I Heard His Mind: The Don's Regret

I was naked in the bed of the most dangerous Capo in New York when I heard his mind whisper the name of the woman he actually wanted.

It wasn't me.

My husband, Dante, moved over me with cold precision, but his thoughts were screaming for Sofia, a soldier's widow he claimed to protect out of "honor."

I possess a secret that makes me a freak: I can hear the thoughts of men.

And Dante's mind was a torture chamber of devotion to another woman.

I found the deed to a luxury penthouse he bought for her.

I watched her parade around in a dress he bought for me, hearing her mental triumph as she thought about rubbing her scent all over it.

Refusing to be a placeholder in my own marriage, I left my wedding ring on his desk and fled to Las Vegas to build my own empire.

I thought I had escaped.

Until the divorce papers arrived in the mail, signed by him.

I stood in my shop, heartbroken, believing he had finally discarded me to be with his true love.

But then the phone rang.

"Dante didn't sign those papers, Elena. He's in the ICU."

My blood ran cold.

"He took two bullets to the chest. He started a war to distract the enemy from finding you."

He hadn't chosen her. He was dying for me.

I tore up the papers and booked a private jet.

If the Grim Reaper wanted my husband, he would have to get through me first.

Chapter 1

I was naked in the bed of the most dangerous Capo in New York when I heard his mind whisper the name of the woman he actually wanted, and it wasn't me.

The realization hit me harder than the physical thrust of his hips against mine.

Dante Cavallaro, known to the underworld as The Silencer, moved over me with the cold precision of a machine.

His body was a weapon I was bound to by law and blood, a wall of muscle and scars that the Vitiello family had sold me to in exchange for a truce.

He gripped my wrists, pinning them to the silk sheets above my head.

His eyes were closed.

That was the only mercy he granted me.

If he had opened them, he would have seen the tears leaking from the corners of mine.

But he didn't look.

He just took.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of his skin on mine, but I couldn't block out the voice.

The curse.

The ability that had made me a pariah in my own father's house and a freak to anyone who got too close.

I could hear the thoughts of men.

Not all of them, and not always clearly. But in moments of high adrenaline, or lust, or violence, their minds cracked open like eggshells, spilling their secrets.

Sofia.

The name echoed in my head, projected from his.

I should have been there earlier. She's alone.

My breath hitched.

Dante mistook it for pleasure.

He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against my chest, and finished with a harsh, biting rhythm.

He collapsed onto me for a heartbeat, heavy and suffocating, before rolling away.

The cold air of the bedroom rushed in to replace his heat.

It felt like a judgment.

Dante sat up, running a hand through his dark, sweat-dampened hair. His back was a landscape of violence, covered in tattoos and old knife wounds.

He didn't say a word.

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He stood up and walked to the bathroom.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the name Sofia still ringing in my ears like tinnitus.

Sofia.

The widow of a low-level soldier who had bled out six months ago.

A woman who had no status, no power, and nothing to offer a man like Dante.

Except, apparently, the one thing I couldn't give him.

His guilt.

And his heart.

The water in the shower turned on.

I sat up, wrapping the sheet around my body. My hands were shaking, but I forced them to still.

I wasn't just a wife.

I was a Vitiello.

We didn't share.

And we certainly didn't lose to rats.

Dante walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later, a towel slung low on his hips.

Water dripped from his chest. He looked like a god of war, sculpted and terrifying.

He began to dress, pulling on a black dress shirt that cost more than most people's cars.

"I have business," he said.

His voice was gravel, rough from disuse. He barely spoke to me unless it was an order.

"At midnight?" I asked.

My voice was steady, betraying none of the chaos inside me.

He paused, buttoning his cuffs.

"The train station," he said. "A shipment."

He was lying.

I didn't need to read his mind to know that. I could see it in the way he wouldn't meet my eyes.

But I heard the thought anyway.

She's waiting on the platform. Shivering. I can't leave her in the cold.

"I'm coming with you," I said.

Dante stopped.

He turned slowly, his grey eyes finally locking onto mine.

