He Chose His Bastard Over Our Baby - Chapter 4: Chapter 4

I was dead. Or at least, the world would believe I was soon enough.
The divorce papers crumpled in my fist as I stormed out of the De Luca estate for the last time, my cheek still burning from Lorenzo's slap, my chest hollowed out like a gutted wound. The guards didn't stop me. Why would they? I was nothing now—not a wife, not a mother. Just another casualty in the mafia's merciless game.
I tightened my grip on the duffel bag—Amara's things. Her stuffed bear, her tiny shoes, the last remnants of her. Lorenzo could keep the money, the title, the life we'd built. But he'd never erase her.
My legs ached as I walked, the night replaying in jagged fragments—the slap, the venom in his eyes, the way he'd let Isabella and that bastard child strip me bare. Bile rose in my throat. This wasn't over.
The phone trembled in my hand as I dialed. Two rings, then—
"Valeria?"
"Ronan." His name came out ragged, the weight of the night crushing me. "I need your help."
A beat. Then: "Where are you?"
"Doesn't matter. I need a car. A body. A fire." My voice turned to steel. "I need the world to think I'm dead."
Another pause. Then a low chuckle. "Finally woke up, huh?"
I exhaled sharply. "Can you do it or not?"
"Consider it done. Just focus on disappearing."
I ended the call and hurled the phone into a storm drain. Valeria De Luca was dead.
The plan was simple. Ronan owed me his life, and he paid it back in stolen cars, forged papers, and a corpse—some nameless girl my size, left to rot by lowlife thugs. Guilt? I was fresh out. Survival was the only currency left.
We drove to the cliffs, an abandoned stretch of road where no one would ask questions. Ronan positioned the body, doused the car in gasoline, and lit a cigarette. But there was one last thing.
One last call.
To him.
Lorenzo's number burned under my thumb. One ring. Two. Then—
"Lorenzo isn't available." That saccharine voice coiled around me like a snake.
My stomach lurched. "Isabella."
She laughed, the sound like ice down my spine. "Pathetic. Calling for scraps after he threw you out?"
"Put him on the phone."
"Why?" she purred. "So he can remind you what a worthless whore you are?"
My knuckles whitened around the phone. "You think you've won?"
"Oh, Valeria." Her giggle was poison. "I already have."
Silence. Then—
"Funny thing about your daughter," she mused, mockery dripping from every word. "Dante was never sick."
The world stopped. "What?"
"We faked it." Her laughter was a knife twisting. "And Lorenzo? He played right along."
The air left my lungs.
Amara died for nothing. They'd bled her dry for a lie.
The call ended, her laughter still ringing. The phone slipped from my fingers. My hands shook. My vision blurred. The rage was a living thing, scalding and endless.
No screams. No tears. Just fire.
Isabella. Lorenzo. Every traitor who stood by. They'd pay.
Ronan eyed me. "Last chance. Once this burns, there's no coming back."
I watched the flames dance in his lighter. "I'm already gone."
The car erupted in a roar of fire, heat licking at my skin as the woman meant to be me turned to ash. Soon, the sirens would come. Lorenzo would hear about his ex-wife's tragic end. And he wouldn't shed a tear.
Good. This wasn't for him. It was for me. For Amara. For every second I'd wasted on a man who deserved none of it.
By dawn, I'd vanished.
Ronan smuggled me out, through the underworld's cracks where no De Luca could follow. A new name. A new face. But inside? The same fury. The same vow.
I stared into the motel mirror, fingers threading through jet-black hair—no more golden locks for Lorenzo to twist around his fingers, whispering lies. That woman was ashes now.
"Welcome back to hell," I whispered.
The world buried Valeria De Luca tonight.
But the woman who rose from her grave?
She was just getting started.