Too Late, Don Moretti

I took a bullet to the chest to save Julian, the ruthless Don of the New York Syndicate. For five years, I laundered his millions, intercepted his enemies, and was meant to be his wife.

But seven days before our wedding, he allowed his young ward, Isabella, to steal my matriarchal betrothal ring and flaunt it on the dark web.

When I demanded he postpone the wedding until it was returned, he called me theatrical and took her to his private coastal safehouse. To punish my defiance, he ordered my emergency heart medication removed from my safe.

"I merely wanted to test if you were feigning your little illness for attention."

That was the text Isabella sent me. But I wasn't feigning. My chest seized, and I collapsed on the hardwood floor. I flatlined twice in an off-the-grid clinic. While doctors used defibrillators to violently restart my failing heart, Julian was in an underground arena, publicly sliding a massive diamond onto Isabella's finger.

I had spent every drop of my blood to build his dominion, yet he left me to die just to humor a spoiled girl's games. I finally understood that my lifelong devotion was nothing but a cheap convenience to him.

When I woke up, I didn't shed a single tear.

I printed a meticulous ledger of my blood debts, marked the balance as zero, and vanished to Europe. This time, I would build a mafia empire of my own.

Chapter 1

Eve POV

Seven days before my union with the man who held the New York Syndicate in his fist was to be solemnized, the betrothal ring, an object of some antiquity, vanished from my heavily fortified rooms.

A phantom image, once deleted, had rematerialized on the dark web, displaying his guileless young ward adorned with the jewel, appended with a caption of singular insolence: Let us see if he delays the wedding when I tell him I lost it.

I regarded the screenshot on my encrypted telephone, and a peculiar coldness began its work in my viscera, leaching the very warmth from the surface of my skin.

This was not a mere trinket. It was the Moretti family crest-a diamond whose bloody provenance had graced the hands of the line's matriarchs for four generations.

I emerged from my bedchamber and descended the sweeping marble staircase of the estate. Men whose suit jackets failed to conceal the bulk of the hardware beneath lined the walls. Their heads inclined as I passed.

Julian Moretti awaited me in the grand study.

He was the Viper. He had erased three rival cartels before his twenty-fifth year, and now commanded an army of ten thousand men along the eastern seaboard.

He was seated behind a mahogany desk, and from him emanated a quiet, airless pressure. The room carried the scent of expensive cedar, gunpowder, and of the unassailable quiet that follows a command.

I stepped into the chamber and drew the heavy oak doors closed.

"The ring is gone," I said, the effort to keep my tone even making the muscles in my throat ache.

Julian did not look up from his ledger. A page turned with a dry whisper. I could hear the faint, sharp click of his molars grinding together.

"Then withdraw funds for a new one, Eve," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to travel not through the air but through the floorboards themselves.

I advanced to his desk and placed my hands flat upon the polished wood.

"I will not be acquiring a new one," I said. "It is the matriarchal ring. The wedding must be postponed, the compound locked down until it is recovered."

Julian finally lifted his eyes. They were a cold, arresting amber, the gaze of a creature unaccustomed to being contradicted.

"Do not be theatrical," he said. "I am not delaying a Syndicate union over a misplaced stone. Purchase a larger diamond. I will see the cost is covered."

With a brief motion of his hand, he turned his attention back to his papers.

My hands fell from the desk. I turned, and with each step I took from the room, I felt the architecture of my own composure begin to groan under a strain.

That afternoon, the heavily guarded walls of the Moretti estate seemed to possess the close, oppressive air of a mausoleum. Every shadow seemed to articulate my coming humiliation. Unable to draw the same breath as the Viper, I packed a single valise and removed myself to my private penthouse in the city's heart, in need of sanctuary.

The following afternoon, the lock on my penthouse door gave a sharp, metallic report as Julian let himself in.

He reached into his tailored suit jacket and pulled out the Moretti ring. He tossed it onto the glass coffee table. The massive diamond clattered against the surface.

"Found," he said. "It was in the guest house."

I picked up the ring. The metal held a lingering heat-the warmth of another's skin. The diamond was unmistakably the Moretti heirloom, yet something in the way it had been returned-casually, without ceremony, without explanation of how it had migrated from my locked chambers to the guest house-made my stomach turn.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out the printed dark web photograph, and threw it toward his chest.

The paper fluttered to the floor. Julian looked down at it. It was the picture of Isabella Conti, the orphaned daughter of his late Consigliere, wearing my ring.

"I wish to dissolve the betrothal," I said.

Julian stared at the photo. His expression was a study in stillness. He stepped forward, closing the distance between us until his frame blotted out the light from the window.

"You are being absurd," he said, a new, harder timbre entering his voice. "Isabella is a child. She merely wished to feel the weight of the Family."

"She is twenty years of age, Julian. And she posted the image to the network for the purpose of mocking me."

"She is my ward," he snapped. "I swore an oath to her father on his deathbed to protect her. To break a Mafia betrothal over a girl's foolish games is madness. You will let this go, Eve."

