How Does Bullet In The Brain End?

Getting pregnant was supposed to be the most beautiful thing to happen to a woman. Vivian Colbert just got the good news and wanted to gingerly share it with her husband, only to meet him in bed with another woman. As if that wasn't enough pain, she was injected with cocaine by the side chick. Two years later, Vivian is the best skilled assassin and got a mission to murder the well known billionaire-her ex husband.

I was just a student who couldn't afford tuition. For five years, I was also the secret lover of Mafia Don Dante Costello. Publicly, I was his personal art restorer. In private, he spent his nights making me his, holding me close and kissing me breathless. Then his family arranged his engagement. To Isabella Rossi. A princess from a rival family. At their engagement party, Isabella stabbed the back of my hand with a shard of broken glass. He made me apologize. To her. For making a scene. Fighting back tears, I bowed my head to Isabella. When Isabella lost a bet and had to play Russian Roulette—one bullet, six chambers—he made me take her place. My hand shook as I raised the gun to my head. "You saved my life once," I told him. "Now you can have it back." The moment I vanished from his world, the ruthless Mafia Don who had everything under control...completely lost his mind.

When I first met Thomas Hilton, he was still a street punk covered in blood. The only good thing about him was the clumsy sincerity when he tattooed my name on his chest. Later, when he rose to power, with a wave of his hand, he gave me half of Bronze Bay as a wedding gift. Everyone in Harborwood knew that I, Jessica Shaw, was more important to him than his own life. That was until today, when the celebrity Thomas kept finally walked into our house. With a big belly, she said to me with a smile, "Ms. Shaw, are you going to leave with dignity now, or wait until my son grows up and throws you out of this place?" I just raised my hand and ordered a subordinate to help her "give birth". When Thomas saw the pool of blood beneath her, he flew into a rage. He pressed a knife to my neck and said, "Jessica, you should know when to be satisfied!" I laughed softly and pressed the muzzle of a gun against his heart. "You really had a change of heart. Good thing my heart didn't change. My truest self is my ambition." Bang! A gunshot rang out.

I was sent to a correctional facility by my family for five years. The first thing I learned there was obedience. If people told me to do one thing, I would never dare do anything else. The day my wife, Casey Anderson, came to pick me up, she stood at the entrance and said coldly, "If you dare say another bad word about Roger, I'll make sure you never speak again." The moment she finished speaking, I turned and ran straight into traffic. When she saw me get thrown by the impact of the car, she nearly lost her footing. At the hospital, my foster brother stood beside my bed with a sinister smile. "So you actually managed to survive. But that's fine. I have plenty of ways to kill you and make sure you never make it home." After saying that, he smashed the bowl of porridge onto the floor, then deliberately fell onto the shattered glass as he cried out loudly, "Bobby, if you hate me that much, I'll leave! Please, just let me go!" My mother and Casey happened to walk in at that exact moment. Casey immediately rushed over to help Roger up. My mother, meanwhile, slapped me hard across the face. "You'll never change, huh? If Roger's hand is ruined because of you and he can't play the piano anymore, I'd rather see you dead in this hospital bed." Obediently, I walked toward the window and jumped. The harsh, sharp-tongued woman who had always been my mother—and Casey as well—went completely pale with fear. I happened to crash onto my father's car. Trembling, he threw open the door and shouted for the medical staff. My consciousness gradually faded. Then, a system suddenly appeared and said, "Congratulations, Host. You have completed ninety-nine tragic storylines. Finish this final one, and you will be able to return to your original world and revive your younger sister."

Vito Rizzuto was the Don of Sicily. He had it all: power, respect, and the certainty that the mountain was his fortress. But on a cold dawn, everything was stripped from him. Betrayed, captured, and thrown into the stone tomb of Asinara, the former Boss is now ruined, his hands bound by chains made not of iron, but of revenge. Now, the Don is forced to make a pact with his enemies: to become a deep throat to destroy those who framed him. Three hours of fresh air a day is the only freedom granted to weave his web. Revenge is not a cold dish. It is a blaze that will consume the island. And if they think the Don is finished, they have not understood that in prison, the man died... but the Boss was born.

“You don’t know the pit you’ve dug yourself in, Ms. Elena Lubov. Can you honestly tell me that if I slit your neck right now, you can still love me?” Michael asked as the knife on Elena’s neck began to cut slowly and draw a bit of blood. Their gazes never wavered. “I’ll cut my throat on your behalf, Michael, if it would make you believe in every word that I say” she said without fear, “I have nothing to lose.” she whispered. When the most powerful mafia boss finds out his past never existed, how can he keep his madness from destroying the future he created? When power and money is useless, what can the words of the dead do for those left behind? “You don’t know the pit you’ve dug yourself in, Ms. Elena Lubov. Can you honestly tell me that if I slit your neck right now, you can still love me?” Michael asked as the knife on Elena’s neck began to cut slowly and draw a bit of blood. Their gazes never wavered. “I’ll cut my throat on your behalf, Michael, if it would make you believe in every word that I say” she said without fear, “I have nothing to lose.” she whispered. When the most powerful mafia boss finds out his past never existed, how can he keep his madness from destroying the future he created? When power and money is useless, what can the words of the dead do for those left behind?