The rain in Chicago carries the taste of ashes and betrayal, so bitter it makes one want to vomit. I stand on the cracked asphalt of the industrial area, at the edge of the Valentis family's territory. The heavy rain pours, and I watch the taillights of the black SUV completely melt in the rain fog. Damian's men just threw me here like trash. "Stay, not as my wife, Iz, but as my mistress." Damian's last cruel ultimatum still echoed in my ears. Now, he was about to marry the daughter of the Falcone family's strategist-Seraphina Ricci. And I, chose exile. With the godfather's decree, my title, my sanctuary, my former life-all were stripped away clean. In the roar of the storm, a faint, trembling sob suddenly came. I turned my head abruptly. In the shadow of a rusty trash bin, drenched by rain and shivering with cold, was my five-year-old son. "Mom?" Angelo. He was afraid of losing me and had secretly hidden in the back seat of the car. At that moment, my heart shattered into a million pieces, yet wings sprouted from the ruins. From then on, my exile became a desperate double escape. Two days later. A dilapidated motel in Indiana. The flickering red neon lights outside cast a hellish blood-red glow into this dirty and cramped room. The air was thick with the suffocating scent of decay and impending death. Angelo lay on a stained mattress, his small chest rising with quick, shallow, wet breaths. Pneumonia. Damian froze all my accounts, and now I have nothing. No money, no doctor, no hope. "Please, baby, just a little bit." I held a cup of warm instant soup, leaning close to his chapped lips. He couldn't swallow at all. Those eyes, burning from the high fever, moved unconsciously. Despair gripped my throat like a beast. My gaze fell upon my wrist. That Cartier Love bracelet-Damian's wedding gift-was now nothing but a mocking chain. I let out a despairing groan, tore off the bracelet that symbolized chains, and threw it hard into the corner. The ultimate pain and sorrow transformed into a sacrificial resolve. I tasted the rust of my own blood, that warm and savory liquid slipping from my lips-compared to the earth-shattering tearing in my chest, this pain means nothing. "Swallow it, my little angel," I leaned forward, trembling, pressing the warm bloodstains from my lips to his pale ones, "Drink my life, as long as you can live." His lips were tightly closed, showing no reaction. A trace of blood uselessly slid down his chin. I lay on his frail body, completely submerged in the boundless sea of despair. Damian's perspective The flames in the glass fireplace crazyly licked, casting warm golden light on modern art in the top-floor apartment, illuminating the bustling skyline of Chicago through the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Boys need their father, dear." Seraphina whispered, her fingertips lightly tracing the edge of a crystal champagne glass. She wore my ring, bore my name, and the silk robe had slipped halfway off her shoulders. "He needs a decent mother. We must take the child home." I took a sip of the vintage champagne, the taste of victory was exceptionally sweet on my tongue. Isabella's exile strengthened my alliance with the Falcone family, making my power invincible. But Seraphina was right, allowing the heir of the Valentini family to be in exile was a potential risks I couldn't ignore. I took out my phone from my pocket and dialed my most loyal soldier. "Léo, they found Isabella in a small town in a rust belt in Indiana. Go there, find the boy, and bring him back." I hung up the phone and soon forgot about it. As simple as ordering dinner. I casually picked up my new queen, unaware of the tragedy spreading on the motel floor hundreds of miles away. Isabella's perspective The silence of the motel was heavier than the heavy rain outside the window. Angelo struggled with rapid breathing for two days, then it suddenly slowed. He shifted slightly. In the shadows of the red neon lights, his eyes, bright with fever, stared directly at me. In an incredibly fleeting moment, the pain faded from his face. He gave me a faint, pure smile-that was his last attachment and love to this world, to me. Then, that small hand, which had been gently holding mine, fell silently like a falling leaf. The faint light of life was completely extinguished. "Angelo?" I whispered, these two words like a bloody knife tearing open my vocal cords, "Angelo, no... don't, don't..." I held him tightly in my arms, his body gradually losing its warmth, I gently rocked him, the surrounding silence turning into a deafening roar in my ears. I did not scream. The grief was too deep, too absolute, long exceeding the limits of language and sound. In this cramped, decaying house, the innocent girl who had once loved Damiano Valentini, died together with her son. Instead, it is something cold, hard, and eternal. It is a vow engraved with blood, tears, and the sudden cessation of a child's heartbeat. Blood for blood.

