The Don's Punishment

As my due date approached, a massive discrepancy surfaced in the Galante family's arms accounts.

The leadership made a swift decision.

They sent me, Sophia Vitale, the Don's wife, the woman everyone claimed had nothing better to do, to personally inspect the armory and verify the inventory.

I believed it was a routine check.

I never imagined my husband's godsister, Monica Leone, would use it as cover to blow up the entire armory.

The explosion was deafening. Fire ripped through the sky.

Concrete collapsed around me, crushing my body as a searing pain tore through my abdomen.

I did not call my husband on his highest-priority private line. Instead, I sent a distress signal to my father.

In my previous life, the moment the explosion occurred, I had used that same priority channel to call my husband.

The child had survived.

Monica had been obliterated in the blast.

My husband had claimed he did not blame me. He had said Monica was an outsider and that an heir mattered more. He had spared no expense, hiring elite obstetric specialists to monitor me day and night. He had told me to stay calm and wait for delivery.

Then, on the day I went into labor, he personally locked me and the baby inside an abandoned warehouse drenched in gasoline and burned us alive.

As my consciousness faded, I saw his cruel, inhuman face through the flames.

"If you hadn't deliberately delayed, she wouldn't have died. Do you really think playing the innocent victim could fool me? Dream on," he said. "You like playing with fire so much? Fine. I'll let you experience her despair yourself."

When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the armory, at the exact moment of the explosion.

Waves of heat and smoke tore into my lungs. I coughed until they felt close to collapse. A dull, dragging pain twisted through my abdomen and hauled me out of memory and back into reality.

I did not press the priority line that connected directly to Enzo Galante's phone. Instead, I gathered what little strength remained and crushed the emergency comm chip hidden inside my earring.

The signal forced its way out and rerouted straight to the private channel of my father, Dominic Vitale.

Monica Leone's rescue arrived faster than I expected.

From a distance, I spotted a familiar figure striding toward the blast zone with a cluster of men in black at his heels. Enzo locked onto the corner where Monica lay trapped and surged forward with his people.

He fitted her with a blast vest, hands careful and precise, then lifted her from beneath the unstable slab. He held her as if she were something fragile and irreplaceable.

Only after I saw her secured on a stretcher did I rasp out a plea for help. I called to the family members who were still clearing debris nearby, but no one answered.

Cold glances flicked my way, each one sharp with open disdain.

"What's the madam