Reborn to Tame the Mafia Don

Aria Rossi:

I woke to the sensation of hands on my body.

My eyes wouldn't focus. Everything was blurred, doubled, spinning. The back of my head throbbed—someone had cracked something hard against my skull.

"Tonight's the night, little bastard. We'll make sure you finally get what you've been begging for."

A man's voice. Mocking. Cruel.

"Let's see if the Don still wants you after this."

Cool silk sheets beneath my bare back. Weight pinning me down. Strong hands gripping my thighs, pushing them apart.

When did I lose my dress?

I tried to push him away, but my arms moved through honey.

"Wait—please—"

He didn't stop.

His mouth on my neck, teeth scraping. Hands everywhere—rough, impatient, claiming. Expensive cologne mixed with whiskey and cigar smoke, and underneath, that acrid chemical burn my mother had warned me about.

Vito.

The man I'd been trying to catch for months was finally touching me—but like this. Drugged. Helpless.

"Enjoy your education, sweetheart. The Don's very thorough with his whores."

They'd set this up. Knocked me out, stripped me, drugged me, and delivered me like a gift.

Then he pushed inside.

Fire. Every nerve ending turned to fire. Pleasure and pain bled together until I couldn't tell the difference. My body responded even as my mind screamed.

"Please—"

More. Don't stop. Please don't stop.

My hips rose against my will. The pressure built low in my belly, coiling tighter.

Almost. Almost there. Just a little more—

Cold metal pressed against my forehead.

I forced my eyes open. Vito Castellano's face above me, twisted with rage, his gun steady against my temple even as he still moved inside me.

So close. So fucking close.

"Please—"

This time I was begging for release, for that final push, for—

BANG.

Gunshot and orgasm hit together. Pleasure and death in one terrible wave.

The memory shattered.

That was how I'd died in my first life. Shot by Vito Castellano while he was still inside me, while my body trembled with drug-induced pleasure. That death was supposed to be four years from now—I'd been reborn with four years to change everything.

But apparently, death had come early.

Not the bedroom. Not silk sheets. Just a corridor in The Velvet Room, cold marble beneath my heels, and that same chemical reek burning my nostrils.

Gun pressed against my ribs this time, not my forehead. My back against the wall. Vito Castellano, so close I could feel his body heat. Pupils blown wide, breathing harsh and uneven—he looked wrong the same way he had that night.

How the fuck is this happening already?

Let me rewind one minute.

I'd been speed-walking down what I thought was a service corridor, trying to avoid one of Father's men I'd spotted near the casino floor.

The air had tasted wrong for the past thirty seconds. That bitter, chemical edge underneath the expensive cologne and cigar smoke permeates The Velvet Room. Cocaine. Sharp and unmistakable to anyone who'd grown up learning to identify every scent that could mean danger.

Thanks for the dog nose, Mom. Really appreciate it right now.

I should have turned back the second I caught that smell. Should have walked the other direction. But no—I'd been too focused on avoiding Father's spy, too convinced I could slip through unnoticed.

I rounded the corner at full speed.

And slammed straight into a solid wall of muscle.

"Shit—I'm so sorry—" The words tumbled out as I stumbled backward, hands coming up instinctively. "I wasn't looking, I didn't mean to—"

I looked up.

Vito Castellano.

Standing right in front of me, one hand braced against the wall as he needed it for balance. His movements were too sharp, too aggressive as he steadied himself. His pupils were blown so wide the blue was nearly gone.

Oh god. Oh fuck.

Our eyes met.

For half a second, we both froze.

Then I spun on my heel and ran.

Didn't make it three steps.

His hand clamped around my upper arm and yanked me backward so hard I slammed into the wall. The air punched out of my lungs. His body pressed against mine, pinning me in place, and then the gun was there, cold metal digging into my ribs.

Still warm. Recently fired.

And now here we were. Alone. He's with cocaine burning through his system. Me about to die four years ahead of schedule.

This wasn't supposed to happen yet. I had TIME.

I, Aria Rossi, bastard daughter extraordinaire, had been a model citizen since rebirth. I'd kept my mouth shut, my head down, my ambitions microscopic.

I'd become a ghost. The ideal invisible bastard.

Sold my perfumes anonymously online—nothing fancy, just enough to scrape together escape money. Gave Isabella my best work to submit under her name.

My entire life plan: Stay. Fucking. Alive.

Avoid Vito Castellano. Save money. Run to Switzerland.

Simple, right?

Except here I was, pressed against a wall with a gun in my ribs, staring at the same drug-glazed eyes that had looked down at me the night he killed me in my previous life.

I'd researched his schedule. The International Perfume Competition was tonight in the Astoria Complex ballroom—same building, different floor. He'd be watching from a private box, sealed off by security.

I'd planned everything. One bet on black 17—a spin I knew would hit because I'd overheard gamblers complaining about it in my first life.

But no. I'd smelled cocaine in the air and walked straight toward it like an idiot, right into a drugged, violent mob boss who'd already killed me once before.

Four years early. Death came four fucking years early.

His hand grabbed my hip now, fingers digging bruises. My dress bunched around my thighs.

Gun dug harder. His other hand slid up my side, movements jerky and aggressive.

"Wait—" My voice came out strangled. "Please, Don Castellano—"

His hand moved to my throat. Not squeezing yet and just resting there while his breathing came harsh and fast.

"I'm nobody," I said, words tumbling out. "I just got lost. Wrong door. I didn't see anything—"

Keep talking. Keep him from pulling that trigger.

His grip tightened. I could feel my pulse hammering against his palm, could smell that bitter chemical scent on his breath, and suddenly I wasn't in this corridor anymore—I was back in that bedroom, feeling the gun against my forehead—

"Please don't kill me." The words ripped out of me, raw and desperate. "Please. I know—I know you're a great man, Don Castellano. Everyone says so. Powerful. Respected. A man who—who shows mercy when it's deserved."

Lie. Flatter. Whatever it takes.

My voice shook but I kept going. "I could be useful to you. I'm very good at keeping secrets—I've kept my father's secrets my whole life. And I'm—I'm discreet. Invisible. No one even notices me. That's valuable, isn't it? Someone who can disappear?"

The tears were real now, hot against my cheeks.

"I just want to live," I whispered. "I have a sister who needs me. I have plans—stupid plans, maybe, but they're mine and I just—" My breath hitched. "Please. I'll do anything. I'll disappear, I'll forget I ever saw you—"

I'll beg. I'll grovel. I'll do whatever it takes because I am not dying in this hallway.

"I know you could kill me right now and no one would care," I said, voice breaking. "My own father wouldn't even ask questions. But I'm asking you—I'm begging you—please don't. I want to live. God, I just want to live."

The fear was so thick in my throat I could barely breathe. My hands were shaking against his chest.

"Please," I said one more time, barely audible.

His eyes were unfocused. Pupils so dilated the blue was almost gone.

His mouth crashed against mine.

Brutal kiss. Graceless. Tasting whiskey and violence and something bitter-chemical underneath. Gun digging into ribs. His tongue forcing past my lips, movements aggressive and uncontrolled.

My hands pushed weakly at his chest, but he was so much stronger, and the gun was right there, and my body remembered—

No. Not again. Please not again.

Mouth left mine, trailing down my jaw to my neck. Hand sliding higher up my thigh, rough and possessive. Teeth scraping my pulse hard enough to hurt. Moving lower, breath hot and erratic against my collarbone—

He stopped.

Just—stopped.

Body went completely rigid against mine.