Mafia Queen to First Lady: A Reborn Pact with the President

"That bitch Valerie called the cops and even slit her own wrist. What a damn headache. You're sure the Todds won't come after me if I fuck her too hard and end up killing her, right?"

A man's voice slithered through the air, greasy and leering, each word steeped in shameless cruelty.

From the phone's speaker came a woman's laugh—sharp, amused, and utterly heartless. "Relax. Even if that little slut really does die, no one will spare her a second thought. The Todds don't give a damn about her."

Pain tore through Valerie Todd's body, yanking her back from the brink of unconsciousness. What greeted her ears was the cruel conversation.

In that instant, every shard of memory came crashing back.

She had once commanded the world's deadliest network of assassins and mercenaries, a shadow empire where her name alone—Phantom—struck fear into every corner of the underworld.

Not long ago, she had fought her way out of a siege laid by hundreds of mercenaries, carving a path through blood and fire—only to be betrayed by one of her own. The ambush had been flawless, mercilessly planned.

She had died. And yet, here she was, eyes opening inside a body that did not belong to her.

This body belonged to Valerie, the daughter of the Todd family, lost since she was a kid, brought home three years ago.

She had grown up in a backwater town, abused by her foster parents, molded into someone fragile and frightened, someone who learned early that resistance only invited more pain.

Even after returning to the Todd family, her suffering had not ended. Their adopted daughter, Paulina Todd, tormented her openly and relentlessly, day after day.

Within that family, respect was a luxury never afforded to her. To them, Valerie was useless—an eyesore, an inconvenience better left unseen.

Tonight, Paulina had lured her into a hotel suite under false pretenses, slipped an aphrodisiac into her drink, and delivered her like a wrapped gift to an aging businessman in exchange for a multimillion-dollar contract.

Cornered by imminent rape and public humiliation, Valerie had dragged a blade across her wrist, preferring death to submission.

But the consciousness that now stirred within this battered body was Phantom.

She lowered her gaze, calmly taking stock of her situation. Her clothes hung in tatters. Her wrists were still bound by handcuffs. Blood seeped steadily from the cut on her wrist, dripping onto the floor in dark, sticky drops.

Anyone else would have surrendered to fear, curled inward, and waited for death to arrive.

But she was not just anyone.

She was the former leader of the world's most formidable mercenary force—the woman who had survived war zones soaked in blood, crossed the desolate Sarhia Desert where nothing lived and nothing forgave, and completed missions classified as impossible.

This was nothing more than an inconvenience.

With a precise twist of her wrist, she snapped the handcuffs apart as though they were cheap toys.

She reached for the bedside lamp, fingers closing around it without hesitation, and hurled it toward the man's head with lethal accuracy.

The man never even managed to turn around. The lamp struck. He collapsed instantly, crumpling to the floor in a heap of unconscious flesh.

Valerie stepped closer. Her expression was empty—void of rage, fear, or mercy—as she lifted the lamp once more and brought it down toward his groin.

The impact was brutal—metal meeting flesh with a wet, nauseating thud. Blood splashed across the floor. Valerie didn't flinch. She didn't blink.

Only when his lower body had been reduced to unrecognizable ruin did she finally release the lamp.

Straightening slowly, she wiped her hands and allowed a flicker of disgust to cross her features, as if she'd stepped on something foul.

At that moment, a knock rapped against the door. A bodyguard's voice followed, hesitant and awkward. "Sir? The sex toys you ordered are here. Should I bring them in?"

Valerie's eyes hardened instantly. She moved without hesitation, sprinting toward the window and climbing onto the sill with fluid grace.

A split second before the door handle turned, she caught the curtain, used its momentum, and swung herself cleanly out into the waiting darkness beyond.

Downstairs, in another lavish suite, President Leland Harper stood rigidly behind a locked door. An unfamiliar flush colored his usually cold, disciplined features.

He pounded against the door, fury vibrating through his voice. "Mom, let me out immediately! Do you have any idea what you're doing? Detaining the President is a criminal offense!"

From outside, Sarah Powell's voice rang back, triumphant and unapologetic. "If getting you to give this family an heir puts me in jail, so be it. Relax, the drug won't hurt you. Just sleep with the woman I arranged for you tonight, and I'll unlock the door afterward."

The lock clicked, sealing his fate.

Leland drew his sidearm, eyes flashing. "I can blow this door open with a single shot. You can't hold me here."

"I'm standing right outside," she warned. "You fire that gun, and you kill your own mother. And imagine the headlines—'President Shoots Mother During Family Dispute.' Is that really how you want history to remember you?"

Leland pressed his fingers to his temple, exhaling sharply as frustration clawed through him.

After a long moment, he holstered the weapon and turned away, heading for the en suite bathroom. He planned to use cold water to extinguish the unnatural heat burning through his veins.

But the moment he stepped back into the bedroom, a body blazing with warmth and carrying a faint, intoxicating fragrance slammed straight into his arms.