They were cold, devoid of any warmth he might have felt ten minutes ago.

"No," he said.

"I am your wife, Dante," I said, standing up and letting the sheet pool at my feet. "If you have business at the station, I should be there. Unless it's not family business."

His jaw tightened.

She knows something. How does she always know?

"Get dressed," he snapped. "But you stay in the car."

The drive to Grand Central was a study in silence.

The rain lashed against the windows of the armored SUV.

Dante drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gun holstered beneath his jacket.

His mind was a storm of irritation and duty.

He viewed me as a burden.

A shiny object he had to protect but didn't want to polish.

When we pulled up to the curb, I didn't wait for his permission.

I opened the door and stepped out into the rain.

"Elena!" he barked.

I ignored him.

I walked toward the entrance, my heels clicking ominously on the wet pavement.

Dante was beside me in a second, his hand gripping my elbow.

"I told you to stay in the car."

"And I told you I'm your wife," I hissed.

We walked into the station.

It was late, and the grand hall was mostly empty.

Except for her.

Sofia stood near the information booth, clutching a small, battered suitcase.

She looked fragile.

She was wearing a coat that was too thin for the weather, shivering slightly. Her dark hair was plastered to her face.

She looked like a tragedy waiting to be saved.

Dante's grip on my arm loosened.

I felt the shift in him.

The protective instinct.

The debt.

Sofia saw us.

Her eyes widened, filling with tears. She looked at Dante like he was her savior.

Then her gaze flicked to me.

For a split second, the mask slipped.

I heard it, loud and clear, a screech in the silence of my mind.

I will displace this Princess. I will take everything she has, piece by piece.

She smiled, a weak, trembling thing.

"Dante," she whispered. "I didn't know who else to call."

Dante stepped forward, effectively putting himself between us.

Shielding her from me.

"You're safe now, Sofia," he said.

His voice was gentle.

A tone he had never, not once, used with me.

I stood there, the rain dripping from my hair, watching my husband comfort the woman who planned to destroy me.

And I realized then that the war hadn't just started.

I was already losing.

"She can't stay at the Estate," I said.

My voice was steady, a practiced calm that betrayed nothing of the magma rising in my chest.

We were back in the SUV, the city lights sliding over the leather interior like streaks of oil.

Sofia was curled in the backseat, swallowed by Dante's suit jacket-the very same jacket I had meticulously brushed lint off of this morning.

She was feigning sleep, her breathing shallow and even, but I knew better. Her mind was wide awake, calculating.

Look at her. The ice queen. She thinks she owns him. The thought wasn't mine, but I could practically hear it radiating from her.

Dante gripped the steering wheel with such force that the leather groaned under his knuckles.

"She has nowhere to go, Elena. The Russians burned her apartment building."

"So put her in a hotel," I countered, my patience fraying. "The Plaza. The Ritz. We own half the city, Dante. Why does she need to be in our sanctuary?"

"Because she is a target," Dante said, his voice dropping into a register that vibrated with dark authority. "Her husband died for this family. I owe her protection."

I promised him. On his deathbed, I promised I would look after her.

The unspoken vow hung heavy in the air, laden with a guilt that tasted like ash.

It wasn't love. Not yet. It was honor.

But honor was a slippery slope when a woman like Sofia was involved.

"There are safehouses," I pressed. "Apartments we keep off the books."

Dante shot me a glance, his annoyance sharp.

"They are cold. Empty. She is grieving."

"And I am your wife," I said, twisting in my seat to face him fully. "Do you think it is appropriate to have another woman sleeping down the hall from the bed where we sleep?"

Dante didn't answer.

He didn't have to. His silence was a deafening verdict.

"Fine," I said, clipping the word. "If not a hotel, then Aria's old place. It's furnished. It's secure. It's in a building full of our soldiers."

Dante frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "Aria?"

"Luca's wife," I said. "She moved out last week. She's staying with her sister."

I watched the surprise register in his eyes. He didn't know.

He didn't pay attention to the quiet tragedies of the women in the organization. We were merely background noise to his symphony of violence.