Isabella's perspective Dr. Rossi stared at the boy lying lifeless on the stainless steel operating table, then looked at me with his greedy eyes. "I won't treat anyone without ten thousand dollars in cash, sweetie. This isn't a charity." I didn't even blink. Although I had no money, I was holding a card far more deadly than any bill. "I don't have cash," I said, my voice calm and lifeless, "but I have information that can save you from spending the rest of your life in federal prison. Tonight, the FBI will move in. The location is an underground spot on Eighth Street. The undercover agent's name is Miller, code name 'Viper.' He'll meet his contact at midnight." Rosy's face instantly turned deathly pale, drained of all color. Under the mixed gaze of shock and awe, I pushed away the mountainous assistant. These hands, once reserved only for playing Chopin for mafia elites, had now become the most composed wings of redemption. Relying on the first aid skills honed in that dark world, I quickly stabilized Angeło's breathing. With a faint, low sigh, his violently 起伏 chest miraculously calmed down, settling into long, rhythmic breaths. Rossi looked at me, his expression intertwined with fear and a deep fascination for the monster I had become. "You can stay," he murmured, taking a step back. Hours later, in that bloodstained inner room, I held my sleeping son, clearly knowing what was happening in Chicago three hundred miles away. Memories of my past life played back disgustingly clearly. Right now, in the glass-top apartment of the Lucchetta Building, my fate is being nailed to the gallows. My grandfather-"General" Marco Moretti-is bowing to Lorenzo Farkone. To save me from the slander meticulously woven by the mistress of the Farkone family, my grandfather was forced to give up our family's control over the Chicago port. I can almost hear Lorenzo's smooth, aristocratic voice. He casually tosses an antique coin between his fingers, glancing at Damian Valentini, standing by the side with a heart of ash. "To solidify your marriage with Miss Ricci, the Moretti family has surrendered the port," Lorenzo probes this new godfather. "In exchange, I declare your marriage to Isabella Moretti null and void. Damian, how do you feel about this deal?" And Damien, without the slightest hesitation, coldly replied: "My wife is only Seraphina Rich." "You won't regret it?" "Never." With just one word, Damien stripped me of all the protection I had in the Valenti family and threw me to the wolves. He discarded us like trash. But he didn't know that the woman he discarded had crawled back from hell. A week later, the pungent dust from the Gary limestone quarry filled my throat. I swung the heavy hammer, the violent impact shaking my arms. My hands were already raw and bleeding, the blood seeping into the rough canvas gloves. I needed clean cash to buy antibiotics for Angelo, and I also needed this cruel, almost self-destructive physical labor to forge this body into a weapon. Amidst a sea of white dust and fog, a fleet of black Cadillac Kerade parked at the edge of this desolate mine pit. I didn't stop what I was doing. Maria, the most loyal servant of our family, stumbled out of the leading carriage, accompanied by the fully armed Moretti family soldiers. She spent several days navigating the dirty streets, bribing bartenders and informants, just to find her former Mafia queen in this wasteland. "Miss!" Maria's voice broke into heart-wrenching sobs. She ran through the mud, knelt before me, indifferent to the mud staining her spotless dress. "Oh, dear, Miss Isabella... look at what you've suffered. Let's take you home." I slowly lowered the hammer, took off my glove, and carelessly wrapped my bleeding palm with a dirty cloth. My eyes were like a pool of stagnant water, showing no shock or relief as she had expected. In a past life, they arrived two days after I lost Ange . By the time they got there, they could only afford to buy a small wooden coffin for him. I had already been shattered, my heart completely dead. But this time, everything was completely different. "I know, Maria," I said calmly, my gaze falling on the armored cars waiting to take us back to Chicago as I looked past her crying figure, "Help me pack the children's luggage."

