The Masked Heiress: His Dead Wife Lives

s deceased five years ago. Account legally closed." Those words, glaring from

usband, Dante, the Syndicate Don, rushed in with fake grief. My parents, who'd raised me a

g a flimsy excuse. My hacker skills led me to my secret trust account

him to reveal my death certificate. It stated "Accidental drowni

rged document to blackmail Dante, demanding to be taken to Leo, my counterattack already

pte

Vitiel

ch crawled up my nasal passages, violently

hing impact of the car crash, the taste of my own blood, and the terrifying sound of tearing met

a time. Blinding, synthetic white light stabbed into my dry corneas. My body instinctively rejected it, tears leaking from the cor

. I needed to assess my sur

f willpower into my fingers. A pathetic, barely visible twitch was all I managed. The severe muscle atrophy made my limbs feel like they belonged to a corpse. These wer

ital signs monitor next to my bed. The machin

eavy, soundproof door of the VIP

is Italian leather shoes squeaked harshly against the linoleum floor as he sprinted toward me. As the D

ight hand. My skin was freezing and covered in dark purple track marks from years

oulders shook violently. Hot, wet tears slipped

to his usual cold demeanor. "Elena," he choked out, his voice a raw, r

less mafia boss I married. It felt rehearsed. It felt incredibly forced. Instead of the warm flutter of relief

e hallway. My biological parents appeared in

ined of blood. He looked like he was going to vomit. They had raised me to be a pawn, teaching me from childhood that my only purpose was to

cked onto theirs, both of my parents flinched and immedia

. I opened my cracked lips, trying to form a word

inning me to the mattress. "Don't speak," he babbled, his words rushing out in a frantic

ld steady and locked my eyes directly onto his. My che

ay. Six Syndicate soldiers stood outside. They were armed with submachine guns under their coats.

assassins. They were standing with their backs to

otect me. They were her

e monitor beside my bed began to

ainst Dante's grip felt like trying to move a boulder, but I dragged my fingers

e mask of the grieving husband slipped. His facial muscles wen

od in my throat. I forced my vocal cords to grind

k what year it was. The maternal instinct ove

nte's handsome, compl

ce dropping into a sickeningly sweet, ge

rgy to turn my head sharply to

ly. My father let out a nervous cough and actu

lid concrete. The smell of the ble

s and forced the raspy w