He Lost His Donna Forever

After my rebirth, I no longer stop my husband, Don Dante Moretti, from taking care of his dead older brother's widow and daughter, Sofia Bianchi and Lucia Moretti.

I spent my entire life hoping that he would spare me a glance, after all. Only when I was hugging my son, Leone Moretti's icy corpse while dying in the snow, did I realize just how wrong I'd been.

Once I'm reborn, I visit the law firm decisively and turn in my appeal for divorce.

"I request to file a divorce with Dante Moretti. I'd like to terminate Leone's and my original identities."

A few days later, Leone and I will disappear from Dante's life. Since he wants to stay with Sofia and Lucia, I'll grant his wish.

Elena's Point-of-View

I walked out of the law firm into a biting early spring wind that made me shudder. I squeezed my fist, my nails biting into my palm, until the pain forced the truth home—I wasn't dreaming.

I had been reborn five years into the past—back to when the world was still whole, and the worst of it hadn't yet been written in stone.

I had just arrived back at the fortified estate on the outskirts of the city when the butler approached, holding out a letter. "I have another letter for you, Donna Moretti—it's from Don Moretti. He's currently in Chicalum settling a territory dispute, yet he still finds time to write to you every single day.

"You're the envy of the whole famiglia, since Don Moretti treasures you so much, Donna Moretti."

I looked at the letter, which read, "To my one and only love," and noticed the sharp and authoritative penmanship, a perfect reflection of Dante Moretti's commanding nature.

In my past life, these love letters had once made my heart overflow with joy; now, they felt like nothing but a cruel irony.

I was just about to step into the main building when a voice called out from the nearby terrace of the adjacent wing. "You're finally back, Elena!"

It was Sofia Bianchi, my sister-in-law by marriage, who sat on the terrace with her daughter, Lucia Moretti, feasting on a lavish seafood spread that had been imported by air.

I noticed that Lucia was wearing a costly, custom-tailored outfit and was beaming like a Principessa, while my five-year-old son, Leone Moretti, was crouched on the steps, gazing at them longingly.

Sofia lowered her wineglass and deliberately raised her voice, asking, "Isn't Dante returning to Novayork today? He truly is indulgent. You, the Donna, spend your days reading his love letters, while I'm stuck here managing the famiglia's most difficult and vital overseas accounts. I'll certainly have to complain to him about it when he gets back."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I thought about how absurd everything was.

In my past life, it had played out the same way—Dante showered me with all the "romance" in the world, while he funneled the lifeblood