Reborn To Ruin: The Mafia Queen's Revenge

I spent twenty-one years trying to be the perfect Mafia Princess, treating my illegitimate sister, Mia, with nothing but grace.

That kindness is exactly what got me killed.

My husband, Luca, didn't take me on a honeymoon. He dragged me into the soundproof basement of our estate.

Mia was there, too. Not to help me, but to gloat.

She laughed as she admitted to poisoning our mother with arsenic, watching with glee as Luca brought a serrated knife to my chest.

"You were always too soft, Sera," he sneered, carving through my skin while I begged for mercy.

I died in that cold, dark room, choking on my own blood and the bitter taste of betrayal.

But I didn't stay dead.

I woke up gasping for air, clutching a chest that was smooth and unscarred.

The calendar on my nightstand read May 12, 2018.

It was five years ago. The very morning I was scheduled to sign the marriage contract that would seal my fate.

I looked at the paper on the vanity.

In my last life, I signed it with a trembling hand.

This time, I flicked open my silver Zippo and watched the flames eat Luca’s name.

I didn't pack a dress. I packed a pistol and a stack of cash.

I was going to Las Vegas.

There was only one man dangerous enough to help me destroy the New York families.

I walked into the underground fight club, locked eyes with the deadliest man in the room, and smiled.

"Dante Cavallaro," I said.

"I'm here to make you a King."

Chapter 1

Sera POV

The phantom sensation of a serrated knife carving through my skin woke me screaming, though the sound died in my throat.

My lungs heaved, desperate for air that didn't smell like mildew and dried blood. I clawed at my chest, expecting to find the gash Luca had left there, but my fingers met smooth, unbroken skin.

The expensive silk of my nightgown clung to my sweat-drenched body.

I wasn't in the basement. I wasn't dead.

I scrambled for the phone on the bedside table. The light blinded me for a second before the numbers swam into focus.

May 12, 2018.

It was five years ago. Five years before Mia poisoned my mother. Five years before Luca Vance, the man I was supposed to marry, watched his men drag me into the dark.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling. The silence of the Moretti estate was heavy, suffocating. Downstairs, I knew my father was likely drinking scotch in his study, proud that he had secured a union with the Vance family.

On the vanity table sat the contract. The paper was thick, cream-colored, and binding. An arranged marriage to Luca Vance, a rising Capo who would eventually become a monster.

I stood up. My legs felt weak, but my mind was sharpening with every second. The terror of the torture chamber was fading, replaced by a cold, hard stone in the center of my chest.

I walked to the vanity and stared into the mirror. The girl staring back was twenty-one, beautiful, and naive. But her eyes were ancient. They were the eyes of a woman who had seen her own grave.

I picked up the contract.

In my past life, I had signed it. I had tried to be the perfect Mafia Princess. I had tried to be kind to Mia, my father's illegitimate daughter, even when she looked at me with envy that could peel paint.

That kindness had gotten me killed.

I walked to the fireplace. I didn't bother with a match. I used the lighter Luca had given me as an engagement gift, a silver Zippo engraved with our initials.

I flicked the flame to life. It danced, hungry and bright.

I held the corner of the marriage contract to the fire. The paper curled, turning black, then ash. I watched the flames eat my name. I watched them eat Luca's name.

It felt like the first deep breath I had taken in years.

I didn't pack clothes. Clothes were heavy. I packed cash. I opened the safe behind the painting of the Virgin Mary—a safe my father thought only he knew the combination to. I took every stack of bills inside.

I grabbed my passport.

I went to the desk and pulled out a sheet of stationery. I didn't write a tearful goodbye. I didn't beg for forgiveness.

*I resign.*

Two words. That was all they deserved.

I slipped a small, pearl-handled pistol into my purse. It was a decorative thing, meant for a lady, but it could still put a hole in a man if he got too close.

I walked out of my bedroom door and didn't look back. The hallway was dark. I moved like a ghost, the way I had learned to move when I was trying to avoid Luca's temper in the future.

I slipped out the servant's entrance. The night air was cool against my flushed skin.

A black sedan was waiting at the end of the driveway. I had called the service three minutes after I woke up.

"Where to, Miss?" the driver asked, his eyes scanning me in the rearview mirror.

"The airport," I said.

"And then?"

"Las Vegas," I whispered.

New York was a cage. Vegas was a jungle. And in the jungle, you didn't need a pedigree. You just needed teeth.