Reborn: My Fiancé Cheated With My Stepmother

My phone buzzed with Veronica's name while I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. I answered on instinct. Her voice came through crisp and commanding:

"Irene, I'll handle the dock deal tonight. You stay home and rest. Your father's having some friends over, by the way. Make sure they've got cigars and whiskey ready."

She said it like she was ordering a maid. "Oh, and don't tell your father where I'm going. You know how he gets, always sending someone to shadow me. A girl needs some privacy. It's settled, then. You know I've always treated you like my own daughter. I'll bring you back something nice."

She hung up before I could get a word in. Then blocked my number. Five, six calls, all straight to voicemail.

That's when my head cleared, and I realized my shirt was soaked with cold sweat. I'd come back to this day, the day Veronica "lost" her baby.

In my past life, Veronica had married my father thinking he was the Don, all money and power. But once she was in, she found out he'd long since stepped back from the family business. Everything ran through me. She hated it, but she was stuck.

That day, just like now, she'd called and offered to take the dock run so I could "rest."

I said yes.

Then the casino needed me, so I was out all day and didn't get back to the estate until nightfall.

The house was dead quiet. Veronica stood in the living room, sobbing.

My father glared at me like I'd killed someone. She pointed a trembling finger. "Irene, this is your fault. If you hadn't insisted I go to that dock, the Bonanno crew never would've cornered me. They put their hands on me, and I lost the baby..."

I was floored. Tried to defend myself. "Veronica, what are you talking about? You asked to go. I never told you to..." I reached for my phone to pull up the call log, but Marco snatched it out of my hand, smashed it on the floor, and ground the screen to dust with his heel. He looked at me with that theatrical disappointment.

"Irene Moretti, I am done with you. You've always been reckless with our people's lives, chasing glory like it's a game. But this, making your own mother lose a child just to cover your tracks? That's beyond cruel. I can't marry someone like that. We're through."

That sealed it. My father's face went crimson. He sucked down his cigar and spat: "You bitch. You cost this family our heir."

He had his men pin me down and laid into me with a whip, a dozen lashes in front of the whole family. Later, Veronica charmed him into shipping me off to marry into our enemy's house. They locked me in a basement and tortured me until I stopped breathing.

Only after I died did I find out the truth: Veronica and Marco were lovers. The baby she lost was his. They'd been screwing around on my yacht, forgot to use protection, and cooked up this whole setup to save their own skins. Pretty clever.

Not this time.

I set down the phone, a cold smile tugging at my lips. I skipped the casino entirely. I called my underboss instead: fifty crates of the new Colts, delivered to the estate.

As for the docks, I sent an encrypted message to my loyal man: watch every container tonight. Intercept any unauthorized pull. Then I poured myself a glass of bourbon, took my time, and settled at my desk.

Just as I took my first sip, the doorbell rang. My men dropped off the crates and left.

My father and uncles walked in, jaws dropped. "Where the hell did all this come from?"

I shrugged. "Remember that shipment we hit last month? The rival crew came up short on ransom. They paid the balance with these. Figured we're due for an upgrade anyway, so I kept them. Tonight we inventory the whole lot in the underground armory. Every family member gets a new piece."

Uncle Number Two blinked. "Fifty crates? That's hundreds of guns. We'll never get through all that in one night!"

Uncle Number Three sighed. "There goes my trip to the fight club. Guess I'm stuck here polishing steel."

I turned to my father. "Dad, all this metal needs oiling or it'll rust. The uncles are already on board. You might as well pitch in too." He had no choice but to put down his cigar and join us in the basement, wiping down revolvers until our arms ached.

What was supposed to be a night of whiskey, dancing, and easy laughter turned into a grease‑and‑gun‑oil marathon.

By the time we finished, it was past midnight.

My father finally looked around. "Where's Veronica? It's twelve, why isn't she back yet? What's she doing out there?"

I gave him my most innocent look. "No idea. I called her five or six times this evening. Found out she'd blocked me. Maybe she's mad at me? Why don't you try calling her, Dad?"