On my wedding day to Julian Moretti, the future Mafia Don, I was deliberately sent to the wrong penthouse.
My half-sister Sofia had crawled into my fiancé’s bed, leaving me to be discovered by the family’s exiled, alcoholic cousin.
In my past life, I was shattered by this orchestrated betrayal. I cried and begged when Julian publicly humiliated me, choosing his illegitimate mistress over his rightful bride.
I played the perfect, dignified Mafia wife for years. I swallowed his insults, ignored his infidelities, and accepted my ruined reputation to keep the peace.
But my blind obedience only paved the way for my murder. Julian discarded me, and I was poisoned to death so Sofia could steal my crown as the Mafia Queen.
Until my agonizing last breath, I didn’t understand. I had honored our families’ blood alliance flawlessly.
Why was I the sacrificial lamb while they were rewarded for their treason?
Opening my eyes again, I was back on the dark leather sofa, suffocating in my heavy silk wedding dress.
This time, I didn’t shed a single tear.
I grabbed a heavy brass letter opener, marched straight into the Don’s main study, and slapped the Underboss across the face in front of the entire family.
“A Valdez woman does not share her husband,” I declared coldly. “To honor the alliance, I will marry Dante.”
If they wanted to make my humiliation a fact, I was going to make it a funeral.
Reborn, I Wed the Untamed Playboy Chapter 1
Isabella POV
The penthouse smelled of top-shelf whiskey, expensive cologne, and the faint, bitter ash of Cuban cigars. It was a modern, rebellious fortress suspended above the glittering Chicago Gold Coast, its stark black and gold lines a violent clash against the ancient, blood-soaked traditions of the Moretti family.
I sat perfectly still on the edge of a dark leather sofa, the heavy, pearl-encrusted silk of my wedding dress pooling around me like a suffocating shroud. I didn’t belong here. I was supposed to be in the Heir’s Wing, waiting for my new husband, Julian Moretti.
But I knew exactly why I was here.
In my past life, I had sat in this exact spot, trembling and confused, until the realization of my half-sister Sofia’s betrayal shattered me. I had wept. I had begged. And eventually, I had died for it, discarded by Julian and poisoned by Sofia’s ambition to become the Mafia Queen.
Not this time. The blood in my veins felt like ice. I wasn’t a sacrificial lamb anymore; I was a ghost who had crawled back from hell to collect her dues.
The heavy front door clicked open. Heavy footsteps echoed in the foyer. Dante “The Ghost” Moretti, the exiled cousin and the family’s designated disappointment, stumbled into the living room. He was shrugging off his tailored suit jacket when his boot caught on the silver bridal comb I had deliberately dropped on the rug.
“Cazzo,” he muttered, his voice rough with alcohol and exhaustion.
He kicked the comb aside and finally looked up. He froze. The drunken haze in his dark, hollow eyes vanished instantly, replaced by a sharp, predatory shock. He stared at my veil, at the diamonds at my throat, and then at my face.
I didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“So, this is the gutter the Moretti family has assigned me?” I asked, my voice slicing through the silence like a razor.
Dante blinked, his gaze darting to the abstract painting on his wall, then back to me. “Unless Julian suddenly developed a taste for modern art and cheap whores, you’re in the wrong bed, Bride.”
Before he could demand an explanation, the frantic clatter of heels echoed from the hallway. Gina, my stepmother’s loyal maid, burst into the penthouse. Her chest heaved with exaggerated breaths, but I didn’t miss the gleam of triumph in her eyes.
“Oh my God! Miss Isabella!” Gina shrieked, her hands flying to her cheeks. “Miss Sofia… she was sent to Mr. Julian’s suite! What if… what if they’re already…”
She let the sentence hang, a poisonous suggestion meant to force my surrender. Her feet remained firmly planted by the door. She was stalling, giving Julian and Sofia enough time to make their treason a fait accompli.
Dante tensed, the reality of the insult hitting him. A switched bride. A public humiliation that could ignite a Family War. He looked at me, expecting tears, hysteria, or perhaps a desperate plea.
I gave him nothing.
I stood up. The rustle of my heavy silk gown sounded like unsheathing swords in the quiet room. I ignored Gina entirely, walking past her pathetic performance with measured, deliberate steps. I stopped at Dante’s mahogany desk. My fingers brushed past a crystal decanter and wrapped around the cold, heavy handle of a brass letter opener.
The blade caught the dim light, gleaming with a lethal promise.
Dante watched me, his jaw tightening. He recognized the look in my eyes. It was the pure, unadulterated intent to kill—something he had likely seen in the eyes of seasoned Soldiers, but never in a twenty-year-old bride.
“They want to make this a fact?” I said, my tone dead and hollow. “I’ll make it a funeral.”
I turned my back on them, gripping the brass weapon, and walked out the door toward the Heir’s Wing. Behind me, I heard the sharp clink of Dante tossing his whiskey glass onto the table, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots falling into step behind me.
Reborn, I Wed the Untamed Playboy Chapter 2
Isabella POV
The heavy thud of Dante’s boots behind me was the only accompaniment to the rustle of my silk gown. The corridor of the Heir’s Wing was a suffocating display of Moretti wealth. Thick Persian rugs swallowed my footsteps, and the oil portraits of past Dons stared down at me from the shadows, their painted eyes judging the unwanted bride.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I reached the heavy, carved oak door of Julian’s suite and stopped.
Instead of using my knuckles, I raised the brass letter opener. I brought the heavy hilt down against the wood. Bang. Bang. Bang.
The rhythmic, metallic thuds echoed like gunshots in the dead quiet of the estate. It wasn’t a plea for my husband to open the door; it was a death knell for their secrets. Within seconds, the shadows shifted. Soldiers stationed at the stairwell hurried over, their hands hovering near their holsters. Doors down the hall clicked open. The beast of the Moretti family was awake.
