When I Died, My Mafia King Declared War on the World

The car spun out of control in the violent impact, bullets shattering the bulletproof glass and exploding near my ears.

It was a crazy ambush from a rival gang.

In that split second between life and death, Ryan Morrison, instinctively yanked the steering wheel hard, tucking the passenger side into a blind spot from the gunfire.

That's where Susan sat—the adopted daughter of the Jones family, my sister.

And I, Amelia, his legal wife, was left completely exposed to the hail of bullets.

A bullet pierced through the car door and drilled into my shoulder.

Before the searing pain hit, the last thing I saw was Ryan unbuckling his seatbelt and throwing himself over Susan, shielding her body with his own.

Then darkness swallowed everything.

When I woke up again, the smell of disinfectant filled my nose.

Ryan—the man who controlled half of Europe's underground forces—was sitting by my hospital bed.

His eyes were bloodshot, stubble shadowed his jaw, and his usually crisp, expensive tailored suit was wrinkled and disheveled.

When he saw me open my eyes, a flash of panic crossed his normally cold gaze.

"Amelia," his voice was hoarse as his warm palm immediately pressed against my cold cheek. "You're finally awake. Do you know... you almost died?"

This man who didn't even flinch in the face of gunfire was now trembling because of my injury.

In the past, I would have been moved to tears.

But now, looking into these eyes I had once given all my trust to, I felt a pain deeper than the gunshot wound in my shoulder.

That kind of devotion couldn't be faked.

But neither could the determination with which he protected Susan.

If I hadn't experienced it myself—if I hadn't seen those photos and read those reports—I never would have believed that someone as proud as Ryan could fall for Susan's awkward act.

Susan, my "sister," had occupied a whole year of his secret time with a so-called child.

I turned my head away, avoiding his touch, tears silently soaking into the pillow.

My hand instinctively moved to touch my belly, but stopped mid-air.

There, a new life was growing.

This was the child I had endured so much for, the one I had waited so long for. To protect him, I had to stay calmer than anyone.

Ryan thought I was scared. He leaned down and pulled me into his arms, his voice low and gentle, like the perfect husband.

"Don't be afraid, it's over. I've dealt with the people who hurt you. This will never happen again."

He was too close.

And in that moment, I caught a faint scent on him.

Not blood, not gunpowder.

But a sweet, cloying smell—Susan's signature perfume.

A violent churning rose in my stomach, overwhelming disgust taking over everything.

I shoved him away and stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the sink as I dry-heaved.

Ryan followed me in.

He'd always been a germaphobe, hating anything dirty or unpleasant. But now, he knelt on one knee on the cold tile floor, one hand supporting my waist, the other gently tucking my messy hair behind my ear.

"Does it hurt badly? I'll get the doctor." He took a tissue and carefully wiped the corners of my mouth.

This scene nearly broke through my defenses.

Because in this moment, he really was the Ryan I had loved. The man who had shielded me through countless dangerous nights.

I even wavered for a second—if he could completely cut ties with Susan, if what happened was just a mistake, could we go back to how things were, for the sake of the baby?

I opened my mouth, wanting to tell him about the child.

"Ryan, actually, I—"

Just then, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

A special ringtone—the one he'd set for "emergencies."

He glanced at the screen, and his expression changed instantly. He dropped a hasty kiss on my forehead: "There's an urgent matter at the company. I have to go deal with it now. Rest well, I'll be back soon."

With that, he strode away without looking back.

Thirty minutes later.

My phone lit up. The sender was Susan.

No text, just a photo.

In the photo, Ryan sat by a hospital bed, holding a bowl of soup, carefully blowing on it to cool it before bringing it to Susan's lips.

He looked at Susan's swollen belly with an expression I'd never seen before—not guilt, but a quiet contentment of impending fatherhood.

That photo shattered the last bit of hope I had left.

The day I was discharged, I didn't return to Morrison Manor.

I called Samantha on an encrypted line. She was a top-tier hacker and the only person I could trust with my back.

"I need an 'accident,' a fatal one." I looked at the overcast sky outside. "Car crash, explosion, plane crash—whatever it takes. I need 'Amelia' to completely disappear from this world."

Three seconds of silence on the other end: "Are you sure? If Ryan finds out you faked your death, the consequences would be unthinkable."

"I know Ryan better than anyone." I touched my flat belly, my eyes ice-cold. "And because I know him, I know he'll never let me go. If I don't die, I can't protect this child, and I can't take back what's mine."

"Alright." Samantha's voice became crisp and professional. "Give me two days."

After hanging up, I returned to that so-called "home."

I packed away all the jewelry and clothes he'd given me over the years. And the more than a hundred love letters he'd written when we were in love.

At midnight, my phone vibrated.

Samantha sent an encrypted message:

[Everything's ready. Two days from now, Sierra Highway. You'll disappear completely.]