The Heir He Burned Twice

I was five months pregnant when I watched my husband Lorenzo's adopted sister, Isabella, douse our penthouse terrace in gasoline. This time, I didn't press the emergency button on my wrist.

In my last life, after I called for help, Lorenzo saved me, while Isabella was "shot" in the ensuing gunfight.

He was as affectionate as ever, but on the fourth night after our son was born, he sank us both to the bottom of the icy lake, his excuse cold and simple: "Isabella took a bullet for you."

As the frigid water swallowed me, he held me down with the same hands that had caressed me countless times, whispering in my ear, "Now you'll sink with what you treasure most."

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning apartment.

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1

The acrid smell of gasoline filled my lungs—thick, pungent, and suffocating.

I woke up, five months pregnant, to the choking scent of burning oak and imported silk.

Through the smoke, I saw her: Isabella, my husband's adopted sister, the family's Principessa, pouring fuel from a silver vase onto our terrace's expensive rug.

I didn't touch the emergency button on my wrist.

In my last life, I’d used the private line to call for help.

Lorenzo—my husband, my protector, the man I had loved fiercely since college—rushed to save me. He pulled me from a staged gunfight as Isabella fell before us, "shot."

For the remaining months of my pregnancy, he was the perfect husband, arranging for the best doctors and attending every prenatal check-up, always gentle, always attentive.

But on the fourth night after our son was born, he brought us to the lakeside pier. He stood under the moonlight, impeccably dressed, and pronounced his judgment.

He would sink us in the deep water. First my son's cradle, then me. "You let Isabella take a bullet for you," he said, holding me under the surface. "So you can sink with what you treasure most."

When I opened my eyes, I was back on the floor of our burning penthouse.

This time, I pressed a soaked Hermès scarf to my mouth and nose and dialed an anonymous number. Let him choose her again. But this time, in front of the entire underworld.

Three minutes later, the crystal chandelier crashed down. A shard of Czech crystal slammed into my shoulder. The bone snapped. I screamed, my voice swallowed by the thick smoke. Another burning beam crashed into my hip. Blood pooled quickly, soaking the home I had built for him. My son—only five months along, once safe in my womb—gave a faint kick, and then went still.

I heard him through the explosions—the distinct sound of Italian leather shoes on the marble floor. His tall figure moved through the smoke.

Lorenzo had arrived.

I heard Isabella's voice first. "Lorenzo—I can't breathe—"

He bent down. Swept her into his arms. Her cheek pressed against his neck as he murmured, "I've got you. I'll never let you go."

He stepped over the burning carpet. Over the threshold. Over his wife and his unborn heir, leaving us to die in the flames.

I turned my head, the thick smoke scalding my eyes. I couldn't stop coughing.

An Italian leather shoe nudged my ribs. Casually. As if testing a corpse. It was his Underboss, Marco. "Jealous enough to burn down your own home. A shame the Don isn't watching."

I crawled forward, my diamond ring screeching against the marble. My coat was singed, my skin blistered. The expensive ointments for such things were, at that moment, being applied to Isabella's unburnt wrist three blocks away.

I begged them in a hoarse voice. "Please… the baby…"

Marco glanced down, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk. "Cut the act, Donna. Everyone knows you hate Isabella. Setting fire to your own home? That's insane, even for you."

He kicked my side. Contemptuously. Dismissively. "The Don has already chosen. You're just humiliating yourself. Keep this up, and he'll have the lawyers serving you papers by sunrise."

I couldn't speak. My uterus contracted, sharp and violent. I tasted copper. A mouthful of blood.

The family's Soldati moved around me, extinguishing the expensive flames, not a single one giving me a second glance.

A voice cut through the chaos. "Blood! God, she's bleeding!"

"Probably red wine," Marco called back. "Isabella said she'd use anything to make it look real. Five months along? That baby's not coming out. Let her play her games."

Darkness crept in at the edges of my vision.

I saw Lorenzo's handmade Italian shoes stop at the edge of my sight. He knelt. His gloved hand—leather, smelling of Isabella's Chanel perfume—gripped my chin, forcing my face toward him.

"Wake up, Aurelia," he growled. "Stop this act. I'm here."

He shook me. Hard.

"You think I can't see through this? Burning down our home just to frame her? Pathetic."

His hand left my face. It fell to my stomach. And pressed. Hard.

I arched my back, screaming without a sound.

"Good act," he murmured, his voice laced with contempt. "But I know you, Aurelia. You always get what you want, don't you? Even if it means burning down our home for my attention."

"Lorenzo—" I grabbed his Armani sleeve. My hand was weak, my nails caked with blood. "The baby—he's not moving—"

He glanced at my stomach. Five months. A slight curve.

Then he looked back toward the door, where Isabella's weak, practiced voice was calling his name.

He clenched his jaw. He pried my fingers from his sleeve. One by one.

"Almost convincing. If Isabella hadn't warned me you'd fake an injury after starting the fire, I might have actually believed you."

He stood. Turned. And walked away without a backward glance.

Darkness consumed me.