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 acting out this time?" someone sneered. "The Don went to save Miss Leone. You can scream yourself hoarse. It won't help."

"Everyone knows you've always had it out for Miss Leone. How do you think the armory blew up? We're not blind."

"You'd better pray Miss Leone's fine. Otherwise, Don Galante will be the first to come for you."

The pain in my abdomen surged, heavier and sharper than before. Something warm spilled down my thighs and soaked into my skirt. I tried to move. I tried to drag myself farther from the collapsed area.

A loose chunk of stone fell from above and slammed straight into my pregnant belly.

Blood burst from my mouth. My vision reeled as darkness crept in from the edges.

"My baby…" My voice barely carried air. "Please. Save my child…"

The consigliere nearest to me finally noticed. He looked down but did not help me up. He carelessly nudged me with the toe of his shoe. "Madam, you really sell it. I almost believed you."

"Hurting yourself just to fight for favor. Was it worth it?"

These men always knew how to read the room. Their attitude mirrored their Don's.

I curled inward as blood loss and agony stripped my consciousness away, layer by layer.

Everyone who rushed in clustered around Monica. Someone handed her medication, another treated her wounds, yet no one spared me a second glance.

Through the haze, startled voices drifted to my ears.

"Why is there so much blood under Madam Vitale? Is something wrong?"

"What could be wrong? She's probably trying to get the Don's attention again."

"Whatever. Go tell the Don so she can stop putting on this show."

Then the familiar scent of his cologne cut through the smoke. A hand struck my cheek, hard enough to sting.

Enzo's flat but faintly amused voice followed. "Sophia Vitale. Wake up. Cut the act. I'm here. You were pretty capable when you blew up the armory. So what's this now? Playing pitiful?"

I wanted to explain and beg. A broken, rattling sound escaped instead. The pain in my abdomen felt as if it were tearing me apart from the inside.

With the last of my strength, my fingers hooked around the hem of his dress pants.

He paused. His gaze swept over my paper-white face. For a split second, hesitation surfaced, then irritation crushed it.

He pressed a hand to my stomach, checking that the child was still there.

"Your acting's improved," he said coolly. "Too bad Monica already told me everything. You lit the fire yourself, then hid. Who are you performing for now?"

He pulled free without a second thought and walked back toward the secured area where Monica rested.

Behind me, one of the men who had seen women give birth before finally panicked in earnest.

"Don! She's lost too much blood! What if something happens to the heir!"

Enzo did not slow. His casual, bored voice drifted back. "What's there to panic about? No wonder Monica said the red fuel marker liquid went missing. Turns out Sophia stole it to fake blood. A late-term pregnancy doesn't end that easily. If she wants to act, let her act it out."

Pain and despair rose like a black tide and swallowed the last of my consciousness whole.

I drifted in and out of consciousness and remembered the day I first met him.

It was a joint meeting between underworld families, held on the lower level of an old dockside warehouse. All signals were jammed. Armed soldiers stood guard on every side.

My father brought me along to observe. I was nobody, just an extra set of hands assigned to take notes and pass documents. An associate at best.

Enzo Galante sat at the very center.

His black shirt hung open at the collar, undone by two buttons. A coin spun lazily between his fingers. A half-smile rested on his lips, like a rich kid watching a performance.

When the coin clicked against the table, the entire room fell silent.

He was the newly installed Don. He was young and already notorious for bathing traitors in blood.

He spoke only a few times during the meeting. When he did, his tone sounded casual, almost bored, as if he were choosing a casino for later that night.

No one dared miss a single word.

I knew he was dangerous. I understood it with perfect clarity. Yet the moment the coin left his fingers, my heartbeat slipped completely out of control.

After that, I dug into everything about him: his territory, methods for handling traitors, and tangled webs of real and fabricated affairs.

Back then, I was nothing. In his eyes, I probably ranked no higher than a decoration shoved into a corner.

To get closer, I hid my identity and joined the Galante family. I forced myself to grow colder, sharper, and more ruthless.

I mastered the weapons stockpiles, money routes, and power networks. I was not merely useful. I became irreplaceable.

My first official summons came after I single-handedly built a new arms-smuggling route.

I used the victory as an excuse to host a celebration. I never expected him to attend.

That night, he leaned against the bar with a glass of whiskey in hand and raised it toward me through the crowd.

I knew it at once. This was my opening.

