The Don's Regret: Choosing The Wrong Queen

For three years, I was Dante's shadow, the woman who took a bullet for the heir to New York's most powerful crime family. I believed him when he said we would rule together.

But while I was bleeding for his empire, he was secretly finalizing a merger to marry Sofia, a pristine Mafia Princess.

I found the encrypted report on his desk. It didn't describe me as his partner. It called me a "useful shield" and a "necessary diversion" to protect his real bride.

When I tried to walk away, he didn't let me go. He humiliated me.

Worse, when Sofia staged a fake attack and blamed me to cover her own lies, Dante didn't ask for proof.

He dragged me out of my hospital bed, fresh from surgery, and hauled me to the estate fountain.

He shoved my head underwater, drowning the woman who had once saved his life, while Sofia watched from the balcony with a smirk.

"You touched what is mine!" he screamed, choosing a liar over the soldier who loved him.

I left that night, bleeding and broken, vanishing into the storm without a trace.

Two years later, I am a celebrated artist in Paris, and the man standing beside me looks at me like I am the sun, not a shield.

Dante stands outside my gallery in the freezing rain, looking ruined, begging for a second chance.

He tells me he knows the truth now. He tells me he loves me.

I look at him, then at the engagement ring on my finger-one given by a man who never had to break me to love me.

"I didn't erase our history, Dante," I say, rolling up the car window.

"I survived it."

Chapter 1

I stood there, clutching the encrypted tablet that contained the proof of my three years of slavery, realizing that while I was bleeding myself dry for his empire, he was picking out engagement rings for another woman.

The device felt heavy in my hand.

Heavier, even, than the gun I had used to save his life three years ago.

That night was etched into my skin like a brand.

Dante, the heir to the most powerful crime family in New York, had been cornered.

I hadn't thought. I hadn't hesitated.

I had threw myself in front of him.

The bullet meant for his heart had grazed my ribs instead.

The phantom scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne flooded my senses.

I remembered the way he had looked at me afterwards.

It wasn't love.

It was interest.

He had touched my cheek with bloodstained fingers and made a promise.

He told me that if I handled the West Coast expansion-a suicide mission for anyone else-I would earn my place.

He said I would be the Don's wife.

He said we would rule together.

And like a fool, I believed him.

I spent three years living out of suitcases.

I dodged federal agents and rival cartels.

I laundered his money and secured his shipping routes.

I did it all with his ring on a chain around my neck, hidden under my shirt like a talisman.

I thought it was a test of loyalty.

I thought I was proving I was strong enough to stand beside him.

I was wrong.

The message on the tablet was from his father, the current Don.

It was a detailed report on the merger with the Genovese family.

It outlined the wedding arrangements between Dante and Sofia Genovese.

Sofia.

The Mafia Princess.

She was untouched.

She was pure.

She was royalty.

The report called my mission a "necessary diversion."

It said I was a "useful shield" to draw attention away while the real alliance was formed.

It said I was disposable.

My breath hitched in my throat.

The room started to spin.

I felt like I was drowning on dry land.

I looked at the date on the file.

He had started planning this merger a week after he sent me away.

The whole time he was whispering promises to me over encrypted lines, he was courting her.

I was just the dog guarding the gate while he let the real mistress into the house.

A jagged, physical pain ripped through my chest.

It was sharper than the bullet wound ever was.

I grabbed the tablet and the ring from around my neck.

I walked to the fireplace in the library.

The flames were high and hungry.

I looked at the ring one last time.

It was a simple band.

He had told me the real diamond would come later, for safety.

It was a lie.

Everything was a lie.

I threw the ring into the fire.

I watched the metal darken and disappear into the ash.

Then I threw the tablet in.

The plastic cracked and melted.

The smoke smelled toxic.

It smelled like my wasted youth.

I didn't cry.

I couldn't.

The shock had frozen everything inside me.

I turned around and saw my reflection in the window.

I looked like a ghost.

My hair was wet from the rain outside.

My eyes were hollow.

I realized I couldn't stay here.

