Reborn: The Mafia Heiress They Abandoned

Elena POV:

The bass of the music thumped against my ribcage, a heavy, suffocating counterpoint to the erratic rhythm of my heart.

The Made Man Gala was a churning sea of black tuxedos and blood-red dresses.

It was the night the Associates graduated to Soldiers.

It was supposed to be a celebration.

For them, it was a coronation. For me, it was a funeral.

I stood in the shadows of the corner, clutching a glass of sparkling water like a lifeline.

I watched them.

Dante and Matteo were holding court near the polished mahogany bar.

Sofia was sandwiched intimately between them.

She wore white—a calculated attempt at innocence—though the neckline plunged deep enough to advertise exactly what she had to offer.

She was laughing, her head thrown back, exposing the pale, vulnerable line of her throat.

Dante leaned in, whispering something against the shell of her ear.

Matteo was dutifully refilling her drink.

They looked like a family.

And I was the ghost haunting them.

Whispers floated around me like smoke.

"Did you hear? Elena rejected the High Council."

"She's crazy."

"No, she's jealous. Look at how Dante looks at Sofia."

I tightened my grip on the crystal glass until I feared it would shatter in my palm.

I had one last task before I could escape.

The Family Guest Book.

It was a sacred tradition.

Every graduating class signed it.

It was a symbol of unity, of blood binding blood.

I needed their signatures to close the chapter officially.

To validate the transfer of power before I exiled myself to Europe.

I forced my legs to move, walking toward them.

The air seemed to drop twenty degrees as I approached.

Sofia saw me first.

"Oh, look," she chirped, her voice sugar-sweet and grating. "The Princess is finally coming down from her tower."

Dante turned.

His eyes were glazed with a toxic mix of alcohol and arrogance.

"What do you want, Elena?" he asked, his tone flat.

I held out the heavy leather-bound book.

"Sign it," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Just sign it so I can hand it to the Don and leave."

Dante looked at the book as if it were garbage.

"I'm not signing anything for you," he sneered. "Not until you apologize to Sofia."

"Apologize for what?" The question tumbled out before I could stop it.

"For existing?"

"For breathing the same air?"

"For making her feel insecure," Matteo cut in. He leaned against the bar, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You intimidate her, Elena. You walk around like you own the place."

I *do* own the place, I wanted to scream. *My father built this hall brick by bloody brick.*

But I remained silent.

"I just need the signatures," I repeated, my patience fraying.

Matteo smirked.

"I'll sign," he said.

He leaned in close, invading my space.

"If you give me your tactical notes. The ones you made for the entrance exams."

My notes were legendary within the Family.

I had spent years analyzing the rival territories, mapping their weaknesses.

"Sofia is struggling," Matteo continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She needs help passing the written test. Give her your notes, and I'll sign your little book."

It was extortion.

It was pathetic.

"Fine," I said, the fight draining out of me.

I didn't care about the notes anymore.

Knowledge was useless to people who refused to learn.

"I will leave them at the front desk."

Matteo snatched the book from my hands.

He pulled a gold pen from his pocket.

He didn't sign his name.

He wrote something in jagged, angry letters.

Then he handed the pen to Sofia.

She giggled, a hollow sound, and wrote something underneath.

Dante didn't write anything.

He just stared at me with that familiar look of possessive disappointment.

"Here," Matteo said, shoving the book back into my chest.

I looked down at the page.

Under the column for "Future Ambitions," Matteo had scrawled:

*Disgust.*

And under it, in Sofia's bubbly, childish handwriting:

*Love, Sofia.*

They were mocking the sanctity of the oath.

They were mocking me.

I looked up at them.

In my past life—the life that ended ten minutes ago—I would have cried.

I would have run to the bathroom and sobbed until my eyes were swollen shut.

But tonight, I felt nothing but a hollow clarity.

I looked at the book.

Then I looked at the trash can next to the bar.

I didn't say a word.

I walked over to the bin.

"Elena!" Dante barked. "What are you doing?"

I let go.

I dropped the heavy leather book into the trash.

It landed with a dull, final thud among the discarded napkins and lime wedges.

"What I begged for is now worthless," I said, my voice cutting through the noise.

The music seemed to stop.

People were staring.

Dante's face turned a violent shade of red.

"Pick that up," he ordered.

"No," I said.

I turned on my heel.

"You are making a mistake!" Matteo yelled after me. "You will regret this!"

I walked toward the exit, my head high.

The only thing I regretted was that I hadn't done it sooner.