I pursued him without restraint. I gifted him a rare antique revolver, engraved with his initials along the grip. I gave him custom cufflinks, each gemstone concealing a microtracker.

I made sure to appear everywhere he frequented: private casinos, underground fighting matches, members-only rooftop bars, and so on. Each carefully staged coincidence earned a raised brow and a smile that signaled permission to stay.

At last, on a night when he was lightly drunk, he slid a ring onto my finger with casual ease.

"So eager to belong to me?" he said. "Fine. As you wish."

At that moment, I believed I had won.

I believed I had captured the heart of Don Enzo Galante, the most dangerous and dazzling man in the underworld.

I believed happiness had begun.

I did not realize I had stepped into my nightmare.

…

I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. The sharp stench of disinfectant burned my nose.

My private doctor stood beside the bed. "You're awake, Madam? Thank God. I happened to pass by the blast site."

I tried to move my fingers, then slowly slid my hand down to my abdomen.

It felt flat and empty. There was nothing left.

The doctor sighed, his face heavy with sorrow. "I'm sorry. The child couldn't be saved. You lost too much blood, and the internal injuries were severe. I did everything I could."

I forced a smile and tasted salt from my tears. "I understand. Thank you for saving me."

I still could not believe Enzo would go that far.

The doctor clearly found it unjust.

"What is Don Galante thinking?" he snapped. "You're his wife. You were pregnant and bleeding in the ruins, and they secured the weapons first? If I hadn't brought you here immediately, you wouldn't have just lost the baby. You would be dead. Where is he now? Does he not care at all?"

"He's probably with Monica," I answered in a low voice.

The doctor fell silent. Naked pity filled his eyes. Even he understood the line Enzo and Monica had crossed.

I asked to be left alone.

After the door closed, I reached for my phone.

The underworld had already begun to stir. The title of Don came bundled with blood, power, and gossip. The first rumors surfaced on dark web forums.

Footage showed me collapsing in the armory, soaked in blood. Clips from multiple angles spread everywhere.

[So the Don values his armory more than his pregnant wife?]

[She was bleeding right in front of him, and he chose the weapons?]

[Has the Galante family really grown this cold?]

…

The rumors spread like disease, moving from whispered exchanges among intelligence brokers to open debates at family roundtables.

No one questioned the accident anymore. They questioned the Don himself.

[Can allies really trust a man who abandons his pregnant wife?]

I scrolled through each comment. Every line carved another wound into the Galante family's reputation.

My mind felt eerily clear. This kind of noise alone would never bring down a Don.

I opened the chat window to send Enzo a divorce message. A notification appeared first.

Monica had posted an update. The photo showed her in a VIP hospital room. Enzo sat beside her, carefully feeding her medicine. His movements looked gentle, and his focus never wavered.

The caption was brief: [Don Galante has been with me the whole time. Please don't worry. Some women will do anything to compete for favor. She even tried to use an unborn child to control the Don. Thankfully, the Don saw through her tricks.]

Once, this would have shattered me. Now, I pressed a hand to my chest and felt only numbness.

I closed the post and called Enzo. He answered on the seventh attempt.

I heard irritation in his voice, sharpened by restraint. "Sophia, you still have the nerve to call? Do you even know what time it is? Monica just finished wound care and finally fell asleep.

"I'm not interested in excuses for the chaos you caused. Everything you do disgraces the family. If you have even a shred of humanity left, come apologize to her."

Right on cue, Monica's voice drifted into the background. "Don, don't blame the Donna. This is my fault. If she insists that I detonated the armory, just go along with it. She's pregnant, and emotional stress isn't good for the baby. These injuries of mine mean nothing."

Enzo's tone softened instantly.

"You're too kind," he murmured. "That's why she's bullied you for so long."

He turned his attention back to me. "Did you hear that? She's still defending you. My patience is limited, Sophia. Thirty minutes. Come apologize to Monica. If you don't, we divorce."

The way he spoke made my fingertips turn cold. He sounded as if he were dismissing a nuisance.

"Then let it be that way. I'll leave the family," I said calmly. "Enzo, let's get a divorce."

Enzo froze. For a second, he forgot what he had been about to say. He clearly had not expected the word "divorce" to come from me first.

"Sophia, say that again?" he said slowly.

I did not give him time to explode. I hung up.

My phone immediately went wild with his messages.

Enzo: [You've really grown bold. You dare bring up divorce yourself? Don't forget how much scheming it took for you to earn the title of Donna.]

