Regretful Don: The Queen You Threw Away

I was the Gold-Tier Fixer of the syndicate, promised to the lethal Underboss, Dante. We had bled on the same battlefields to conquer the eastern seaboard.

But ever since he took in his new mentee, Mia, I became invisible.

For three years, he canceled our Mafia Blood Oath seventeen different times to be by her side.

On our third engagement anniversary, he rushed home at noon not to see me, but to grab a bespoke diamond necklace for Mia's birthday.

When he finally returned late at night, he tossed a cheap, last-minute duplicate purse on my table.

"I need you to step down from your position as Gold-Tier Fixer and give the title to Mia," he said, his voice laced with absolute entitlement. "Let her have it."

Before I could even respond, Mia called about a minor security issue, and he immediately headed for the door, swearing we would finally take our vows the next morning.

I stared at the two identical bags sitting untouched in my closet, realizing every gift he ever gave me was thoughtless garbage compared to the treasures he showered on her.

I had spent eight years smelling of unscented soap just to please him, yet he let the heavy scent of Mia's roses soak right into his collar.

I was a fool squandering my talents on a man who had already buried our vows.

The next morning, I didn't go to the sanctuary.

I dropped my resignation papers on the Capo's desk, permanently blocked Dante's number, and boarded a one-way flight to Paris.

This time, I chose to build an empire for myself.

Chapter 1

Elena POV:

As the raw spirit burned a trail down my throat to appease a rival cartel boss, my fiancé was occupied with wiping a stray drop of claret from his new charge's lip, oblivious to the message that glowed on my hidden phone: "The Chicago Outfit is still offering double your current cut. Leave his shadow, Elena. You are squandering your talents."

The underground banquet hall was thick with cigar smoke and the heavy, sweet stench of spilled liquor.

Tonight was a high-stakes celebration for The Family.

Dante had just completed his one thousandth successful illicit smuggling flight.

He was our Underboss, a lethal enforcer whose name alone commanded fear across the eastern seaboard.

His broad shoulders filled out his tailored black suit, radiating a dangerous, masculine authority that kept every soldier in the room on edge.

Eight years ago, that same terrifying presence had saved my life.

I was a nervous rookie on my first day moving from ground logistics to the aerial smuggling crew.

I had let my highly classified clearance ledger slip from my grasp right at the security checkpoint of our private airstrip.

If the Don had found out, I would have been executed on the spot.

But Dante intervened, weaving a story to cover my mistake and shielding me from the lethal punishment of the syndicate.

That moment tied my life to his.

We bled on the same battlefields, fought for the same territory, and clawed out a dominion over the East Coast's primary smuggling routes and the warehouses groaning with their illicit contents.

We were, to the lesser syndicates, an untouchable pair, promised to each other for three years.

But tonight was also supposed to be the night we took our Mafia Blood Oath at the sanctuary.

It was the seventeenth time he had promised to finalize our vows and make me his untouchable wife.

And for the seventeenth time, he was ignoring me.

My head pounded with a severe fever, my vision swimming as a rival Capo poured me another glass of raw vodka.

I took the heat, drinking heavily to maintain the fragile peace between our families.

I looked across the long mahogany table, hoping to catch Dante's eye so he could intervene.

Dante, however, did not spare me a single glance.

He was entirely focused on Mia.

Mia was his newly inducted associate, a young woman he had taken under his wing a few months ago.

He leaned close to her, his large, scarred hands delicately cutting a piece of steak and placing it on her plate.

He kept her water glass full and her wine glass perfectly portioned.

I forced the vodka down my throat.

It felt like acid, twisting my stomach into a knot of hot iron.

Soldiers and associates lingered in the shadows near the bar, their eyes darting between me and Dante.

I could hear their hushed whispers, the soft clicks of their tongues.

They pitied me.

They knew the Gold-Tier Fixer of the syndicate was squandering her loyalty on a man who no longer saw her.

Hours later, the banquet finally ended.

The cool night air hit my face as I stepped out of the restaurant, my legs trembling from the fever and the alcohol.

I waited by his bulletproof SUV, expecting him to escort me to the sanctuary as he had sworn he would do tonight.

