Too Late For The Ruthless Don's Regret

The crystal chandelier swayed violently above the dinner table. In that fraction of a second, time seemed to stop.

My husband, Dante, didn't hesitate. He didn't reach for me.

He dove across the table, tackling his "fragile" first love, Mia, to the floor. He shielded her body with his own.

Gravity took over. The heavy metal slammed into my legs, crushing them instantly.

While I lay buried under the debris, bleeding into the beige carpet, Dante was screaming for a medic-because Mia had a paper cut.

It wasn't the first time he chose her. He had run my taxi off the road because she faked a fall. He gave her my dying father's antique rosary just because she thought it was a pretty accessory.

But the final blow wasn't physical.

While Dante was at a hotel comforting Mia through a "nightmare," he ignored the urgent calls to authorize my father's bone marrow transplant.

My father died alone of infection because Dante was too busy playing hero to a liar.

When Dante finally returned to the penthouse, expecting me to be waiting there to beg for his forgiveness, he found the house silent.

He found the signed divorce papers in the fireplace.

And then, he found the death certificate dated three days ago.

I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave a fight.

I just left him with the silence he deserved, and vanished into the night.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi POV

The world tilted on its axis.

My head throbbed in a brutal rhythm that matched the sharp, stabbing agony radiating from my left arm.

I lay sprawled on the cold marble floor of the auction house foyer.

Above me, standing at the top of the grand staircase, Mia was screaming.

Her hands were empty. Her neck was bare.

"She tried to take it back!" Mia shrieked, her voice echoing sharply off the vaulted ceiling. "She pushed me! She tried to kill me over a necklace!"

Lies.

I tried to push myself up, but my left arm gave way under my own weight.

A sickening crunch vibrated through my shoulder.

I gasped, the sound wet and weak against the stone.

The heavy oak doors crashed open.

Dante.

He looked like a storm carved out of granite. His tuxedo was immaculate, a stark, cruel contrast to the broken mess I had become.

He stopped.

His eyes swept over the scene.

He saw me.

He saw the blood trickling from my hairline, staining the white marble crimson. He saw the unnatural angle of my arm.

Then, he looked up.

He saw Mia clutching the banister, sobbing, her chest heaving in a perfect performance of terror.

Dante moved.

But he didn't move toward me.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing past my crumpled body without casting a single downward glance.

The draft from his urgent stride chilled the sweat on my skin.

"Mia," he breathed as he reached the top.

He didn't ask what had happened. He didn't stop to check for a pulse on his wife.

He gathered the nineteen-year-old girl into his arms, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist.

"I'm so scared, Dante," Mia wailed into his chest. "She's crazy. She wants me dead."

"Shh," Dante soothed her, his hand stroking her hair. "I've got you. You're safe."

I managed to lift my head.

"Dante," I whispered.

It came out as a broken croak.

He turned his head. His eyes were black pits of disgust.

"You would hurt the girl saving your father over a piece of jewelry?" he spat.

The venom in his voice paralyzed me more than the fall.

"She pushed me," I rasped.

"Liar," Mia sobbed louder, burrowing deeper into his coat. "Don't be mad at her, Dante. She's just jealous. Please don't hurt her."

She was playing him like a master violin.

And he was listening to every note.

"She can get up herself," Dante said, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood on my face. "If she has the strength to attack a donor, she has the strength to walk."

He scooped Mia up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

He began to descend the stairs.

I watched his polished shoes come closer.

Step. Step. Step.

He reached the bottom landing.

He had to step over my legs to get to the exit.

He didn't hesitate.

He stepped over me as if I were nothing more than debris cluttering the sidewalk.

"Call the car," he barked at a security guard who was staring in horror. "Get Mia to the hospital. She's in shock."

"Sir," the guard stammered, pointing helplessly at me. "Mrs. Vitiello... she is bleeding."

"She'll survive," Dante said without looking back. "She always does."

The doors swung shut behind them.

Silence rushed back into the foyer.

I stared at the ceiling. The crystal chandelier blurred into a halo of light.

He didn't care.

It wasn't just that he loved her. It was that he despised me.

I was the inconvenience. The old obligation. The withered branch.

A waiter finally ran over, dropping to his knees beside me.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?"

I closed my eyes.

The pain in my arm was blinding, but the hollow space in my chest was worse.

My husband had just left me bleeding on the floor to comfort the woman who put me there.

The vows were dead.

I wasn't his wife anymore.

I was just an obstacle he hadn't figured out how to remove yet.

Elena Rossi POV

The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and stale neglect.

Dante had visited exactly once.

He stayed for ten minutes.

He spent nine of them on his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen, a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips.

It was the same smile he used to give me when I burned the toast.

"Is she okay?" I asked, my voice flat.

He didn't bother to look up. "Mia is fragile, Elena. The stress isn't good for the procedure. You need to be more careful."

"I have a broken arm and a concussion, Dante."

"And your father has leukemia," he countered, finally locking his phone and sliding it into his pocket. "Priorities."

He left before the nurse could even change my IV.

I was discharged three days later.

It was my birthday.

I didn't expect him to remember.

But when I walked into the Penthouse, the lights were dimmed. Soft jazz played from the hidden speakers.

Dante stood by the fireplace, holding a glass of scotch.

"Happy Birthday," he said.

For a second, just a fraction of a second, my heart stuttered.

Then I saw her.

Mia sat on the velvet sofa.

She was wearing white.