If I stayed, I would die.

Maybe not by a bullet, but by the sheer weight of his betrayal.

I had to leave.

I had to cut it off.

I ran to the door, my heart pounding against my ribs.

I opened it and ran into the storm.

The rain hit my face like little needles.

It felt good.

It felt real.

I was running from the only home I had known for ten years.

I was running from the man I had worshipped.

I was running for my life.

But as I reached the heavy iron gates of the estate, the headlights of a car blinded me.

It was a sleek black limousine.

The window rolled down.

Dante was sitting there.

He looked perfect.

He looked dangerous.

He looked at me standing in the rain, soaking wet and shivering.

He didn't look concerned.

He looked annoyed.

"Get in the car, Elena," he said, his voice low and smooth. "You're making a scene."

I didn't get in the car.

Instead, I bolted toward the tree line, vanishing into the woods.

I spent three agonizing days holed up in a cheap motel on the edge of the city, waiting for him to hunt me down.

But he didn't come.

He sent a text.

Stop playing games. Come home when you're done throwing your tantrum.

He thought this was a tactic.

He thought I was maneuvering for his attention.

He simply couldn't conceive of a world where I wasn't desperate for his approval.

I watched the news from my cramped, dimly lit room.

The headlines were screaming about the charity gala tonight.

It was the event of the season.

It was also where Dante was rumored to announce his engagement.

A cold, hard resolve settled in the pit of my stomach.

I wasn't going to hide anymore.

I wasn't going to let him believe he had broken me.

I used the last of my emergency cash to buy a dress.

It wasn't one of the modest, elegant black numbers Dante preferred me to wear.

It was red.

It was bold.

It was a declaration of war.

I arrived at the hotel ballroom an hour late.

The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume and crisp champagne.

I walked in, and the silence rippled outward.

Heads turned.

People whispered behind manicured hands.

They knew exactly who I was.

They knew I was Dante's shadow.

But they had never seen me like this.

I spotted him across the room.

He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, a glass of whiskey loosely gripped in one hand.

His other arm was around her.

Sofia.

She possessed the kind of flawless beauty that only old money could buy.

Her skin was porcelain perfect.

Her dress was a pristine white.

She looked like an angel.

And I? I looked like the devil coming to collect a debt.

Dante saw me.

His eyes narrowed into slits.

He didn't look happy to see me; he looked lethal.

He murmured something to Sofia and began to stalk toward me.

The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea.

He stopped inches from my face.

I could feel the heat radiating off his body.

"I thought you were smarter than this," he hissed, his voice pitched low so only I could hear the venom.

"Smarter than what, Dante?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain steady.

"Showing up here. Trying to embarrass me."

He gripped my arm.

His fingers dug painfully into my flesh.

"You think this dress changes anything? You're still just my soldier, Elena."

"I resigned," I said flatly.

He laughed.

It was a cruel, dry sound void of humor.

"You don't resign from this family. You leave in a pine box."

Sofia drifted up to us.

She slipped her hand into Dante's free hand, staking her claim.

She looked at me with pity.

It was worse than hate.

"Is this the help you told me about, Dante?" she asked.

Her voice was light, airy, and laced with poison.

"She looks... distressed."

Dante didn't look at me.

He looked down at her, and his eyes softened instantly.

"Don't worry about her, Sofia. She's just leaving."

Sofia stepped closer to me, invading my space.

"You know," she whispered, "Dante told me how hard you worked. It's sweet, really. But some people are born to lead, and some are born to serve. You should go find someone in your own tax bracket."

The people standing nearby chuckled.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks.

I felt stripped naked in front of the entire elite of the city.

They were looking at me like I was a stray dog that had wandered into a palace.

Dante raised his glass.

"To the future," he boomed, addressing the room.

"To the union of our families."

He pulled Sofia close and kissed her cheek.

The room erupted in polite, thunderous applause.

I stood there, frozen.

He was erasing me.

He was doing it publicly.

He was doing it with a smile.