He turned as if to depart, the finality of his posture dismissing my entire grievance as a trifle. A profound, physical revulsion coiled in my throat. I looked down at the Moretti ring in my hand-the very symbol of my approaching servitude.

"Wait," I said, my voice unnervingly quiet.

Julian paused, his head canted slightly over his shoulder. I raised my arm and hurled the heavy blood diamond directly at the broad plain of his back. The priceless heirloom struck the tailored wool over his shoulder blade and fell with a sharp clatter to the polished hardwood floor.

"Take it," I whispered, each word shaped by a cold precision. "I will not wear a ring tainted by her touch."

Julian became utterly still. The muscle in his cheek feathered dangerously. He bent slowly, his large fingers closing around the diamond. Without a word, he straightened, slipped the ring into his pocket, and walked out of the penthouse.

Hours later, finding the air within my own home too thick to breathe, I sought the street.

I moved through the snowy lanes of Little Italy, allowing the bitter winter wind to scour my skin.

I stopped across the street from a high-end restaurant, an establishment owned by the Family.

The large glass windows offered an unobstructed view inside.

Julian was sitting at the head of a long table. His Capos and Soldiers surrounded him. They were laughing and raising their glasses of amber whiskey.

Sitting directly to his right-in the place reserved for the Don's wife-was Isabella.

She was smiling brightly. Then, as if drawn by some invisible cord, she raised her left hand to brush a lock of hair behind her ear.

The streetlights struck the massive, familiar diamond on her ring finger.

My feet seemed to take root in the pavement. The Capos were raising their glasses to her.

Julian stood up from the table. He walked out the front doors of the restaurant to take a telephone call.

He stopped on the sidewalk when he saw me standing across the street in the snow.

His phone dropped from his ear. He crossed the street, his heavy boots making a crunching sound on the ice.

"Eve," he said, his breath a white plume in the freezing air.

He reached out to touch my arm. I took a step back.

"Why is she wearing it again?" I asked, my voice a steady, level thing that gave no hint of the splintering ruin in my chest.

Julian dropped his hand. His jaw tightened.

"It is a misunderstanding," he said. "She asked to see it-to hold it for a moment. I did not realize she would put it on. I will take it back."

I stood in the freezing snow, a heavy quietude falling between us, and stared at the warm light spilling from the restaurant windows-a warmth I was now certain was no longer meant for me. And in that silence, I understood something I had refused to acknowledge for years: Julian Moretti did not believe I would ever truly leave him. That certainty was the foundation of every cruelty he permitted.

Eve POV

I pulled myself into the fortified penthouse. The moment the heavy steel door clicked shut, my chest seized.

It was not a pressure. It was a serrated, dull-edged blade, thrust with precision between the third and fourth ribs, tearing the very air from my lungs. My knees struck the hardwood floor with a jolt that resonated in my teeth. Five years ago, I had intercepted a rival assassin's bullet intended for Julian's heart. It had made its ruin in my chest instead.

I stumbled to the kitchen counter, my fumbling hands entering the code into my emergency medical safe. I dry-swallowed two black-market pills and waited for the violent trip-hammer of my heart to subside.

Cold sweat gathered at my hairline. I leaned my forehead against the cool marble counter, my eyes shut tight against the tilting of the room.

At two in the morning, the security keypad beeped. Julian walked into the penthouse. He owned the building, as he owned all things of consequence in this city.

He entered the kitchen, holding a small velvet box. A confident, arrogant set to his mouth.

"I have brought it back," he said. "She has had her amusement. Now put it on."

I turned and picked up my tablet. I tapped the screen and pushed it across the marble island toward him. It was the security footage I had pulled from the street camera outside the restaurant.

It showed Isabella kissing his cheek while wearing the ring. It showed his Capos bowing to her-offering her the deference due a matriarch.

Julian stopped walking. His eyes locked on the screen. Then, his gaze drifted down to the counter. He saw the open medical safe. He saw the scattered pills.

His breath caught, and the arrogant set of his mouth slackened. He understood the precariousness of my physical state. He understood that the insult he had delivered had been severe enough to trigger a flare-up-and that every episode brought me closer to the final one.

"Eve," he said, his voice falling to a raw, urgent whisper. "I am sorry. I was merely fulfilling the old oath, to keep the peace. I concealed it from you to prevent Syndicate rumors. I did not wish to cause you any distress."

I set the tablet down.

"Leave the keycard on the counter," I said. "Return to the restaurant and take Isabella as your wife."

Julian stepped forward. His amber eyes turned dark. The apologetic man vanished, and the Don returned.

"I am not marrying Isabella," he said. "The Don's Command is that you will be my wife. You do not have the privilege of dismissing me."

He reached out and gripped my wrist, his fingers closing upon my skin with a possessive force. He pulled me flush against his hard chest.

"Release me," I said.

"She is a ward, Eve," he growled. "Like a sister. Cease this jealous display and remember your place."

