I waited until Vincent had collected Claire.

Then I took the divorce papers to the Santoro family headquarters—his flagship nightclub.

"Mrs. Santoro, the Don is busy right now. Please wait."

Vincent's top man, a guy with a scar down his face, stopped me respectfully.

Busy?

Busy worrying about Claire?

The blinds weren't pulled completely shut.

I could see him. The man who wouldn't flinch at a bullet in his own chest was now on one knee before Claire.

He was gently dabbing her back with a sterile gauze pad.

And Claire… she was sitting in his high-backed leather chair, his throne.

Her simple white dress was smudged with grime, her faded canvas shoes a stark contrast to the opulence of the office.

She looked like an angel who had stumbled into hell's antechamber.

And Vincent, the man who once had a traitor's fingers crushed one by one, was frowning. Like the scrape on her skin was worse than any gunshot wound he'd ever seen.

I used to be afraid of pain, too.

But on our wedding night, I cut my hand on a broken champagne flute. He just stared at me coldly and said, "If you're bleeding, deal with it. I don't want to smell blood."

After that day, I never even used a Band-Aid in front of him.

"Ma'am..." his man shifted uncomfortably behind me.

I forced a smile. "It's fine. When will he be free? I have something he needs to sign."

His man took the papers and, knowing his place, slipped them to the bottom of a stack of contracts.

I thought Vincent would at least hesitate.

But he didn't even read it.

He just flipped to the last page and scrawled his signature.

When his man handed the agreement back to me, my hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the paper.

I was fifteen when I learned I was engaged to a man named Vincent Santoro.

A man who, by all accounts, was incapable of feeling pain.

A man indifferent to everyone and everything.

He hated the warmth of any living thing.

He would never love me, but he wouldn't love anyone else, either.

So I thought if I was obedient enough, useful enough, I could one day make him feel something for me.

I was his shadow for ten years.

And now, that decade-long fantasy was finally over.

Back at the estate, I told the maid, Maria, to take my wedding dress to the incinerator in the backyard.

Maria was confused. "Ma'am, isn't this Vera Wang your most prized possession?"

It was. I used to see it as my trophy.

See? I thought back then. This heartless monster is my husband now.

But it was time to wake up.

"There will be a new lady of the house soon," I said calmly. "And the new Mrs. Santoro shouldn't have to look at it."

Fifteen days left until the divorce was finalized by the court.

Vincent never came home.

One night, bored, I found myself back on the South Side.

I didn't expect to see Claire in the community church, praying.

She was still in that same faded dress, looking at the statue of the Virgin Mary with such devotion.

Suddenly, as if she felt something, she turned her head slightly.

Her eyes found me in the crowd and lit up. She hurried over.

She took my hands in hers, her finger tracing on my palm.

"I'm so sorry about the other day. My boyfriend showed up unexpectedly. I'd love to buy you dinner to make up for it."

In my past life, Vincent said she was different from us, from people with blood on their hands.

He said her soul was pure, that she was an angel on earth.

I scoffed at that back then.

How innocent could a girl working in a South Side dive bar really be? She was just putting on an act for him.

But seeing her now… maybe he was right.

"I should be the one thanking you. Come on, my treat."

I took her to a quiet Italian place nearby.

When the waiter brought out her risotto, her eyes started to well up.

"What's wrong?"

She wiped a tear away and wrote on the notepad she carried with her.

"I gave up everything for him. But ever since I got pregnant, he's been pulling away."

So, they'd slept together.

I should have expected it, but the words still hit my heart like a bullet.

"Does he… have a wife?"

Her question sent a chill down my spine.

The pain I'd felt a second ago was replaced by a wave of absolute terror.

"No, of course not," I forced a smile. "You're a blessing. If I were him, I'd spoil you rotten. Why would a man ever run from that?"

If she found out Vincent was married, she would leave him.

And Vincent would assume I'd planned it.

I couldn't even imagine what he would do to my parents, all the way in Sicily.

You can't bet on a devil's humanity.

I made an excuse and slipped away to the restroom. I called my mother.

Only after she confirmed they had arrived safely at the family's old castle in Sicily did I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

My mother could hear the tension in my voice.

"Isabella, is something wrong? Between you and Vincent?"

My eyes burned, and I wanted to tell her everything.

But the words wouldn't come out.

In my first life, after my parents' death, Vincent faked my death certificate and married Claire, leaving me locked in that warehouse.

I was shot trying to escape a fire I'd set myself.

He faked my death certificate, burned me alive, and married Claire.

I hated him. And I hated Claire. I hated everyone who had ever hurt me.

I tried everything to escape.

I even stole a lighter from one of the men he sent to bring me food.

One night, I set a fire, hoping to escape in the chaos.

But the second I ran out of the flames, one of his men put a bullet through my heart.

"Isabella," my mother's voice was soft, a balm on my frayed nerves, "whatever you decide, we will support you. We can always start over. Your father and I just want you to be safe, and to be happy."

"Thanks, Mamma. I know what I have to do now."

When I got back from the restroom, Claire was surrounded by a few drunk guys.

"Hey, drop the innocent act. How much for a night, huh? Come on, show us a good time."

The fat one in the lead was wearing an ill-fitting Armani suit and a huge gold Rolex that, with his greasy bald head, screamed new money.

As he spoke, he reached for Claire with a hand soaked in booze.

Claire was terrified, trying to dodge him.

But that just seemed to excite them more.

"And she's a mute! Come on, boys! We'll make sure you have a real good time tonight!"

Seeing them about to tear at her clothes, I grabbed a whiskey bottle from the table and smashed it over the fat one's head.

"Get lost!" I screamed.

Blood instantly streamed down the fat man's head. He stumbled back, caught by one of his cronies.

When he got his bearings, his eyes were wide with rage.

