

My daughter, Ruby Pratt, has leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant—and fast. Out of everyone in the family, my husband, Dan Pratt, was the only match. I begged him for an entire month before he finally agreed to go through with the donation. But on the morning of the surgery, he went completely off the grid. I stood outside the hospital all day, waiting. No calls. No texts. Not even a shadow. That night, his childhood friend, Valerie Kinder, posted on Instagram. In the photo, Dan was holding Valerie's hand with one arm and carrying her young son with the other—on a beach in Lulabo City. The caption read: [Soaking up the sun! Dan cleared his whole schedule to join us on a month-long trek and we finally made it to the coast! My little boy said Uncle Dan made his ocean dream come true. Pure joy!] My heart splintered. While I was drowning in worry over my daughter, he was off playing happy family with them. I wiped my tears and typed a comment beneath her post: [Not 'Uncle.' From now on, he's your son's father.] That night, I finally got a call from him. "Babe, don't be like this," Dan said. "You're not being fair. "Valerie's son has been bullied at school for not having a dad. I couldn't stand seeing him hurt, so I took them on this trip. It was supposed to help him heal. "I'll catch the first flight back tomorrow and head straight to the hospital to donate the marrow. I promise." I hung up with a bitter smile. The next morning, Dan rushed into the hospital room. But all he found on the bed was a death certificate.

In my previous life, the maid's daughter had swiped my spare card until everyone believed she was the real heiress. When she planted cheat notes on me, no one believed the heiress they adored was a fraud. Father spent his last favors hunting for the truth, only to be reported by her for bribery. The company's stock nosedived, the firm collapsed, and I ended up on the streets, my face slashed by debt collectors until I died in disgrace. Then I woke up in River High, with a second chance to take it all back.

I'm Sam Archer. Reborn today, I've decided to live differently. In my last life, I was weak and stepped on.This time, I'll be a villain. From restaurant waiter to underground kingpin, I crush my bullies and outsmart even my father-in-law, the mob boss. One rule: my people are untouchable. Stop backing down, and the world makes way for you.
![[ENG DUB] Reborn to Dominate: No Mercy, No Retreat](https://acfs3.goodshort.com/dist/src/assets/images/pc/common/f901131c-default-book-cover.png)
I'm Sam Archer. Reborn today, I've decided to live differently. In my last life, I was weak and stepped on.This time, I'll be a villain. From restaurant waiter to underground kingpin, I crush my bullies and outsmart even my father-in-law, the mob boss. One rule: my people are untouchable. Stop backing down, and the world makes way for you.

Isabelle, the CEO of New York City’s Weston Group, wants to bring her elderly father, Jerry, from her hometown to the city so she can take care of him. Jerry hence sets out for the Big Apple, but neither father nor daughter expected that this journey would become a nightmare. No one knows that Jerry is Isabelle's father, and instead assume from his plain clothes that he’s a beggar or a pervert. Jerry suffers bullying and abuse by Weston Group’s employees and partners, until Isabelle finally arrives......

Larry had been bullied and ignored by everyone in his class for being poor since childhood. However, years later, he grabbed the chance and founded Peak Garment Factory. It soon became one of the top enterprises in the local county, and Larry became the most successful one among all his classmates.Starting from winning over his first love, Quincy, Larry started his revenge...

My father was one of the first dons to rise out of the Naples mob. My mother was an iron-fisted businesswoman with a reputation that made grown men flinch. When I was ten, somebody had the nerve to hijack one of my father's freight ships. He had the man's arms and legs broken with a crowbar, then stuffed a handful of gold rings down his throat — told him to count his money while he crawled. When I was fifteen, some scheming woman tried to get her claws into my father. My mother hired the filthiest pimps off the docks, shipped her down to a back-alley bar in Marseille, and told her to make her own way. And me — I grew up running the streets of Naples like I owned them. The sons of every other family knew to call me Miss Ferrante and keep their hands to themselves. Then I met him. A rough, quiet man fresh out of the army. For him I put down the knives, traded the silk for plain cotton, and followed him back to that little nothing of a coastal town, Porto Scuro. Today my mother-in-law and my husband went down to the dock warehouses to settle a dispute. They held her face down in a barrel of rotting fish guts. They kicked in three of his ribs. I stared at the salt fish I'd been slicing on the kitchen board, let out a cold laugh, and brought the knife down so hard the oak split in half. Then I dialed my father's private line.

After I got pulled into the horror game, my nearsightedness made everything blurry. I ended up treating the creepy girl in the blood-stained dress like my own daughter, the final boss like my husband, and the old creepy ghosts like my loving parents. The first time I met the boss, I grabbed his abs and said, “Nice body. Shame you’re kind of short.” He actually laughed in anger, picked up the severed head in his hand, put it back on his neck, and ground out, “I’m six-foot-one. Still think I’m short now?”

My father was one of the first dons to rise out of the Naples mob. My mother was an iron-fisted businesswoman with a reputation that made grown men flinch. When I was ten, somebody had the nerve to hijack one of my father's freight ships. He had the man's arms and legs broken with a crowbar, then stuffed a handful of gold rings down his throat — told him to count his money while he crawled. When I was fifteen, some scheming woman tried to get her claws into my father. My mother hired the filthiest pimps off the docks, shipped her down to a back-alley bar in Marseille, and told her to make her own way. And me — I grew up running the streets of Naples like I owned them. The sons of every other family knew to call me Miss Ferrante and keep their hands to themselves. Then I met him. A rough, quiet man fresh out of the army. For him I put down the knives, traded the silk for plain cotton, and followed him back to that little nothing of a coastal town, Porto Scuro. Today my mother-in-law and my husband went down to the dock warehouses to settle a dispute. They held her face down in a barrel of rotting fish guts. They kicked in three of his ribs. I stared at the salt fish I'd been slicing on the kitchen board, let out a cold laugh, and brought the knife down so hard the oak split in half. Then I dialed my father's private line.