I raised my free hand.

With a final, concentrated effort, I struck the Don of the Moretti Family across the face.

The sound was a sharp, singular crack in the quiet kitchen. It was a shocking, unforgivable breach of Omertà protocol. To strike a Boss was to invite death.

Julian froze, his head jerked to the side. A red mark bloomed on his sharp cheekbone. He slowly turned his head back to look at me, his eyes wide with a profound disbelief.

"I require a permanent separation," I said. "We are concluded."

Julian released my wrist. He took a slow, heavy breath, though his chest rose and fell rapidly with a rage he fought to contain.

"You are unwell," he said. "You are not thinking with clarity. I will depart and allow you time. We will discuss the wedding arrangements tomorrow."

He turned and started walking toward the door.

I picked up the velvet ring box from the counter and threw it hard at his broad back.

"Go give Isabella her due," I said.

Julian stopped. He turned and looked at the box lying on the floor. He picked it up, his knuckles stark white against the dark velvet.

He raised his arm and violently smashed the box against the marble floor. The antique hinges snapped. The priceless diamond bounced across the tiles and rolled under the refrigerator.

Julian turned his back to me and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut behind him.

I stood alone in the kitchen, staring at the space he had occupied. The ring lay somewhere under the refrigerator, a relic of a dynasty that had demanded everything from me and given me nothing in return. My chest still ached, a dull, insistent reminder of how close I had come to death five years ago-and how little that sacrifice had ultimately mattered to the man I had saved.

Eve POV

With a strange and terrible calm, I crossed to the refrigerator. I knelt on the icy tiles to retrieve the diamond, leaving the shattered remains of its velvet box upon the kitchen island.

In my bedchamber, I drew a black duffel bag from the depths of the closet and began to fold my clothes with a methodical precision.

My telephone buzzed against the nightstand. It was a secure video message from Sasha-a trusted Associate in the Family, and my closest confidante.

The footage had been captured from the deep shadows of a booth inside the Family's subterranean speakeasy.

Julian sat at the center of a circular leather banquette, in an advanced state of intoxication. His tie hung loose, his collar unbuttoned, while his Capos surrounded him-smoking thick cigars and counting out heavy stacks of currency.

Isabella sat pressed flush against his side, her gaze fixed upon him with a calculated, wide-eyed devotion.

A pair of heavy brass dice clattered across the table; they were engaged in a traditional Syndicate game of loyalty.

Julian leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at the result. He had rolled the Boss's Command.

The ancient rules dictated that he must share an intimate gesture with a woman present. Tonight, the command was to eat from a single strand of pasta.

The Capos slammed their fists against the table, roaring their encouragement.

Isabella giggled, plucking a long strand of pasta from a shared plate. Placing one end between her lips, she leaned toward Julian.

At that moment, the telephone in my hand began to ring. It was Julian.

I answered the call, at once switching it to speaker.

"Come to the club, Eve," Julian ordered, his voice slurred but thick with entitlement.

"I am not coming," I replied, my tone devoid of inflection.

"Get down here now," he growled. "You are my betrothed. Prove it."

"Your game is a pathetic thing, Julian," I said.

The line went quiet. Through the speaker, the only sound was the heavy, thumping bass of the club's music.

"Are you truly defying me?" Julian asked, his voice dropping a full octave, suddenly laced with a cold, terrifying edge.

Without another word, I pressed the red button and terminated the call.

Less than a minute later, Sasha sent a second video.

In this new footage, Julian was staring down at his darkened telephone screen. His handsome features were contorted into a mask of such rage it was barely human.

Raising his arm, he hurled the device, shattering it into pieces against the exposed brick wall.

His wild eyes scanned the room until they locked upon the dark booth. He had seen Sasha holding her telephone. He knew she was recording his every action.

Julian lunged forward, dragging Sasha from the booth by the lapels of her jacket. He shoved her roughly toward the center of the room.

"Keep recording," he barked at her.

Then, he pivoted back. He grabbed Isabella by the nape of her neck, jerking her flush against his chest before crashing his mouth down onto hers.

It was a violent, bruising kiss, an act of pure spite. Isabella eagerly wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning into the display.

Around them, the Soldiers drew out their own telephones and began to record.

Julian did not stop. He devoured her mouth for what felt an agonizingly long time.

When he finally pulled back, he stared directly into the lens of Sasha's camera. A mocking, utterly cruel sneer curved his lips.

I sat on the edge of my mattress, watching the damning footage repeat itself. Beneath my ribs, it felt as though someone had packed a great mass of wet cotton, for each breath required a monumental effort and still left me wanting for air.

I shifted my gaze to the digital calendar glowing on the nightstand.

Today was the precise five-year anniversary of the day I had bled out on a filthy warehouse floor for the sole purpose of saving his life.

I stood, took hold of the zipper on my duffel bag, and pulled it shut. The sound was quiet, unremarkable-the closing of a zipper. But it carried the weight of a door locking forever.