Reborn To Win Their Bloody Bet

Vincent’s eyebrow lifted.

My quiet compliance only seemed to stoke the malice in him.

He stepped toward me, staring down with ice-cold contempt.

“Every meal, every dress, every night under my roof was mine. You’ll pay it back. Or I’ll send you to the family’s detention facility.”

I saw it clearly: the rage of a man who’d lost the bet, desperately trying to take his frustration out on the easiest target he could find.

The game piece that hadn’t broken the way he’d expected.

I’d been stupid enough to think a poor Brooklyn immigrant’s daughter could win the hearts of New York’s most powerful Cosa Nostra dons.

Now I knew every soft word, every gentle touch, had been nothing but an act.

My throat tightened, but I held his gaze, my voice steady.

“Don Luciano. You once promised me anything I wanted, no matter what it was. Does that promise still stand?”

Six months earlier, rival hitmen had ambushed us at an Italian restaurant in Little Italy.

I’d thrown myself in front of him, taken a bullet that grazed my ribcage, which nearly killed me.

He’d sat by my hospital bed for three days straight, swearing before his entire family that I could have anything I wanted.

I’d had a foolish crush on him then.

But I’d learned a harsh truth: a don would never be faithful, and could never give me the one thing I’d craved more than anything.

At my words, Vincent’s jaw tightened, scorn filling his eyes.

“Nick doesn’t want you, and neither do I. Don’t think that old promise means you can cling to me. My only future partner is Seraphina Moretti. No one else is worthy.”

He was certain I’d beg to stay.

Instead, I bowed my head, my voice flat and calm.

“All I ask is to leave this building unharmed. No strings attached.”

I didn’t want anything from him, or from Nick.

I just wanted to walk out that door. That was all.

Vincent froze, staring at me like he was seeing me for the first time.

He’d expected me to throw a fit like I had in my past life.

He’d wanted an excuse to break me, to take out his bitter loss on me.

But he didn’t know I’d already lived this once.

I knew exactly what would happen if I fought back.

I’d ended up dead in a fleabag motel room, pumped full of heroin, written off by everyone as a strung-out junkie.

This time, I wasn’t fighting. I was walking away.

He stared, jaw tight with unspoken irritation, and spat through gritted teeth: “Get out.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I stepped out into the Manhattan snowstorm, Christmas had just passed, the city buried under a blizzard.

The cold bit through my thin dress, but I didn’t stop walking.

The hushed voices of huddled maids drifted over to me.

“Did you hear? Miss Moretti’s only been in New York from Chicago for two weeks, and the Valentino family’s already cleared out every jewelry store on Fifth Avenue for her. Talk about devotion.”

“Wait, weren’t both the dons fawning over that Rossi girl just last week?”

“We all knew that was just a game. She was a toy, a placeholder. Now that Seraphina’s back, they’ve had to end the bet one way or another.”

Everyone had known about the bet.

Everyone but me.

I kept walking, my boots crunching over the thick snow, all the way back to my family’s home in Brooklyn.

Just like I had in my past life, I’d come back to the house I’d grown up in.

I kept my head down, walked straight to the front door, and knocked.

I knocked for a long time. The door never opened.

From inside, I heard the housekeeper’s voice, small and nervous.

“Miss, please go. Mr. Rossi said you’re not welcome here anymore. You’re not allowed in this house.”

My hand froze mid-knock.

It felt like a thousand tiny needles had pierced my chest, the pain spreading all the way to my fingertips.