I looked at him.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to tell everyone about the blood on his hands.

About the blood on my hands.

But I didn't.

I took a deep, shuddering breath.

I plucked a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.

"Congratulations," I said.

My voice didn't shake.

Dante looked surprised.

He expected tears.

He expected a scene.

He didn't expect dignity.

I raised my glass to them.

"I hope you deserve each other."

I downed the drink in one swallow and turned around.

I walked out of the ballroom.

My head was high.

My back was straight.

But inside, I was screaming.

I walked out into the cool night air.

I thought the worst was over.

I was wrong.

I spent the next week buried inside a safe house I had prepared years ago.

It was a cramped, nondescript apartment in the Bronx.

I didn't go out. I didn't even turn on my phone.

In the silence, I tried to figure out who I was if I wasn't Dante's weapon.

I didn't have an answer.

Then Sofia found me.

I don't know how. Maybe she had her own spies, or maybe I wasn't as hidden as I thought.

She knocked on my door on a gray Tuesday afternoon.

She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a pristine trench coat that looked out of place in this hallway.

"We need to talk," she said.

I let her in.

I didn't have a weapon on me, but my eyes darted to the kitchen knife on the counter.

She looked around my small apartment with open disdain, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Cozy," she said flatly.

"What do you want?" I asked, keeping my distance.

"I want to know if you're pregnant," she said.

I laughed.

It was a bitter, hollow sound.

"No."

"Good," she said, relaxing slightly. "Dante is sentimental about bloodlines. It would complicate things."

"There is nothing between us, Sofia. You won."

She looked at me closely, searching for a lie.

"I know I won. I just want to make sure you know it too."

Suddenly, the window imploded.

Shards of glass flew everywhere, turning the air into shrapnel.

I hit the deck instinctively.

"Get down!" I screamed.

Sofia stood there, frozen in shock, a deer in the headlights.

Gunfire erupted from the street below, tearing through the drywall.

It was a drive-by. A rival family making a move.

I crawled toward Sofia on my elbows.

I grabbed her ankle and yanked her down just as a bullet embedded itself in the wall exactly where her head had been a second before.

The door burst open.

It wasn't the shooters.

It was Dante.

He had been following her.

He saw us on the floor. He saw the shattered glass. He saw the blood smearing the wood.

He didn't look at me.

He lunged for Sofia.

"Are you hurt?" he yelled, his voice frantic, laced with a panic I had never heard before.

He gathered her in his arms, checking her desperately for wounds.

He shielded her body with his own.

I was lying two feet away.

A jagged piece of glass was stuck in my shoulder.

Blood was pooling under me, soaking my shirt.

He didn't see it.

Or he didn't care.

"Dante," I whispered.

He looked up.

His eyes were wild.

He looked right through me, as if I were part of the wreckage.

"Cover us!" he shouted to his men who were pouring into the room.

He picked Sofia up bridal style.

She was crying, clinging to his shirt like a frightened child.

He ran for the door.

He stepped over my legs to get her out.

His boot grazed my wounded shoulder.

Pain exploded in my arm, white-hot and blinding.

I watched his back as he disappeared down the hallway.

He didn't look back.

Not once.

I was the one who had pulled her down. I was the one bleeding.

But I was invisible.

The room started to go dark at the edges.

My vision blurred.

I saw Marco, the old family doctor, rush in from the hallway, lagging behind the guards.

He looked at the empty doorway where Dante had vanished.

Then he looked at me.

His face crumpled in pity.

"Oh, child," he whispered.

He knelt beside me.

He put pressure on my wound, his hands warm against my cold skin.

"He left me," I mumbled.

It was a statement of fact.

"He saved her."

"Stay with me, Elena," Marco said, his voice urgent. "Don't close your eyes."

But I wanted to close them.

I wanted to sleep.

I realized then that the bullet three years ago hadn't killed me.

But this moment had.

The realization hit me harder than the loss of blood.

I wasn't just disposable.

I was already forgotten.

I let the darkness take me.

It was warmer than Dante's love ever was.