Chapter 1: The Poison in My Veins
The night I died, my husband held my stepsister's hand and watched me choke on my own blood. He didn't flinch. He didn't call for help. He smiled.
I remembered the taste—metallic, sharp, wrong. The champagne he'd poured me himself, golden and bubbling, laced with something that turned my organs to fire. My stepsister, Vivian, leaned against his shoulder, her red lips curving into a smirk as my body hit the marble floor.
"Finally," she whispered. "Now everything's mine."
Marcus—my husband of five years—stepped over my convulsing body and kissed her. Right there. While I was still breathing, still clawing at the floor tiles, still begging him with my eyes.
I died on that cold floor at twenty-seven. Five years of devotion. Five years of giving him everything—my family's company, my inheritance, my body, my dignity. I cooked his meals, I smiled at his mother's insults, I signed every document he slid across the table without reading a single line. I loved him so completely that I erased myself to make room for his happiness.
And all along, he and Vivian had been plotting my death.
But death wasn't the end.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.
The ceiling above me was familiar—ivory molding, crystal chandelier, soft morning light streaming through silk curtains. My bedroom. Our bedroom.
I sat up so fast my vision blurred. My hands flew to my throat. No burning. No blood. My skin was smooth, unbroken.
I scrambled for my phone on the nightstand.
The date glowed back at me: March 15th.
Six months before my death.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. Six months. I had six months before Marcus would pour that champagne, before Vivian would take my place, before everything I'd built would be stolen.
Last time, I'd been blind. Stupid. Trusting.
This time, I knew every move they would make before they made it. I knew about the offshore accounts Marcus had opened in Vivian's name. I knew about the forged contracts transferring my father's company shares. I knew about the insurance policy—twenty million, with Vivian listed as beneficiary, signed with a copy of my signature I never authorized.
I also knew one more thing. Something neither of them could have predicted.
Dante Corsetti.
The man they called the Devil of the East Coast. Head of the Corsetti crime family. A ghost in an Armani suit. No one crossed him and lived.
In my last life, the night before I died, I'd stumbled into his private club by accident—running from Marcus after discovering his affair. Drunk, pathetic, sobbing. Dante's men should have thrown me out. Or worse.
Instead, Dante himself appeared. He looked at me—truly looked—and said five words I never understood until it was too late:
"You're wasted on that man."
Then he handed me his card. Black, no name, just a phone number embossed in silver.
I never called it. I went home. I forgave Marcus. I drank the champagne.
Not this time.
I pulled open the nightstand drawer. My fingers closed around a small velvet pouch—my emergency cash, the last thing Marcus hadn't found. Fifty thousand. Not much, but enough to start.
The bedroom door opened. Marcus walked in, adjusting his tie, handsome and polished and absolutely monstrous beneath the surface.
"Morning, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. I smiled.
"Morning, darling."
Because the most dangerous weapon in the world isn't a gun or a knife.
It's a woman who already knows how she dies.
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I remembered the taste—metallic, sharp, wrong. The champagne he'd poured me himself, golden and bubbling, laced with something that turned my organs to fire. My stepsister, Vivian, leaned against his shoulder, her red lips curving into a smirk as my body hit the marble floor.
"Finally," she whispered. "Now everything's mine."
Marcus—my husband of five years—stepped over my convulsing body and kissed her. Right there. While I was still breathing, still clawing at the floor tiles, still begging him with my eyes.
I died on that cold floor at twenty-seven. Five years of devotion. Five years of giving him everything—my family's company, my inheritance, my body, my dignity. I cooked his meals, I smiled at his mother's insults, I signed every document he slid across the table without reading a single line. I loved him so completely that I erased myself to make room for his happiness.
And all along, he and Vivian had been plotting my death.
But death wasn't the end.
I woke up gasping, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape my chest.
The ceiling above me was familiar—ivory molding, crystal chandelier, soft morning light streaming through silk curtains. My bedroom. Our bedroom.
I sat up so fast my vision blurred. My hands flew to my throat. No burning. No blood. My skin was smooth, unbroken.
I scrambled for my phone on the nightstand.
The date glowed back at me: March 15th.
Six months before my death.
My hands shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. Six months. I had six months before Marcus would pour that champagne, before Vivian would take my place, before everything I'd built would be stolen.
Last time, I'd been blind. Stupid. Trusting.
This time, I knew every move they would make before they made it. I knew about the offshore accounts Marcus had opened in Vivian's name. I knew about the forged contracts transferring my father's company shares. I knew about the insurance policy—twenty million, with Vivian listed as beneficiary, signed with a copy of my signature I never authorized.
I also knew one more thing. Something neither of them could have predicted.
Dante Corsetti.
The man they called the Devil of the East Coast. Head of the Corsetti crime family. A ghost in an Armani suit. No one crossed him and lived.
In my last life, the night before I died, I'd stumbled into his private club by accident—running from Marcus after discovering his affair. Drunk, pathetic, sobbing. Dante's men should have thrown me out. Or worse.
Instead, Dante himself appeared. He looked at me—truly looked—and said five words I never understood until it was too late:
"You're wasted on that man."
Then he handed me his card. Black, no name, just a phone number embossed in silver.
I never called it. I went home. I forgave Marcus. I drank the champagne.
Not this time.
I pulled open the nightstand drawer. My fingers closed around a small velvet pouch—my emergency cash, the last thing Marcus hadn't found. Fifty thousand. Not much, but enough to start.
The bedroom door opened. Marcus walked in, adjusting his tie, handsome and polished and absolutely monstrous beneath the surface.
"Morning, sweetheart," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
I didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. I smiled.
"Morning, darling."
Because the most dangerous weapon in the world isn't a gun or a knife.
It's a woman who already knows how she dies.
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