Reborn From Fire: The Mafia King's Bride

The fire that melted my skin should have been the end of my story.

I had been the perfect mafia wife. I obeyed my father, I married Dante Genovese, and I even birthed his daughter.

But in return, he locked us in a safehouse and lit a match.

He watched from behind a steel door as I burned to ash, all because his mistress, Sofia, was jealous and wanted me out of the picture.

My own brother had spiked my champagne to ensure I was too weak to fight back.

I died screaming, my lungs filling with smoke and the scent of my husband's betrayal.

But when I gasped awake, I wasn't in hell.

I was in the bridal suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

My hands were smooth. My skin was unblemished. The date on the digital clock burned red in the darkness.

It was three years ago.

It was the night of our engagement. The night it all began.

Dante was in the bathroom right now, humming contentedly as he washed off the scent of his mistress before coming to claim his "lawful prize."

In my past life, I waited for him. I let him take me, thinking my submission would earn his love.

Not this time.

I didn't run to the lobby for help. My family had sold me out.

Instead, I took the elevator to the Penthouse floor.

To the territory of the Outfit.

To the door of Matteo Moretti—The Butcher. The only man ruthless enough to make Dante tremble.

When the door opened, revealing a man with eyes like ice and a gun in his hand, I didn't flinch.

I fell to my knees and looked up at the monster who could save me.

"I am Elena Vitiello," I whispered, the drug in my veins setting my blood on fire.

"And I have a proposition."

Chapter 1

Elena POV：

The fire that had melted my skin should have been the end of my story. But when I gasped awake, my lungs didn't fill with smoke-they filled with the expensive scent of sandalwood and betrayal.

The cologne of the husband who lit the match.

I bolted upright in the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like a bird throwing itself against a cage.

My hands flew to my face.

Smooth. Unblemished.

No blisters. No peeling flesh. No searing memory of the flames, or of Dante Genovese watching from behind the safety of a locked steel door.

I looked around the room.

It wasn't the safehouse.

It was the Presidential Suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

The date on the digital clock by the bedside burned into my retinas in red neon.

It was three years ago.

It was tonight.

The night of the Peace Treaty Gala. The night my brother, Luca, had spiked my champagne to ensure I would be pliable enough to consummate my arranged marriage to Dante.

Heat coiled in my belly.

Not the heat of the fire that killed me.

The heat of the aphrodisiac.

It