Marco's POV
The bullet hit me before I heard the gunshot.
Pain exploded in my back, hot and sharp like someone shoved a burning knife between my ribs. I stumbled forward, my hand reaching for the gun at my waist, but my fingers wouldn't work right. Blood spread across my white shirt, warm and sticky.
"Sorry, boss," Tommy said behind me. His voice sounded calm. Too calm.
I turned around slowly, each movement feeling like I was moving through thick mud. Tommy stood five feet away, gun still pointing at me. Smoke curled from the barrel. My best friend. My second-in-command. The man I trusted with my life for fifteen years.
The man who just shot me in the back.
"Why?" I managed to say. More blood filled my mouth. It tasted like metal.
Tommy smiled, but it wasn't his friendly smile. This one was cold. "The Rossi family offered me three million dollars and your territory. They said you were getting soft, Marco. Too soft to lead anymore."
"Soft?" I laughed, and blood sprayed from my lips. "I built this empire from nothing."
"Yeah, and now you won't even kill the people who betray us. Last week, you let Johnny go with just a warning. Johnny stole fifty thousand from us!" Tommy shook his head. "The old Marco would've put a bullet in his head. But you? You gave him a speech about second chances because he reminded you of your little sister."
My chest tightened. Not from the bullet—from the truth in his words.
Maria. My baby sister. Dead at sixteen because I wasn't powerful enough to protect her from our enemies. That was twenty years ago, but I still saw her face every night. After she died, I promised myself I'd build an empire so strong that no one I loved would ever be hurt again.
But somewhere along the way, I got tired of killing. Tired of seeing faces that reminded me of Maria—young, desperate, making stupid mistakes. I started giving second chances. Third chances.
And now I was dying because of it.
"You're right," I whispered, dropping to my knees. The warehouse floor was cold against my skin. "I got soft. But that doesn't make you less of a backstabbing coward."
Tommy's smile disappeared. "Big words from a dead man."
He raised his gun again, pointing it at my head. This was it. Thirty-five years old, king of New York's underworld, and I was going to die on a dirty warehouse floor, killed by my best friend.
My vision started going dark at the edges. I thought about Maria. About how I failed to save her. About all the people I killed to build my empire. About the three million dollars I had hidden in offshore accounts that I'd never get to spend.
What a waste.
"Any last words, Marco?" Tommy asked.
I looked up at him, blood dripping down my chin. "Yeah. The Rossi family never keeps their promises. You'll be dead within a month."
Tommy laughed. "Nice try."
He pulled the trigger.
The second bullet hit my chest. The pain was somehow worse than the first one, like my whole body was on fire. I fell backward, staring up at the warehouse ceiling. There were water stains up there. Weird thing to notice when you're dying.
My heartbeat got slower. Quieter.
I should have seen this coming, I thought. Should've known better than to trust anyone in this business.
Everything went dark.
But then—light. Bright, painful light that made no sense. Was this heaven? Hell? I didn't believe in either, but something was happening.
Voices shouted around me. Not English—something else. Hands grabbed me. Why could I feel hands if I was dead?
My eyes snapped open.
I wasn't in the warehouse anymore.
I was staring up at a painted ceiling covered in gold and angels. Silk curtains hung around me. The bed beneath me was soft, way too soft. And my body—
My body felt wrong.
Too small. Too light. Too weak.
"Prince Adrian! Prince Adrian, wake up!"
A woman's face appeared above me. She wore a maid's uniform, but not like any uniform I'd ever seen. It looked like something from a medieval movie. Her eyes were wide with panic.
"Someone get the Royal Physician! The prince is having another attack!"
Prince? Royal Physician? What the hell was going on?
I tried to sit up, but my arms shook like I'd never used them before. This body was so weak I could barely move. Where were my muscles? Where were my scars?
More servants rushed in, all wearing those old-fashioned clothes. They spoke in panicked voices, saying words I somehow understood even though I'd never heard this language before.
Memories crashed into my brain like waves. Not my memories—someone else's. A boy named Adrian. A prince. Seventeen years old. Weak. Sick. Everyone thought he was useless.
And then I understood the most terrifying part: I wasn't in New York anymore.
I wasn't even in my own world.
The warehouse. Tommy's betrayal. The bullets. I died. I actually died.
And now I was someone else.
"Your Highness, can you hear me?" the maid asked, her voice shaking.
I opened my mouth to answer, but a new pain stabbed through my stomach. Not a bullet this time—poison. I could feel it burning in my blood, weak but constant. Someone had been poisoning this body for a long time.
As a mafia boss, I knew every poison in the book. This was arsenic. Small doses over months, maybe years. Whoever was doing this wanted Adrian to die slowly, so it looked natural.
They wanted to kill me.
Well, they picked the wrong person to murder.
I survived the streets of Brooklyn. I built a criminal empire. I took down five rival families. And I wasn't about to die in some spoiled prince's body just because someone thought they could poison me quietly.
But first, I needed to figure out where the hell I was and who wanted me dead.
The maid pressed a cup to my lips. "Drink this, Your Highness. It will help."
I smelled the liquid. Wine. And underneath the wine—the bitter scent of more poison.
They were doing it right now. Right in front of me.
I pretended to drink but kept my lips closed. The liquid touched my mouth and I let it dribble down my chin, making it look like I was too weak to swallow properly.
"He's too ill," another servant whispered. "Should we call the King?"
"His Majesty doesn't want to be disturbed," someone else said quietly. "He said the prince should handle his own problems."
So this Adrian's own father didn't care if he lived or died. Great family.
The servants fussed around me for a few more minutes, then slowly left. The maid stayed longest, looking at me with sad eyes before she finally walked out too.
I lay there in the huge bed, my new weak body trembling, and started planning.
Marco "The Reaper" Santini was dead. But whoever I was now—Prince Adrian—he was about to become very dangerous.
Because I didn't survive twenty years in the mafia by being soft.
And whoever was trying to kill me? They just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
A cold smile spread across my new face.
Let the game begin.