Dante walked out, his hand resting protectively on the small of Mia's back.

He intercepted me before I could reach the passenger door.

"Mia drank too much," he said, his voice carrying that cold, authoritative tone he usually reserved for his subordinates. "I need to personally escort her to her safehouse. You take a cab."

I stared at him, the chill of the city wind biting through my thin silk dress.

"And the sanctuary?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.

He waved a dismissive hand.

"It is too late for the Blood Oath. We will do it another time."

He did not wait for my response.

He turned his back on me and hurried to place Mia into the passenger seat of his vehicle.

I watched him close her door with gentle precision.

He walked around to the driver's side, got in, and started the engine.

As the SUV began to pull away, I saw Dante carefully roll up the tinted windows.

He did not want the cold wind to bother Mia.

The blood seemed to drain from my fingertips, leaving a peculiar, pins-and-needles ache as the back of my neck grew cold.

Dante had a strict rule in his car.

He despised the smell of alcohol.

Whenever I had to drink for The Family business, he forced me to ride with the windows completely down, even in the dead of winter.

I used to sit shivering in the passenger seat while he drove in silence.

I realized his strict rules only applied when it was me in the car.

I took a deep breath, the freezing air filling my lungs.

I shoved my syndicate identification badge back into my purse.

I watched the taillights of his SUV disappear into the dark, a cold clarity settling into my chest.

This was the seventeenth time he had left me standing alone.

There would not be an eighteenth.

"Alright," I said quietly to the empty street, a faint smile touching my lips. "Be careful on the road."

Elena POV:

The sterile fluorescent lights of The Family Logistics Hub buzzed above my head as I walked straight into the Capo of Operations' office.

I did not knock.

The Capo looked up from his desk, his brow furrowing at my sudden appearance.

I let a plain manila folder fall onto the center of his desk; the slap of paper against wood was the only sound in the room.

"My resignation and transfer papers," I said.

The Capo froze, his eyes darting from the folder to my face.

"You are our Gold-Tier Fixer, Elena. You have held that title for seven consecutive years."

"I know."

He leaned back in his leather chair, a look of deep regret settling over his weathered features.

He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his jaw.

"I remember when you and Dante first ran the most dangerous new aerial routes together."

He pointed a finger at the wall, toward the sprawling map of our territories.

"You two brought in record profits. The Don himself attended your grand engagement banquet. You were a fortress together."

I offered him a bitter smile.

"Those were glorious memories, Boss. But they are dead to me now."

"I will inform Dante tonight," I added, "though I doubt he will care."

The Capo did not try to stop me.

He knew better than to argue with a woman who had already buried her heart.

I left the compound and returned to my apartment just past ten in the evening.

The place was dark and empty.

There was no sign of Dante, only the peculiar stillness of a room where no one has breathed for hours.

I tossed my keys onto the counter and went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water.

My burner phone lit up on the marble island with a sharp chime.

I picked it up and saw a notification from a social media app.

Mia had posted a new picture, and she had tagged my account, a small, deliberate cruelty.

The photo showed two glasses of expensive champagne clinking together in a dimly lit VIP booth.

The caption read: "Thank you to my amazing Mentor for spending the entire afternoon with me. So excited for the VIP concert tomorrow!"

I stared at the screen, my jaw tightening.

Dante had claimed he was just dropping her off at her safehouse last night.

It was plain he was never coming home tonight.

This blatant disrespect had become his standard behavior over the past three years.

I set the phone face down on the counter, as if to smother the image.

I walked into the living room and opened my encrypted laptop.

Several secure invitations sat in my inbox from various domestic crews who had caught wind of my potential departure.

I bypassed all of them.

I clicked on a highly classified message from The Corsican Union.

They were the allied Parisian Syndicate, a ruthless and efficient organization operating across Europe.

My finger hovered over their offer to join their elite logistics team, then pressed down, confirming the transfer.

A new window popped up, and I quickly booked a one-way, untraceable flight to Paris for two days later.

I watched the loading bar fill the screen, a strange sense of calm washing over me.

Five years ago, Dante had walked into a catastrophic ambush on the Paris smuggling route.

