No Mercy For My Mafia Fiancé

During a massive syndicate attack, my fiancé, the most ruthless Mafia Capo, locked his grip on my wrist like an iron vice.

He desperately wanted to drag me into a corner panic room to protect Bianca, the innocent underworld socialite he secretly obsessed over.

In my past life, I saved him with my body—and he rewarded me with a crippled leg, years of disgust, and a push off a cliff. He believed her lies, and he murdered me for them.

Opening my eyes again, I was reborn to the exact moment the safehouse was under attack.

This time, I let him walk willingly into his own concrete tomb.

Chapter 1

Lucia POV

The air in the safehouse was first stolen, then slammed back into us. A low thrum vibrated up through the mahogany floorboards before the third-story windows dissolved into a spray of jagged glass.

My fiancé's grip was a blacksmith's vice on my wrist. He began to drag me toward a steel panic room I knew to be a sepulchre.

Silvio Vitiello is the most ruthless Capo in our family. His reputation preceded him; a man whose hands were stained with the blood of three rival bosses, whose presence alone made men bow and women tremble.

If I let this undisputed king of the underworld pull me into that room, I would lose my legs, a repetition of a life I had already endured.

And eventually, he would throw me from a cliff for the woman who now cowered behind his broad shoulders.

I have five seconds to break the iron grip of a killer, or history will repeat its bloody cycle.

A second tremor shook the building's foundations, and a fine dust of plaster began to rain from the ceiling.

Panic erupted, a singular, shrieking beast.

Dozens of armed soldiers and associates bottlenecked at the reinforced steel door, their shouts lost beneath the wail of sirens.

Bianca Moretti rushed to the head of the long mahogany table. She is the beautiful socialite of the underworld, the innocent canary everyone felt a desperate need to protect.

She stood tall, her angelic face and a deceptively placid voice urging the men to take cover in the corner panic room. She begged them to wait for the extraction team.

I stared at the heavy steel door of that room, my stomach twisting. The intelligence reports had been explicit.

They proved the structural integrity of that specific corner was a fiction.

My voice cut through the din. I screamed at the men to jump from the third-story window to the docks below.

The associates hesitated. They looked from the splintered frames to the long drop, a frantic calculus of survival in their eyes.

Silvio ignored me, his entire being focused on the open vault.

Memory crashed over me—the snap of my femur, the weight of him crushing my lungs, and later, his voice from beside my hospital bed: “Do not think you can make me owe you again.” I had saved him, and he had spat that line at me while I still couldn't feel my legs.

But now, the way his brow furrowed after he spoke—as if the words escaped from somewhere buried—told me he didn't fully remember. He only felt the debt, and the fear of owing it.

I opened my eyes, and the phantom sensation of the long fall receded. The dizziness in my head faded.

I was reborn to the exact moment Silvio ran toward the panic room, and this time, I would let him walk willingly to his own tomb.

Bianca stood on the table, still directing the panicked soldiers into the confined space.

I watched the men scramble into the steel box. The metallic clang of their boots on the floor was a confirmation I was truly back in the middle of the syndicate attack.

The memory of Silvio pushing me from the cliff burned in my chest like swallowed acid.

Suddenly, Silvio stopped. He turned, shouldering his way back through the crowd, and his hand locked again on my wrist.

He pulled me hard, attempting to drag me toward the back corner of the safehouse.

I planted my feet, my heels digging into the floorboards as I fought the iron leverage of his grip.

I screamed over the sirens that the panic room was a death trap.

Silvio turned his head, and his eyes, dark and void of all reason, fixed upon me.

"Stop this hysteria!" he snarled, his voice a low rumble of iron scraping stone. "You are staying in the corner with me."

He leaned in close, his breath hot against my face.

"Do not think you can make me owe you again," he muttered, the words slipping out as if his tongue had betrayed him.

A flicker of confusion crossed his face—he didn't know why he said that, but something in his gut was screaming at him to avoid my sacrifice.

I let out a dark sneer.

I drew my leg back and drove the heel of my shoe into his shin with the full weight of my body.

His adrenaline was too high; his grip on my wrist did not loosen.

He stepped right into my space, a tower of muscle and fury. He glared down at me, his face a mask of anger.

"Do you have a death wish?" he demanded. "That jump will break your legs."

I laughed in his face, the sound a splinter of glass in the ruin.

"A three-story drop to the cargo nets and water below is a simple matter of physics," I told him.

I turned my head from the heat of his fury and shouted to the remaining associates in the room.

I exposed the compromised architecture of the panic room loudly and clearly, my voice echoing off the bullet-riddled walls.

I commanded them to break the rest of the glass and take their chances out the window.

For a split second, the chaotic room fell dead silent.

And in that silence, I saw it—the first crack in Silvio's certainty. His jaw tightened, as if an invisible warning bell rang somewhere deep in his skull. He didn't know what it meant. But he would learn.