."

His dark gaze swept over her, cold and heavy. Then he wrapped his arm around Irene's waist and led her toward the suite.

As they passed, Irene's mocking voice brushed Anastasia's ear, "So this is the famous Miss Rios's upbringing? I'm disappointed."

The words pierced deeper than any bullet.

Yes—once, she had been a sheltered, innocent young lady.

But eight years ago, when Irene leaked Julius's confidential data and his enemies hunted him down, he fled, bleeding—to the Rios family's ancestral home.

That night shattered her peaceful life forever.

Anastasia couldn't bear letting a man die before her eyes, so she saved him and bandaged his wounds.

And because of that act of mercy, his enemies came for her family.

She watched her mother, standing between her and the blade, have her throat slit open before her very eyes.

Just as the knife was about to strike her too, the door burst open. Julius stormed in and shot the attacker's hand to pieces.

The knife clattered to the floor. Anastasia picked it up—and drove it into her mother's killer's chest without hesitation.

The blade caught on bone.

Julius's laughter was low and wild as he wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing her hand down harder on the hilt.

"Miss Rios," he whispered against her ear, his voice drenched in madness, "welcome to my world."

From that day on, the most feared mafia boss in the capital had at his side a beautiful, thorned rose.

Julius was ruthless—he turned the men who'd killed her mother into her live targets, using them to teach her to shoot, to fight, to survive.

But he was also indulgent.

At auctions, whatever jewel she so much as glanced at would appear on her dressing table the next day.

From hairpins to heels, every piece she wore was chosen by him.

Everyone said Julius had long since let go of his past. And Anastasia believed it too.

She thought that eight years of shared blood and devotion were enough to erase the shadow of his lost lover.

Until she saw Irene again—with her face, her figure, her style—and the way Julius looked at her.

Only then did Anastasia finally understand: He had never stopped loving Irene. He had only loved her through Anastasia.

Glass shards bit deep into her palm. Blood spread across the marble.

Her hand hurt. But her heart hurts more.

As she watched Julius walk away, cradling Irene tenderly in his arms, Anastasia made her first call to a long-forgotten number.

"Want to make a deal?"

"My bargaining chip is... myself."

If Julius had only ever seen her as a substitute—if he had never truly loved her—then every drop of blood, every year of devotion she had wasted on him, she would reclaim, one by one.