Isabella's perspective Dr. Rossi stared at the boy lying lifeless on the stainless steel operating table, then looked at me with his greedy eyes. "I won't treat you without a hundred thousand dollars in cash, sweetie. This isn't a charity." I didn't even blink. Although I had no money at the moment, I was holding a card far deadlier than cash. "I don't have cash," I said, my voice calm and emotionless, "but I have information that can save you from spending the rest of your life in federal prison. Tonight, the FBI will move in. The location is an underground spot on Eighth Street. The undercover agent's name is Miller, code name 'Snake.' He'll meet his contact at midnight." Rosy's face instantly turned deathly pale, drained of all color. Under the mixed gaze of shock and awe, I pushed away the mountain-like assistant. These hands, once reserved only for playing Chopin for mafia elites, had now become the most composed wings of redemption. Relying on the first aid skills honed in that dark world, I quickly stabilized Angeلو's breathing. With a faint sigh, his violently undulations chest miraculously calmed down, settling into long, rhythmic breaths. Rossi watched me from the side, eyes full of fear, yet deeply fascinated by the monster I had become. "You can stay," he murmured, taking a step back. Hours later, in that bloodstained inner room, I held my sleeping son, clearly knowing what was happening in Chicago three hundred miles away. Memories of my past life played back disgustingly clearly. Right now, in the glass-top apartment of the "Lucrèce" building, my fate is being nailed to the gallows. My grandfather-the "General" Marco Moretti-is bowing to Lorenzo Farkone. To save me from the slander meticulously woven by the mistress of the Farkone family, my grandfather was forced to give up our family's control over the Chicago port. I can almost hear Lorenzo's smooth, aristocratic voice. He casually tosses an antique coin between his fingers, glancing at Damian Valentini, standing by the side with a heart of ash. "To solidify your marriage with Miss Ricci, the Moretti family has surrendered the port," Lorenzo probes this new godfather. "In exchange, I declare your marriage to Isabella Moretti null and void. Damian, how do you feel about this deal?" And Damien, without the slightest hesitation, coldly replied: "My wife is only Seraphina Rich." "You won't regret it?" "Never." Only one word, and Damien stripped me of all the protection I had in the Valentis family, throwing me into the wolves. He discarded us like trash. But he didn't know that the woman he discarded had quietly crawled back to the mortal world. A week later, the pungent dust from the Gary limestone quarry filled my throat. I swung the heavy hammer, the violent impact shaking my arms. My hands were already raw and bleeding, the blood seeping into the rough canvas gloves. I needed clean cash to buy antibiotics for Angelo, and I also needed this cruel, almost self-destructive heavy labor to forge this body into a weapon. Amidst the swirling white dust, a fleet of black Cadillacs parked at the edge of the desolate mine pit. I didn't stop what I was doing. Maria, the most loyal servant of our family, stumbled out of the car, surrounded by heavily armed Moretti family soldiers. She spent days navigating the dirty streets, bribing bartenders and informants, just to find her former mafia queen in this wasteland. "Miss!" Maria's voice broke into heart-wrenching sobs. She ran through the mud, knelt before me, indifferent to the mud staining her spotless dress. "Oh, dear, Miss Isabella... look at what you've suffered. Let's take you home." I slowly lowered the hammer, took off my glove, and carelessly wrapped my bleeding palm with a dirty cloth. My eyes were like a pool of stagnant water, showing no shock or relief as she had expected. I know they will come today. But in a past life, they were a whole week late. By the time they arrived, they could only afford a small wooden coffin for Angelo. "I know, Maria," I said calmly, my gaze falling on the armored cars waiting to take us back to Chicago as I looked past her crying figure, "Help me pack the children's luggage."