Reborn: The Mafia Captive Wife's Revenge

Seraphina POV

I was barely two blocks from the pier when the staccato roar of Tommy guns tore through the freezing rain.

The sound of a mafia hit was unmistakable. I ducked into the shadows of a narrow alley, my heart pounding against my ribs. Through the downpour, I saw the black Duesenberg Model J—Damien’s car—shattered by bullets, crashed against a brick wall. Men were shouting, returning fire, but in the chaos, I saw a tall figure stumble into the adjacent alleyway, clutching his side.

Damien Falcone.

A dark, twisted instinct propelled me forward. He couldn't die. Not tonight. Not by the hands of some nameless Chicago thugs. Damien Falcone was *mine* to destroy. I needed him alive so I could watch the light leave his eyes when I finally took my revenge.

I found him leaning against a rusted fire escape, his breathing ragged. Without a word, I pulled his uninjured arm over my shoulder. He was dangerously heavy, but the adrenaline of pure hatred fueled me. I dragged him through the labyrinth of the slums until we reached a forgotten Moretti safe house—a decaying apartment my adoptive father had shown me years ago.

I kicked the door shut and hauled him onto the squeaking iron bed. The room smelled of damp rot and dust. I ripped open his ruined, blood-soaked suit jacket. The bullet had grazed his ribs, but that wasn't what terrified me. His skin was radiating a blistering heat, his chest heaving with a sudden, violent fever. It was an old illness, a hidden weakness of the untouchable *Underboss* that no one in the Five Families knew about.

"Stay still," I muttered, turning toward the rusted sink to find a rag.

Before I could take a step, a hand clamped around my wrist like a steel vise.

I gasped as Damien yanked me backward with terrifying, brute force. I crashed onto the mattress, and in a fraction of a second, his heavy arms wrapped around me, pinning me flush against his burning chest.

"Let me go!" I hissed, thrashing against his hold.

But his grip only tightened, desperate and suffocating. His eyes fluttered open, but they were unfocused, glazed with delirium. He wasn't seeing the peeling wallpaper of the safe house. He was looking at a ghost.

"Fia..." his voice was a raw, broken rasp against my ear.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat.

"I'm sorry..." he murmured, burying his face into the crook of my neck, his feverish breath scalding my skin. "I had to... I'm sorry. Don't leave me again..."

The words hit me like a physical blow, shattering the air in my lungs. *Don't leave me again.* My mind spun into a violent tailspin. This wasn't a hallucination of the present. This was an apology from the past—from the life where he had locked me away, where my escape had ended in blood. How could he possibly know?

"I'm not her," I choked out, fighting the sudden, treacherous sting of tears. "Damien, let go!"

He didn't hear me. He clung to me like a drowning man to wreckage, his apologies bleeding into incoherent, agonized whispers until his body finally went slack, pulling him into unconsciousness.

I shoved him off, my hands trembling violently. My meticulously built wall of hatred had just sustained a massive crack. I couldn't process it. I couldn't afford to. He was bleeding out.

I left him on the bed and slipped back into the storm. It took me an hour to track down an underground pharmacist I remembered from my past life, trading Silas Vance's money for morphine, iodine, and bandages.

When I finally returned to the dim, narrow hallway outside the safe house, the shadows shifted.

A massive figure stepped into the flickering light of the single bulb. Angelo.

His dark coat was soaked, his face a mask of pure, murderous fury. As Damien’s most loyal *Soldier*, losing his *Underboss* was the ultimate disgrace. His cold eyes dropped to the medical box in my hands, and I saw the exact moment he condemned me. To him, I was the rat who set the trap.

"Move, Moretti," Angelo snarled, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.

"He needs a doctor, not a watchdog," I said, keeping my voice steady as I stepped in front of the door. "If you move him now, he dies."

Angelo didn't care. He lunged forward, a battering ram of muscle and rage.

Instinct took over. I pivoted, using my father's training to strike the nerve cluster on his forearm, attempting to deflect his grab. A flash of genuine shock crossed Angelo's face—he hadn't expected the country girl to fight back.

But surprise wasn't enough to stop a Falcone enforcer.

With a vicious grunt, Angelo recovered instantly. He grabbed me by the collar of my coat and hurled me aside. My back slammed brutally against the dirty plaster wall, knocking the wind out of me.

Before I could slide to the floor, Angelo raised his heavy boot and kicked the flimsy wooden door dead center. The lock splintered with a deafening crack, the door flying open to reveal the vulnerable, unconscious man on the bed.