Reborn from the Capo's Fire

The flames licking at my art studio were about to become an inferno, but my husband, Marshall, Capo of the Valeriano family, rushed off with his men to save the woman he truly loved, Paige.

That was when I knew. He’d been reborn, too.

In my past life, he’d missed Paige’s call for help because he'd prioritized saving me. As a result, she nearly died from a drug overdose. After Paige woke up, she wept to Marshall, claiming I had orchestrated the whole thing to get her killed.

Because of this, Marshall imprisoned me.

On Paige's birthday, Marshall shattered all four of my limbs, tied me to a chair, and strangled me with my favorite silk scarf. He roared in my ear, "If it weren't for you, Paige would never have suffered!"

I died to the sound of my father's desperate cries, swallowed by the suffocating darkness.

And now, opening my eyes again, I was back on the night of the fire.

This time, he could go save his precious Paige. I wouldn't be in his way.

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1

My art studio was in the east wing of the estate.

I had already dragged my father to the second floor to hide, but the arson—a gift from a rival family—had already devoured the building. Thick smoke choked the air, making each breath a battle, as flames scaled the walls with terrifying speed.

My father's leg was pinned by a fallen beam, blood pooling around it. The smoke clouded his vision, his face a mask of raw terror.

"It's okay, Papa. Someone will come for us!" I lied, my voice strained with the effort as I helped him into the fireproof storage room and squeezed in behind him.

This time, I didn't call my husband, Marshall Valeriano. Instead, I tried to reach his lieutenant, Bianca Rossi.

But it was Marshall who answered.

"Enough, Rosa! The family is at war, every second is precious—can you stop causing trouble? Your studio has the highest level of security. If anyone's safe, it's you!"

He roared and cut the line. He'd conveniently forgotten that he was the one who had personally dismantled the state-of-the-art security system from my studio—my pride and joy—and installed it in Paige's shabby little recording space.

Just because Paige had whined about needing a "quiet creative environment," he had immediately repurposed all the equipment meant for me. I never even got a chance to protest.

But this was my second life. I was done explaining anything to Marshall.

I tried Bianca again.

This time, she answered, her tone dripping with hostility.

"For God's sake, Rosa. Can you stop being so dramatic?"

"Marshall spoils you, but his patience has limits."

"He's already taken a team to save Paige. Stop calling. No one has time for your whining. You're tying up the family's emergency channel!"

"If you weren't the Capo's wife, I'd give you a piece of my mind. God, I can't stand useless dolls who are nothing but a pretty face."

After a final torrent of insults, Bianca blocked me.

It didn't matter.

Before long, all communication went dead. The channels were silent, messages timing out. Even hiding in the storage room with my father offered little respite.

The fire chewed through the door. My chest tightened, each breath a searing agony.

My father's condition was deteriorating rapidly. He was barely conscious, and only my grip kept him from collapsing into the thickest of the smoke.

In twenty minutes, the inferno would claim us both.

"Rosa, leave me. If you waste your strength on me, neither of us will make it out," my father's voice trembled.

"It's okay. We'll be rescued before we suffocate."

I tried to press our bodies lower, desperate for cleaner air, but I couldn't hold on for long. A sharp sting filled my nose, and my eyes burned with tears.

In my past life, the moment the fire breached the second floor, I had called Marshall for help.

He came for me—and because of that, he missed Paige's call.

Paige overdosed and was rushed to the hospital.

After she recovered, she posted a video accusing me of orchestrating the whole affair, of deliberately trying to get her killed. She claimed I had been jealous of her since our student days and had tried to sabotage her relationship with Marshall.

She wailed that since I had now stolen Marshall from her, her life was unbearable.

Paige was a well-known underground musician. The video went viral, and an avalanche of online hate descended upon me, pushing me to the brink of a breakdown.

I insisted I had done none of it, but no one believed me.

Besides my family, only Marshall stood by me. He said it wasn't my fault. He showed me a tenderness I'd never known from him.

For a while, I was grateful. I believed I had chosen the right man—that I was the happiest woman in the world.

Then, on Paige's birthday, Marshall put sedatives in my and my father's drinks and dragged us to a basement.

He forced us to atone with our lives.

"You're an artist! Your studio was a fortress! You were never in any real danger, yet you still called me… In three years, I chose you once—and Paige almost died for it. You deserve this!"

But I was his wife. Wasn't it his duty to save me and my father?

Marshall grabbed my hair, his face inches from mine, spitting curses. His eyes were bloodshot, possessed.

"If Paige loses a single hair on her head, I feel like I've failed her. How dare you hurt her like this, right under my nose?"

"Does it hurt, watching your father die? When Paige almost died, I felt a thousand times worse than you do now!"

"Didn't you say you almost suffocated that day? Let's see what it really feels like to be strangled to death!"

I wanted to scream that I had never hurt Paige. I wanted to cry for help. But no sound would come.

As my father's screams grew hoarse and agonized, the silk scarf tightened around my throat, cutting off my breath, until the world went dark.

In the end, as death closed in, all I could do was weep.