"Call her," Dante commanded.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Aria. She answered on the second ring, her voice sounding thin, worn down to the wire.

"Elena?"

"I need a favor," I said. "Is your apartment still empty?"

"Yes," Aria said. "Why?"

"Dante needs a safe place for a... guest. A widow."

There was a pause, heavy with understanding.

"Is it Sofia?" Aria asked.

I blinked. "How did you know?"

"Word travels," Aria said dryly. "And Luca mentioned Dante was... distracted lately."

My stomach twisted into a knot. Even the soldiers knew.

"Can we use it?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain neutral.

"Take the keys," Aria said. "I'm not going back there. Too many ghosts."

"Where are you?"

"I'm at the 24-hour diner on 5th. Come get them."

We drove to the diner. Dante stayed in the car with Sofia. Of course he did.

I walked into the neon-drenched establishment, the air smelling of stale coffee and regret.

Aria was sitting in a booth in the back, staring into a cup of black coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe.

She looked like she hadn't slept in days. There was a bruise on her wrist, fading to a sickly yellow.

She saw me looking at it and tugged her sleeve down sharply.

"Here," she said, sliding a set of keys across the Formica table.

"Thank you," I said.

Aria looked up at me, her eyes dark and hollowed out.

"Be careful, Elena," she whispered.

"With Sofia?"

"With Dante," she said. "These men... they don't see us. They only see what we can do for them. Or what we represent."

She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "If you have a way out... take it."

I took the keys, the metal cold against my palm. "I don't run, Aria," I said. "I fight."

Aria smiled sadly, a ghost of an expression. "That's what I thought, too."

I walked back to the car, the keys biting into my hand.

Dante was leaning over the backseat, talking to Sofia. He was smiling.

A small, rare smile that softened the harsh, marble lines of his face-a smile I hadn't seen in months.

He pulled back when he saw me, the mask slamming back into place instantly.

"You got them?" he asked.

I tossed the keys into his lap. "She stays there," I said. "Tonight."

Dante started the engine.

She is heartless. A spoiled princess who has never known loss. The thought hit me like a physical slap, though he hadn't spoken a word.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur into streaks of light. He thought I was heartless.

He didn't know that my heart was the only thing anchoring me to this wretched life.

We dropped Sofia off. She clung to Dante's hand for a moment too long before getting out.

"Thank you, Dante," she said, her voice trembling perfectly. "I don't know what I would do without you."

I'll have him in my bed within a month. The projection was so loud, so vicious, I almost flinched.

Dante waited until she was safely inside the building before driving away. The silence in the car was suffocating, thick with unsaid words.

"You were rude to her," Dante said finally.

"I was practical," I shot back.

"She is family," Dante snapped. "Her husband was one of my men."

"And I am your wife!" I shouted, the dam finally breaking. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Dante slammed on the brakes at a red light, the SUV jerking to a violent halt.

He turned to me, his eyes blazing with cold fire.

"Marriage is a duty, Elena. It is a contract. Don't confuse it with a romance novel."

It is a liability. A distraction I cannot afford. His thoughts were clear. Brutally, painfully clear.

He didn't see a partner. He saw a chain.

I looked at him, really looked at him. The man I had tried to love. The man I had hoped would see past the rumors and the cold exterior.

And I realized Aria was right.

He didn't see me. And he never would.

I sat back in my seat, the fight draining out of me like water from a cracked vessel.

"Drive," I whispered.

As the car moved forward, my hand drifted to my pocket. My fingers brushed against the edge of my phone.

I had said I wouldn't run. But one cannot fight a war for a man who has already surrendered you.

I opened the browser and typed two words.

Las Vegas.

The glass walls of Dante's office were designed to project transparency, yet everything that transpired within was shrouded in deliberate shadow.

I stood outside the door, my hand hovering over the brushed steel handle.

I needed to know. More importantly, I needed proof.

My instincts screamed in whispers, but whispers were not evidence.

Whispers wouldn't hold up before the Commission if I demanded an annulment.