It was a bloody massacre where he had lost his best men.

Since that day, Paris had been his ultimate trauma and a strictly forbidden zone.

He refused to fly the route, and he forbade me from ever taking assignments there.

He used to say that even hearing the word Paris made his blood run cold.

I closed the laptop as the flight confirmation appeared on the screen.

I stared at the confirmation number glowing on the screen, a strange sense of finality washing over me.

By going to Paris, I was ensuring our paths would remain severed for good.

And for the first time in eight years, I felt completely free.

Elena POV

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, slanted shadows across the hardwood floor of my bedroom.

From the top shelf of the closet, I pulled down my black canvas go-bag, tossed it onto the mattress and began to pack.

I only took the essentials.

Tactical gear, forged passports, thick stacks of untraceable currency, and a few changes of nondescript clothes.

I left behind the silk gowns and designer dresses Dante had bought me for the syndicate banquets.

I was halfway through folding a dark sweater when the sound of a key turning in the heavy lock of the front door echoed through the apartment.

A moment later, Dante walked into the bedroom.

He wore the same black dress shirt from the banquet, its fabric now deeply creased, the top two buttons undone.

The heavy, cloying scent of crushed roses clung to his clothes and seemed to seep from his skin.

It was Mia's signature perfume.

My hands stilled, my fingers digging into the wool.

Dante had always claimed he despised perfume.

Years ago, he had complained so bitterly about the scent of my expensive collection that I had thrown every single bottle into the trash.

I had spent the last eight years smelling of nothing but unscented soap, just to please him.

He had not complained about the scent for eight years, yet he let Mia's roses soak into the very collar of his shirt. That small, specific knowledge felt like a rusty nail being slowly hammered into the space between my eyebrows.

Dante paused in the doorway when he saw the open bag on the bed.

He shifted his weight, offering a rare, unprompted excuse.

"Mia took too long to sober up last night," he muttered, his gaze fixed on a point just over my shoulder. "I got a hotel room alone."

It was the first time in three years he had bothered to offer an excuse for his absence.

I simply nodded, adhering to our silent, syndicate code of Omertà.

I said nothing.

He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to the canvas bag.

"Are you packing for a syndicate run?" he asked.

"You could say that," I replied, pressing my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep the words from trembling.

Dante let out a visible breath of relief.

His posture relaxed, the rigid tension leaving his broad shoulders.

"I have business today," he stated, casting a quick glance at his luxury watch. "I am just grabbing something. I will not be home for lunch."

Without looking up from my packing, I smoothed out the sweater and tucked it inside the bag.

"Alright."

I had originally planned to formally sever our ties over lunch today.

I had wanted to look him in the eye and end our eight-year relationship with the dignity it deserved.

He had just killed that final opportunity.

Turning on his heel, Dante walked briskly toward his private study.

A moment later, he emerged holding a small, red velvet gift bag.

He snatched his leather jacket from the hook by the front door and rushed out without a backward glance.

The heavy oak door slammed shut behind him.

The force of the impact rattled the walls.

The framed photo that had hung on the back of that door for eight long years finally gave way.

It hit the hardwood floor with a brittle crack, shattering glass across the entryway.

I walked slowly out of the bedroom and stared down at the ruined frame.

It held a photo of our very first Family initiation celebration.

In the picture, we were both smiling, our hands tightly clasped together; his knuckles were bruised, but his eyes were full of an untamed fire.

I remembered Dante pulling me into a dark, rain-slicked alley that night, swearing a blood oath to always protect me and to celebrate our survival together, every single year.

Ever since Mia had become his protégée, those sacred vows had turned to ash.

In the apartment's dead air, only the rhythmic, hollow ticking of the wall clock marked the passage of time.

I stood in the silence for a long time, feeling it settle in my bones.

Then, I went to the kitchen, grabbed a broom, and meticulously swept up the broken shards of glass.

I reached down and picked up the photograph.

I took one last look at the naive, smiling girl I used to be, and then I threw the photo into the trash.

I stared at the garbage can for a long moment, the shattered glass glinting like scattered diamonds under the dim light.

And I realized I felt nothing at all.