Chapter 1
The moment my seven-year-old son, Lucas Rossi, died in my arms, his father, Michael Rossi, was popping champagne at a rooftop club, celebrating Lucas's death.
At 2:47 AM, the line on the heart monitor went flat.
At that moment, all the tenderness and hope I'd had in my life were severed.
Lucas's small body lined against my chest. It was still warm, but his life had slipped away.
Blood seeped from the IV site at the back of his hand, staining my sleeve a blinding crimson.
A nurse hurried over, panicking, ready to perform CPR. I blocked her with a firm hand on her shoulder.
My tone was icy. "Don't bother. His father decided he shouldn't live."
That sentence decided my son's fate and marked the end of my seven-year marriage.
Whatever love I had left in me was gone for good with those words.
Lucas's eyes were half-open, the pale hospital lights reflected in them.
I reached out and gently closed his eyes.
His soft lashes brushed against my fingertips, so delicate, like a butterfly that would never fly again.
He would never blink those eyes and call me "Mom" again.
Michael was the ruthless godfather everyone feared.
No one could've imagined that he once brought half of Bevarista to his knees to marry me. He swore he'd love me for a lifetime.
But he was the one who stopped paying for his own son's life-saving treatment.
He watched his own son, stricken with a terminal illness, die in pain.
The elevator descended slowly.
The mirror showed my ashen face. I carried my son in my arms. His body was cold.
The memory from three days ago was burned into my mind, impossible to forget.
I slumped onto the ground in the hospital hallway.
Looking humble and bedraggled, I cried so hard that I couldn't catch my breath.
I begged him to send the money.
I begged him to save Lucas, who was only seven years old.
On the phone, he only tossed out one icy line. "He's a hopeless burden. It's less trouble if he's dead."
Back then, I was stupid.
I thought he was just busy, just not the warm type.
I honestly believed he couldn't be this heartless to his own child.
But now, I was wide awake.
He wasn't just busy.
He meant for this to happen.
He wanted Lucas gone for good so he could take everything the Moretti family owned, clear the way for his mistress, Ella Monroe, make her his wife, and give her my fortune.
Wasn't it laughable?
My son and I were nothing but stepping stones for their happiness, not even worth a piece of trash.
Just thinking about it made me want to rip them both apart to vent the rage boiling in my chest.
The elevator doors slid open.
The cold night air slapped against my face, and the chill I carried kept everyone at bay.
Rain fell tonight. The fog was heavy, and the city's neon lights burned bright.
The rooftop private club by the harbor was drenched in neon, booze, and wild celebration.
That was my husband's victory celebration.
It doubled as my son's funeral.
The taxi pulled up outside, and the driver didn't say a word the whole ride.
He didn't dare ask.
He didn't so much as look at me.
He probably never saw anything this crazy in his whole life.
A mother was holding her dead child to catch her husband cheating at a party celebrating her son's death.
My voice was eerily calm. "Take me to Michael's rooftop club."
Lucas was still in my arms, his hair carrying a faint strawberry scent.
It was the fragrance that lingered from last week's bath, when I washed his hair.
Back then, while he was in the tub, bubbles covered his mouth.
He asked with a cute voice, "Mommy, I smell like strawberry now. Will you love me forever?"
I smiled, pinched his soft cheek, and said, "Of course, my little strawberry baby. I will love you forever."
I really thought I could love him for a long time.
And I really thought he'd be with me for that long.
But I never thought his whole life was only seven short years.
He died in the shadow of his father's greed and coldness.
Today marked the seventh day since Michael seized the Moretti family's business.
After three years of plotting and silent endurance, he stripped away everything my father spent a lifetime building and drained me of my money, connections, and resources.
In the end, he funneled the Moretti family's ten-billion-dollar fortune into his mistress Ella's offshore accounts.
I'd snuck into his study.
I saw those transfer records with my own eyes.
Line after line, the records were packed so tightly.
Every dollar was stained with my family's blood.
Every dollar came at the price of my son's life.
He used my family's money to support his mistress.
He cut off my son's treatment and watched him waste away and die.
He did that just to secure his spot as Don Rossi, so he could rule without anyone left to stand in his way.
The bodyguard at the club entrance froze when he saw me, reaching out to block my way.
He said, "Mrs. Rossi, Mr. Rossi has important guests tonight. He can't see anyone right now—"
"Get lost!" I snapped, uttering two words.
The bodyguard shivered, instinctively stepping back, not daring to block me again.
They knew the Mrs. Rossi who had always been obedient and gentle.
But tonight, I was a whole different person.
Tonight, I came back with hatred blazing in my heart.
The elevator ascended.
In the mirror, my neck was bare.
That priceless emerald pendant, my wedding necklace, was taken off and handed to Ella by Michael three days after Lucas was diagnosed with leukemia.
His casual words crushed every shred of dignity I had.
"Loretta, you're getting old. You're not worthy anymore," he said.
I cried in the hospital until I was on the verge of fainting.
My child was tortured in the hospital room.
Meanwhile, he was at the jewelry store, shopping for luxury gifts for Ella.