The only reckless thing I ever did in my last life was fall in love with Luca Moretti. For five years, I called him my brother by day and lay in his arms by night. Then half a month ago, outside the Moretti Club, I heard him talking to his men. "Luca, what are you going to do about the little girl Grace brought in? Weren't you supposed to play with her and dump her? How has this gone on for five years?" "You got with her to get back at your stepmother, right? Sophia dumped you back then, so you turned around and went after Grace's precious daughter. Don't tell me you actually fell for her." Then Luca's cold, cruel voice slipped through the crack in the door. "Love her? Come on. I just haven't decided how to end it yet. Maybe I'll let her stand alone in the church on our engagement day. That could be fun." Laughter burst from the private room. I stood outside the door, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. So my five years of love were just his pastime, a knife meant to cut my mother. I ran from the club in a panic, drove straight into the storm, and died in a pileup on Chicago's South Side. When I opened my eyes again, I had returned to the year before anyone knew about me and Luca. This time, I wasn't going to wait for him to throw me away. I would leave first.