Enzo: [That thing in your womb was never a get-out-of-death-free card. When you're screaming in the delivery room and no one comes, don't crawl back to me like a dog.]

Enzo: [And those dark web reports. This was your doing, wasn't it? Delete them. Some games are above your pay grade.]

I did not finish reading the rest. I dragged his number into the blacklist.

Even with the blood-soaked lesson of my previous life burned into my bones, being trampled like this still felt like a knife sawing through my heart.

A few nurses came in to change my IV. They did not notice my expression. They chatted softly among themselves.

"I've never seen a couple as perfectly matched as the ones in the VIP ward downstairs. I heard Mr. Galante and Miss Leone grew up together. It's like something out of a fairy tale."

"That's old news. The latest is that Miss Leone's allergic to UV light, so Mr. Galante had every window in her room replaced with special glass. It cost a fortune."

"When I did rounds last night, Miss Leone said she couldn't sleep, and Mr. Galante held her hand all night. I'm so jealous. I hope I get a love like that someday."

I stared numbly at the needle marks covering the back of my hand. After they left, I finally exhaled, but my chest still felt crushed under a slab of lead.

…

By evening, the attending physician arrived with the final report. Blunt-force trauma to my abdomen had caused irreparable damage to my uterus. Natural pregnancy would be almost impossible.

Strangely, my first response was not grief. It was relief. At least there would not be a child anymore. At least he would not have to suffer with me.

…

Late that night, I checked the pulse of public opinion again. The wind had completely shifted.

The armory explosion was now being framed as a self-directed farce, staged to "attract the Don's attention."

Enzo: [My wife, Sophia, acted irrationally due to emotional instability during pregnancy. I sincerely apologize for the trouble caused. I will discipline her more strictly to ensure this never happens again.]

Enzo had personally convened a family meeting. He presented records of my "multiple pregnancy-related incidents" as proof that everything had been a calculated bid for favor.

I knew then that anything I said from this moment on would be dismissed as lies.

Even the soldiers assigned to guard me at the hospital looked at me with open contempt.

Enzo truly was a masterful Don. With just a few sentences, he turned me into a laughingstock across the entire underworld.

I did not bother trying to clear my name.

…

On the day I was discharged, I sent him a short message.

[Tomorrow morning, 10:00 a.m., courthouse. Bring a lawyer. We're signing the divorce.]

His call came back almost immediately.

His voice dripped with condescension. "Finally done playing dead? I gave you a chance to pull those dark web reports. You didn't take it. Now you've blown it and remembered divorce as a threat?

"If Monica hadn't pleaded for you, you'd already be locked in a psychiatric ward. I know you just want to see me. I'll come. Think carefully about how you're going to apologize if you want my forgiveness."

Enzo did not wait for a response. The line went dead.

I let out a bitter laugh. If earning his forgiveness meant admitting to crimes I never committed, then I would never earn it.

I quietly pulled the full surveillance footage from the day Monica entered the armory and copied everything.

…

The next morning, I went straight to the courthouse with the evidence and the divorce documents.

Enzo was not waiting for me.

Monica was. She leaned lazily against the wall, idly spinning a Donna's seal between her fingers.

When she saw me, a victor's smile bloomed on her lips. "You're finally here? I told you long ago that you were never fit to sit in the Galante family's Donna seat. He might have been briefly dazzled by you, but his attention was always going to return to me."

Her gaze slid to my flat stomach. She lifted her brows in mock surprise. "Oh? The little bastard's gone? How tragic. Burned alive by his father in the last life, and indirectly killed by his father in this one. With a mother like you, he was never meant to grow up."

In that instant, I knew. She had a new life too.

Even so, I raised my hand and slapped her. She shrieked and threw herself backward with theatrical force.

"Monica!"

Enzo rushed past me to catch her. He did not notice his elbow slam into me.

The blow was not hard, but I was already standing at the edge of the steps, drained in both body and mind.

I lost my balance, and the world flipped.

Rough stone edges crashed into me again and again. Blood streamed from my forehead, blurring my vision.

When the tumbling stopped, I lay sprawled on the cold ground. Footsteps hurried toward me.

The next second, Enzo lifted me into his arms.

His eyes locked onto my flat abdomen, and his lips trembled.

"Where's the child?" His voice came out hoarse and broken.

"Sophia, where is our child?" he demanded, panic finally breaking through.