I pushed the door open.

Silence greeted me. The office was empty.

Dante was in a meeting with the Don.

I had twenty minutes.

I moved to his desk, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

I wasn't a spy.

I was a wife looking for the truth her husband refused to speak.

I opened the top drawer.

Guns. Ammunition. Stacks of cash banded in fifties.

Standard equipment for a Capo.

I opened the second drawer.

Files.

Soldier rotations. Shipping manifests. Payoffs.

Nothing about Sofia.

I felt a prickle of frustration heat my skin.

Maybe I was wrong.

Maybe the whispers were just paranoia fueled by insecurity.

Then I saw his jacket.

It was draped over the back of his leather chair like a dark shroud.

The same jacket he had worn when he dropped Sofia off last night.

I reached into the inside pocket.

My fingers brushed against crisp paper.

I pulled it out.

It was a deed. A property transfer.

Penthouse 4B, The Obsidian Tower.

A luxury building in Manhattan.

The buyer was a shell company, "DC Holdings."

The beneficiary line was blank, but there was a sticky note attached to the front.

"She needs a view. - S"

S.

Sofia.

He bought her a penthouse.

While he lectured me about safety and safehouses, he was buying her a multi-million dollar apartment.

The sudden click of the latch shattered the silence.

I froze.

I shoved the paper back into the pocket just as Dante walked in.

He stopped, his eyes narrowing instantly.

"What are you doing?"

His voice was low, laced with danger.

"I was... looking for a pen," I lied.

It was a weak lie, brittle and transparent.

Dante closed the door behind him and locked it.

The sound of the lock engaging echoed in the silent room like a gunshot.

He walked toward me, slow and predatory.

She's lying. What did she see?

"Your study is stocked with pens, Elena."

He stopped inches from me.

I could smell him.

Sandalwood, gunpowder, and the faint, lingering stench of her cheap vanilla perfume.

It made me nauseous.

"I wanted one of yours," I said, lifting my chin in defiance. "Is that a crime?"

Dante studied my face.

He reached out and grabbed my chin, his fingers digging into my skin.

"Lying to me is a crime."

He kissed me.

It wasn't a kiss of affection.

It was a kiss of possession.

He was marking his territory, reminding me who owned me.

His tongue invaded my mouth, demanding submission.

I felt his anger, his frustration, and beneath it all, a dark, twisted desire.

She is mine. Even if she is a spy, she is mine.

He thought I was spying for my father.

He didn't trust me at all.

The injustice of it burned through me like acid.

I was trying to save our marriage, and he was treating me like an enemy.

I bit down.

Hard.

I tasted the metallic tang of blood.

Dante pulled back, a hiss of pain escaping his lips.

He touched his mouth, his fingers coming away red.

He looked at the blood, then at me.

His eyes darkened.

Not with anger.

With something else.

Arousal.

She has teeth.

"You bit me," he said, his voice rough.

"You forced me," I spat.

"I don't force," Dante said, stepping closer again. "I take what is given."

"I gave you nothing!"

I shoved past him, my hands trembling.

I needed to get out of there before I screamed.

Before I told him I knew about the penthouse.

I reached the door and fumbled with the lock.

"Elena," he called out.

I stopped, my back to him.

"Don't come into my office again."

It was a warning.

I turned to look at him one last time.

He was leaning against the desk, the bloody lip making him look savage.

"Don't worry, Dante," I said, my voice hollow. "I won't be returning to your office. Or your bed."

I unlocked the door and walked out.

I walked straight to the guest room.

I locked that door too.

I sat on the bed and pulled out my phone.

I searched for The Obsidian Tower.

It was real.

And it was ready for occupancy next week.

He was moving her in.

He was setting up a second life.

And I was just the contract that made it possible.

Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back.

Crying was for victims.

I wasn't a victim.

I was a Vitiello.

And if he wanted a war, I would give him one.

But first, I needed to talk to Gianna.

I needed to know if running was really an option.

Because staying here, watching him build a life with another woman while I rotted in his golden cage...

That was a death sentence.