Fake Sickness, Real Consequences

In the tenth year of being the secret lover of Luca, a Mafia Don, I died.

When the bullet tore through my chest, I used the last of my strength to dial his number.

“Luca, I’ve been shot… Please, save me…”

On the other end, he let out a careless, mocking snort. “Eva, is this another one of your tragic‑act routines? Helena’s waiting for me to have breakfast with her. I’m tired of this game. Stop bothering me.”

Then, the call cut off without mercy, and so I closed my eyes in despair.

When I opened them again, I had gone back seven days before the shooting.

This time, with trembling fingers, I dialed a number I hadn’t dared to touch in three years.

“Marcus, three years ago, you said you’d marry me. Do you still stand by it?”

The voice on the other end exploded. “Eva! You finally called me! I’m in Sicily, clearing out an enemy faction. I can’t get back right now.

“Give me seven days. I swear I’ll come back to you in a blaze of glory!”

I woke up with a warm, tingling sensation running across my back.

Luca’s hand was pressed against the soft skin at my waist, his fingertips lazily tracing circles. The touch was so hot that it made my breath hitch.

Instinctively, I tried to shift forward, hoping to escape the heat of his palm. However, the arm he had wrapped around my waist tightened sharply.

“Why are you running?” he murmured against my ear. “You were obedient enough last night.”

I bit my lip and didn’t respond, curling my fingers into the silk sheets underneath me.

He seemed pleased by my silence. His fingers drifted to my most sensitive spot, testing and teasing to send a shiver through my entire body.

My breathing scattered instantly. It felt like someone had shoved a burning coal into my chest, heat rising all the way to my throat.

Just when my mind was about to blur, his phone on the nightstand buzzed loudly.

The screen lit up, and Helena’s smiling face flashed across the lock screen.

Luca’s movements halted.

The hand gripping my waist slowly loosened, and the desire in his eyes was quickly replaced by familiar indifference.

“Get up,” he sat up and said with the same tone he always used, as if our heated tangle just moments ago had been nothing but a dream. “Helena had another nightmare about the fire. I need to go.”

His warmth lingered on my skin as I lay there with my eyes closed, catching my breath.

The memories of my previous life slammed into me.

When I had been bleeding from a gunshot wound, I called Luca.

However, he let out a careless, mocking snort. “Eva, is this another one of your tragic‑act routines? Helena’s waiting for me to have breakfast with her. Stop bothering me.”

The busy tone of the call hanging up in my ear had cut deeper than the bullet.

When I