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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.

"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.

...

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.