Ten minutes later, the private scandal had been dragged into the blinding light of the main study.
The room smelled of old money, leather, and impending violence. I stood in the center of the room, the picture of a wronged bride, while the power players of the family hastily assembled.
Don Antonio Moretti sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his face carved from granite. Beside him, his wife, Elvina, the Mafia Queen, was desperately trying to stitch the torn fabric of our alliance back together.
“Isabella, cara (dear), please sit,” Elvina urged, her voice tight with forced warmth. “This is a terrible misunderstanding. Julian would never insult the Valdez family like this. He will give you a perfect explanation.”
She gestured sharply to a Soldier by the door. “Go fetch my son. Tell him his mother demands his presence.”
The room waited in a suffocating silence. Dante leaned against the towering bookshelves, his arms crossed. He was watching me, the drunken haze completely gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, calculating intrigue.
The Soldier returned far too quickly. He looked pale, his eyes darting nervously toward the Don before settling on Elvina.
“Speak,” Don Antonio commanded, his voice a low rumble.
“Signora,” the Soldier swallowed hard. “Mr. Julian ordered that no one is to disturb him. The door is locked from the inside.”
Elvina’s face drained of color. Her promise of a “misunderstanding” shattered into a million humiliating pieces on the hardwood floor. I kept my face perfectly blank, suppressing the cold smile fighting to touch my lips. By the bookshelves, Dante’s posture stiffened. He understood now. This wasn’t just a man thinking with his dick; this was the Underboss deliberately spitting on his family’s honor.
Don Antonio slowly stood up. The temperature in the study seemed to plummet to freezing. He didn’t shout. A Don whose word was absolute law didn’t need to raise his voice. He picked up his crystal whiskey glass and set it down with a sharp, definitive clink.
He turned his dead eyes to Marco Moretti, Dante’s father and a feared Capo.
“Marco,” the Don said, his tone devoid of any paternal warmth. “Break down the door. Bring my son to me. Now.”
The wait was agonizing for them, but for me, it was the sweet anticipation of a trap snapping shut. We heard the distant, violent splintering of wood echoing from the Heir’s Wing.
When Marco finally returned, he shoved them into the study.
Sofia stumbled forward. Her pale pink dress was wrinkled, her hair artfully messy, and her doe-like eyes were brimming with fresh tears. She looked exactly like the fragile, innocent victim she always pretended to be.
And then there was Julian. The Underboss. The man who had ordered my death in another lifetime.
His jaw was clenched, his expression entirely devoid of guilt. He didn’t even spare me a single glance. Instead, his arm wrapped tightly around Sofia’s waist, anchoring the bastard to his side in a blatant, possessive grip. He lifted his chin, staring directly into the furious eyes of his father, the Don, choosing his mistress over his bride, his duty, and his life.
Reborn, I Wed the Untamed Playboy Chapter 3
Isabella POV
The silence in the study was absolute, thick enough to choke on. Julian’s arm remained locked around Sofia’s waist, a blatant declaration of war against his own blood. Don Antonio’s knuckles turned white around the armrests of his leather chair, but before the Don could unleash his wrath, Sofia made her move.
She buried her face against Julian’s chest, then peeked out at me from beneath her lashes. Her doe eyes swam with perfectly timed tears, playing the tragic heroine to perfection.
“Sister,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a sickening mix of triumph and fake pity. “I… I am so sorry it had to be this way.”
The word sister hissed through the air like venom. Julian shot me a dark, warning glare, silently commanding me to accept my humiliation and bow to his choice.
Instead, I smoothed the silk of my gown and closed the distance between us. My footsteps were measured, calm. When I reached them, I didn’t hesitate. I raised my hand and struck Sofia across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The sharp crack echoed off the mahogany walls like a gunshot.
Sofia shrieked, her knees buckling as she collapsed against Julian’s chest. A bright red handprint bloomed instantly on her pale cheek.
“Don’t you dare call me sister,” I said, my voice dropping to a lethal, ice-cold whisper. “You are nothing.”
Julian’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a murderous fury. He shoved Sofia behind him, shielding her like a feral beast protecting its mate.
“Enough!” he snarled, his voice vibrating with rage. “You have no right. A Moretti wife should have dignity, not the manners of a street brawler.”
A street brawler.
The sheer hypocrisy of his words tasted like ash on my tongue. In my past life, I had been the perfect, dignified wife. For decades, I had swallowed his insults, turned a blind eye to his infidelities, and ultimately died for my blind obedience. He wanted a silent martyr. He wanted the broken girl who would quietly accept his scraps while he paraded his puttana (whore) in front of the world.
The cold, suffocating hatred of a stolen lifetime surged through my veins, drowning out any lingering fear. I rubbed my stinging palm, my eyes locking onto his.
Then, I took another step forward.
Before he could even register the movement, I swung my arm and backhanded the Underboss of the Moretti family.
The sound was deafening. It was a blow meant to shatter his untouchable ego. Julian stumbled back half a step, his jaw slack with absolute shock. The future Don, publicly struck by his unwanted bride.
Elvina let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her throat in horror. Don Antonio remained frozen in his chair, his eyes darkening to pitch black. Yet, neither of them uttered a single word to stop me. They couldn’t. Julian had broken the regola (rule) first; he had publicly spat on our families’ onore (honor). Punishing me meant acknowledging his unforgivable failure.
Through the suffocating tension, my gaze flicked to the shadows by the towering bookshelves. Dante was still leaning there, but the bored, drunken indifference was entirely gone. A slow, dark smirk curved his lips, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, predatory approval.
The ringing silence stretched across the room, heavy with the weight of a shattered alliance, waiting for the true master of the house to pass judgment.