Abandoned Heiress, Now His Mafia Bride

I was tracing the gold paint on my own tombstone when a hand tapped me on the shoulder.

It was Clayton.

The same man who, five years ago, had left me bleeding out in a ditch because he didn't want to be late for my sister's engagement party.

"Die quietly, Ivy," he had said over the phone before hanging up.

Now, standing over my grave, he dropped his cheap plastic flowers in shock.

"Ivy? You're... we buried you."

They hadn't buried me.

They had buried an empty box to save face, mourning a "troubled" daughter they had actually discarded like broken trash the moment I became a liability.

Clayton's shock quickly turned to that familiar, arrogant anger.

He accused me of faking my death for attention.

He told me I was sick for putting the family through such pain.

He even reached out to grab my arm, intending to drag me back to my father to apologize.

"You're coming with me," he spat. "You owe us an explanation."

But he made a fatal mistake.

He thought he was talking to Ivy Dillard, the soft girl who cried when she skinned her knees.

He didn't notice the town car waiting at the curb, or the man stepping out of it.

Before Clayton's fingers could graze my coat, a hand made of steel caught his wrist.

Collin Richardson, the most feared Capo in Chicago, stepped between us.

"Touch my wife again," Collin whispered, his voice promising violence. "And you lose the hand."

I smiled at the terror draining the color from Clayton's face.

I didn't come back from the dead to explain myself.

I came back to bury them.