"You hit me? Get her! Get the goddamn bitch!"

His men charged me like a pack of wolves.

They outnumbered me.

It only took a few seconds for them to grab me and drag me in front of their boss.

"You cheap slut, you dared to hit my head! I'm gonna crack yours open, too!"

He raised the same broken bottle I'd used on him and brought it down hard on my head.

CRACK!

My head rang, and warm blood poured down my forehead.

The restaurant's other customers scattered, and the soft music died.

The fat man dropped the bottle and loosened his tie, walking toward Claire with a disgusting smirk.

"Don't... don't touch her..."

The memory of my parents' death flashed in my mind, and I couldn't even feel the pain anymore.

I tried with all my might to get up and protect Claire, but one of his men kicked me back to the ground.

"This one's not bad either. You guys play with her first. I'll take the mute!"

Claire's eyes went wide. She tried to run to me, but the fat man shoved her to the floor.

Just as he was about to pounce, Claire closed her eyes in despair.

But at that exact moment, a single, muffled gunshot echoed through the room.

BANG!

Everyone froze.

We all looked toward the source of the sound.

Vincent Santoro was walking, step by step, toward Claire.

His face was blank, but his deep eyes were churning with a hellish rage.

He reached Claire, gently reached out, and stroked her hair.

"Sorry I'm late."

Claire grabbed his arm, about to say something, when a swarm of Santoro family soldiers in black suits stormed the restaurant, surrounding the fat man and his crew.

"Take Miss Murphy downstairs to rest."

After Claire was gone, the fat man was shaking like a cornered rat, kneeling and bowing his head to Vincent over and over.

But Vincent didn't even look at him. He stepped right over his back and walked toward me.

Just when I thought he'd see me, covered in blood, and help me up…

The cold barrel of the gun, still smelling of smoke, was pressed against my forehead.

"When did you find out about Claire."

So. He thought I'd set this all up.

He thought I'd hired that fat pig to attack Claire.

"Vincent, I was trying to save her..."

BANG!

The bullet slammed into the wall right next to my ear.

A sharp ringing filled my head as fear crashed over me, and I screamed.

"I don't like your answer."

He turned his head to the fat man.

"Now, you answer me."

The fat man was dripping with cold sweat. His eyes darted around before he shakily pointed at me.

"Don Santoro! It... it was her! She told us to rough up Miss Murphy! Said if we had a little fun with her, she'd get us a piece of your action, let us in on the score!"

"What are you talking about?!"

I stared at the man in disbelief.

The next second, Vincent's hand clamped onto my chin, his grip like steel.

"Isabella Romano. Tonight, you're going to learn what happens when you overstep."

"He gestured to the heavyset man and his crew, his voice devoid of any warmth. "She's yours. Do whatever you want with her."

The heavyset man touched his bleeding forehead, a vicious smirk spreading across his face.

"Don, the bitch cracked my head with that bottle. Mind if I return the favor? Pour this down her throat?"

Vincent's gaze fell on me, as cold as if he were inspecting an object.

"You may."

Those two words were a death sentence. My blood ran cold.

"No..." my voice trembled as I stared at him in disbelief. "Vincent, you know I'm allergic to alcohol!"

He finally met my eyes, his own a void of emotion.

"I know."

His voice was terrifyingly calm.

"A rash, Isabella. Nothing more. Everyone pays the price for their actions. And believe me—I've already been merciful."

Just... a rash?

He didn't know. After the attack from his rival, after the miscarriage and the blood loss...

My body was broken.

The doctor had warned me. My allergic reactions had become life-threatening. The next one could send me into anaphylactic shock and kill me.

But he didn't know.

And he didn't care to know.

"Don't worry, Don. We'll make sure she learns her lesson!"

The fat man and his crew closed in.

They grabbed my jaw and forced my mouth open.

"You monster! Vincent Santoro, you're a fucking monster!"

The dark figure in the doorway paused for a fraction of a second, then vanished into the night without a backward glance.

At that moment, I wished the wound on my head had been fatal, so I wouldn't have to endure this hellish humiliation.

The burning whiskey was forced down my throat, making me choke and cough violently.

It spilled from the corners of my mouth, soaking my ruined dress and mixing with the blood on the floor.

A fire spread from my throat through my whole body.

My skin started to itch uncontrollably as horrifying red welts erupted across it.

But this time, it wasn't just a rash.

My throat… was closing.

I couldn't breathe.

"Ugh... help..." I clawed uselessly at my own throat, making a raw, inhuman wheezing sound.

The fat man's smirk froze.

"Fuck! She... wasn't she just supposed to get a rash? Why does she look like she's dying?!"

Another of his men pointed at my face and screamed, "Her lips are blue! That's anaphylactic shock! That shit is fatal!"

"The Don just said to teach her a lesson, not to kill her! Let's go! We can't get tangled up in this!"

They backed away in terror, as if I had the plague, and scrambled out of the restaurant.

Their panicked footsteps faded into the distance.

A single, cold tear slid from the corner of my eye.

The pain ripped through me. My mind flashed back to my wedding day.

Vincent, so handsome and tall in his black suit, gently taking my hand from my father's.

It was the closest I had ever been to happiness. I thought that, over time, love might grow, that we could become a real husband and wife.

I never knew it was all a delusion.

The wound on my head, which I got while fighting to protect Claire, was still bleeding.

But the agony from those injuries was drowned out by the feeling of suffocation.

"Mrs. Santoro, are you alright?!" The soldier Vincent had left on watch yelled into his radio.

"Get a medic here, now! She's not breathing!"

Before everything went black, I used the last of my strength to hit the speed dial on my phone.

"Uncle Tony, move the plan up. Wipe my existence."

"Make me a ghost. Make it so Vincent Santoro can never find me again."