It was a white lace dress that looked disturbingly like the one I had worn to my rehearsal dinner five years ago.

"I told Dante we couldn't let you celebrate alone," Mia chirped, standing up. She twirled slowly, showing off the fabric. "Do you like it? Dante bought it for me. He said white symbolizes purity."

The irony tasted like bile rising in my throat.

"It's lovely," I said, walking past them toward the kitchen.

"Dante promised to teach me to dance," Mia said, grabbing his hand possessively. "For the gala next week. Since I'm the guest of honor."

Dante looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Just one song, Elena. Then we'll cut the cake."

I leaned against the marble island, clutching my cast to steady myself.

"Go ahead."

Dante placed his hand on Mia's waist.

He pulled her close. Too close for a dance lesson.

They moved to the rhythm. Mia rested her head on his shoulder, her eyes finding mine over the fabric of his suit.

She smirked.

It wasn't a subtle victory. It was a declaration of war.

Dante's chin rested on top of her head. He closed his eyes, swaying.

He looked peaceful.

He looked like a man in love.

The staff stood in the shadows of the hallway. The maids, the guards. I saw them exchanging pitying glances.

They knew.

The Underboss had a new queen. The old one was just waiting to be discarded.

I looked at the cake on the counter.

*Happy Birthday Elena.*

The frosting was already melting under the warm recessed lights.

I didn't say a word.

I turned around and walked to the elevator.

The music swelled. Dante spun Mia, her laughter ringing out like breaking glass.

Neither of them noticed I was leaving.

I pressed the button for the lobby.

As the metal doors slid shut, cutting off the sight of my husband holding another woman, I whispered to the empty car.

"There won't be a next time."

Elena Rossi POV

I needed air. Desperately.

I hailed a yellow taxi outside the building, my hand trembling as I reached for the door handle.

I didn't have a destination. I just needed to be away from the suffocating scent of Mia's perfume that seemed to cling to the walls of my home, choking the life out of me.

"Where to, lady?" the driver asked, eying me in the rearview mirror.

"Just drive," I said, leaning my head back against the worn vinyl. "Anywhere but here."

A flash of movement caught my eye.

Mia ran out of the lobby entrance. She wasn't wearing a coat, despite the chill in the air.

"Elena! Wait!" she shouted, waving her arms overhead like a stranded castaway.

She looked frantic. But I knew better. It was another performance.

I slammed the taxi door shut, locking out her voice.

"Go," I told the driver. "Now."

The taxi pulled away from the curb, merging into the flow of traffic.

Mia didn't stop.

With a glance back at the garage, she ran into the street.

She didn't stumble; she calculated. She threw herself directly into the path of the taxi.

The driver slammed on the brakes. Tires screeched against the asphalt, burning rubber filling the air.

The car jerked to a halt inches from her legs.

Mia collapsed onto the hood, screaming as if she'd been hit by a freight train. It was Oscar-worthy.

Then I heard the roar of an engine.

Dante's black sports car peeled out of the garage exit, like a beast released from a cage.

He saw the taxi. He saw Mia draped dramatically on the hood.

But he didn't see the brake lights.

He saw his wife in a car that had just "hit" his precious donor and was trying to flee.

The engine roared louder.

"Crazy bastard!" the taxi driver yelled, looking in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening in panic.

Dante rammed us.

The impact was deafening. Bone-jarring.

Metal crunched. Glass exploded in a glittering shower.

My head slammed against the partition.

Stars burst behind my eyelids, bright and blinding.

The world tilted sideways.

The taxi spun, careening out of control until it crashed into a parked delivery truck with a sickening thud.

Silence followed the chaos. A heavy, ringing silence.

My vision was blurry. Blood ran warm down my neck, soaking into my collar.

Through the shattered side window, I saw Dante leap from his car.

He didn't run to the taxi.

He ran to Mia.

She was standing by the curb now, miraculously unharmed, dusting off her white dress as if she had simply tripped.

Dante fell to his knees in front of her, his hands checking her face, her arms, her legs, frantic with worry.

"Did he hit you?" Dante roared, his voice shaking with rage. "Did she tell him to hit you?"

Mia was sobbing, pointing a trembling finger at the wreckage I was trapped in.

"She told him to keep going, Dante! She saw me and told him to drive!"

Dante stood up.

He turned toward me.

His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. A stranger's face.

"Don't you dare touch her," he screamed at me through the broken glass. "If you hurt one hair on her head, Elena, I will end you."

I sat there, pinned between the seat and the crumpled door.

My head was bleeding. My arm was throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

And my husband was threatening to kill me for a crime I didn't commit, to protect a monster in a white dress.

A bubble of laughter rose in my throat.

It started low, a rasping sound, scraping against my windpipe.

Then it grew.

I laughed.

I laughed as the blood dripped onto my lap. I laughed until my ribs ached and tears streamed down my face.

It was the sound of a mind finally snapping under the weight of a lie.

The taxi driver looked at me in horror. "Lady, are you okay?"

I stopped laughing. The sound cut off abruptly.

I reached into my purse with shaking hands. I pulled out a stack of cash-emergency money I'd been hoarding for a rainy day. I just didn't realize the storm would look like this.

I threw it into the front seat.

"For the damage," I said, my voice eerily calm.

I kicked the door open, ignoring the protest of twisted metal.

I didn't look at Dante. I didn't look at Mia.

I walked down the street, blood dripping from my fingertips, flagging down another cab to take me to the ER.

Alone.