Reborn to Leave You: The Don's Regret

The night I was reborn, my adoptive brother—Viktor Konstantin, the Don of the Chicago Outfit—was poisoned during a negotiation.

In my past life, I loved him desperately. So when the aphrodisiac took hold and he gasped for me to call Liliya, I made a selfish choice. I stayed. I gave myself to him.

She arrived too late. When she saw us together, she ran. Her plane crashed over the Atlantic that same night.

Viktor married me without a word of blame. Until a turf war when our enemies captured me—seven months pregnant, chained up, beaten bloody. I called him, begging for help through my tears.

His answer shattered me: "You want to live? After killing Liliya? You and that bastard don't deserve to breathe. Go to hell, Eve."

I died in that cell. Our daughter died with me.

Now I'm staring into those same drugged eyes again.

This time, I'm making the call.

Eve's POV

"Eve! Get Liliya here! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

Viktor Konstantin's voice was wrecked—raw and desperate.

I snapped my head up. The man in front of me—my adoptive brother, Chicago's Godfather—looked like hell. Eyes bloodshot, veins popping in his neck, every muscle coiled tight like a rabid dog ready to tear into anything.

This moment... this exact fucking moment...

I'm back.

Three years back, to this nightmare of a night.

Viktor got played during a casino deal—some rival crew slipped him a drink laced with hardcore aphrodisiac. Last time around, I was selfish. I stayed. I let him use me.

All night long, he fucked me senseless while moaning HER name.

"Liliya... Liliya..."

I didn't even reach for my phone before Viktor came at me.

The drug turned him into an animal. Six-foot-three of pure muscle and rage, crashing toward me like a freight train.

RIIIP—

His fist caught my collar. The fabric shredded.

Not this time.

I drove my knee straight into his gut.

"Fuck—" Viktor choked, stumbling back and slamming into the coffee table.

I bolted for the door, phone already out, fingers flying.

Two rings. Then that sickeningly sweet voice: "Eve? God, it's late. What happened? Is Viktor—"

"Liliya." I cut through her bullshit. "Viktor's been drugged. Master bedroom, third floor. You've got ten minutes or he's screwing whoever's closest."

"WHAT?! I'm coming! Don't you TOUCH him, you hear me?!"

I hung up on her screaming.

Viktor was slumped against the sofa, drenched in sweat, chest heaving. Those steel-gray eyes burned into me—half lust, half confusion.

"Eve..." His voice was gravel. "The fuck you doing?"

He thought I was playing games. Thought I'd jump at the chance like I always did—pathetic little Eve, so desperate for big brother's attention.

"Godfather," I said, stone cold. "Hang tight. Your precious Liliya's on her way."

I walked out and locked the door behind me.

Something shattered inside. Then Viktor's roar, barely human.

I leaned against the wall. Exhaled.

Ten minutes later, Liliya showed up in those ridiculous heels, gasping for air.

She looked me over—clothes intact—and relaxed. But her eyes stayed sharp. Calculating.

"Door's locked. Key?"

I tossed it to her.

She caught it, threw me one last look. "Get lost. I'll handle this."

I climbed the stairs to my room.

Soon enough, the sounds started. Moaning. Fucking. Her fake-ass squeals.

I stood at the window, breathing in the night air.

This is right.

This is how it should've been.

I was twelve when Viktor's old man took me in—after my father bled out in some turf war. The Konstantins paid their debts that way.

Viktor was twenty. Cold as ice. Ruthless. Smart as hell.

I spent ten years making myself useful. The best intel gatherer. The cleanest hitter. His perfect weapon.

Because I loved him.

But I got selfish. Just once.

Last time, tonight, I didn't call Liliya. I stayed. I let him take me.

Next morning, Liliya walked in on us tangled in the sheets. She didn't say a word. Just turned and left.

Three hours later, her jet went down over the Atlantic. Seven dead. No survivors.

Viktor married me a month after that—because I was knocked up.

He never said it was my fault. He just... stopped talking. Seven months of silence.

Until the Volkovs grabbed me during a territory dispute.

They chained me in a basement. Broke every finger, one by one.

I was seven months pregnant. Bleeding. Screaming into the phone for Viktor to come get me.

Long silence. Then his voice, colder than I'd ever heard it:

"You wanna live? After you killed Liliya? That bastard you're carrying doesn't deserve to breathe. Die, Eve."

I bled out in that hellhole. Our baby girl died inside me. Never got to cry. Never got to exist.

Never again.

I pulled out my burner—the one Viktor didn't know about—and made the call.

"Marcus. I need everything. New identity. Flight to Zurich, next month."

"Done. Wire the money."

Click.

Downstairs went quiet.

I stared out at Chicago's skyline, hand on my flat stomach.

Sorry, baby. Mama couldn't save you last time.

But this time? Mama's getting out.

One month.

Thirty days, and I'd be ghost. Somewhere Viktor Konstantin would never find me.