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The smell of blood was still thick in Vittoria’s lungs. Coppery, warm, and endlessly suffocating. She gasped, her eyes snapping open as her body shot up from the mattress. Her hands violently clawed at her own chest, expecting to find the gaping hole where her heart had shattered, expecting to feel the slick, crimson tide of her son’s blood on her fingers. Matteo. A breathless sob tore from her throat as she frantically looked around. The room was bathed in the soft, golden hue of early morning sunlight filtering through the heavy silk drapes. This wasn't the cold, grimy pavement of the harbor. This wasn't the alleyway where the gunfire had echoed like the drums of hell. This was her bedroom in the Romano estate. The opulent cage where she had spent the last five years of her life playing the dutiful wife. Vittoria threw off the velvet duvet, her bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. She ignored the trembling in her legs as she rushed across the hallway to the adjoining room. She threw the door open, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. There, tucked under a blanket patterned with cartoon sports cars, was Matteo. Her four-year-old son. His chest rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm. He was whole. He was unharmed. Vittoria collapsed to her knees beside his bed, burying her face in the edge of his mattress to stifle the agonizing sob that wracked her body. She reached out with trembling hands, gently stroking his soft, dark curls. The warmth of his skin sent a jolt of electricity through her. He’s alive. I’m alive. The memories of the past life crashed into her mind like a devastating tidal wave. It had been this exact day. Marcello, her husband and the current Underboss of the syndicate, had walked into her room and claimed he needed to reassign their personal security detail for a "high-level negotiation." Like a fool, Vittoria had believed him. She had taken Matteo out for a simple walk in the city, thinking the lingering shad
