Too Late: The Don's Regretful Pursuit

I am the future Mafia Queen.

I loved him for ten years, so deeply that he thought I couldn't live without him.

But mob boss Jack Wells put his hand on the thigh of the woman sitting to his right.

As he pleaded with me to change my mind, another tall man embraced me from behind, mercilessly mocking the loser: "Mr. Wells, don't you have a wife of your own? Why are you harassing my wife?"

She wasn't his fiancée, but I was.

The marriage was betrayed before it even began.

However, after he disappointed me time and time again, I finally made up my mind.

I left my engagement ring in the trash can.

I left a note on his desk: "I release you from your vow. I hope she is worth fighting for."

By the time he realized his mistake and came back to find his own shadow, I had already left, ready to become the queen of my own life.

As he pleaded with me to change my mind, another tall man embraced me from behind, mercilessly mocking the loser: "Mr. Wells, don't you have a wife of your own? Why are you harassing my wife?"

Chapter 1

I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, the weight of the heirloom emeralds around my neck marking me as the future Queen of the Cosa Nostra. But the title felt like a costume.

The man beside me-the most feared Don in New York-had his hand resting possessively on the thigh of the woman sitting to his right.

She wasn't his fiancée.

I was.

The crystal chandelier overhead cast a fractured light over the dinner service, illuminating the scene with a cruel clarity. Jax Viles, the man who could silence a room with a single glance, was currently leaning in to whisper something into Catalina's ear.

She giggled.

It was a wet, breathless sound that grated against the heavy silence of the room like a serrated blade against bone.

I lifted my crystal goblet and took a measured sip of water. My hand didn't shake. I had been trained for this since birth. As the daughter of the Consigliere, composure was my armor. But armor doesn't stop the bruising; it just hides the blood.

Catalina was supposed to be a guest. A protected witness from a rival territory dispute. That was the official story. But guests don't sit at the Don's right hand. Guests don't wear the Don's suit jacket over their shoulders because the air conditioning is slightly too cold.

Jax didn't look at me. Not once. He was too busy meticulously cutting Catalina's steak for her, a gesture of intimacy that belonged to me.

I looked around the table. My father, the Consigliere, stared resolutely at his plate, his jaw tight enough to snap. The Capos shifted in their seats, exchanging glances that ranged from pity to amusement.

They all saw it. The entire hierarchy of our world was witnessing my humiliation, and Jax was orchestrating it with the casual indifference of a man who believes he owns everything he touches.

Including me.

The memory of our blood oath burned in my mind. We were ten. He had cut his palm with a pocket knife, mixed his blood with mine, and sworn he would burn the world down before he let anything hurt me.

Now, he was the one holding the match.

"Eliana," Jax said, finally acknowledging my existence. His voice was deep, a rumble that usually settled warmly in my bones. Tonight, it just felt cold.

"Pass the salt."

He didn't look up. He was looking at her.

I reached for the silver shaker. My fingers brushed against the fine wool of his sleeve. He pulled away instantly, as if my touch was an intrusion on his private moment with her.

That small recoil hit me harder than a bullet.

I placed the salt near him, my movements mechanical. "Here, Jax."

Catalina smiled at me. It was a sweet, venomous thing. "Thank you, Eliana. You're so helpful. Like a good little assistant."

The table went deathly silent.

Jax didn't correct her. He didn't remind her that I was the future mother of his heirs, the woman who held the codes to the family trust, the only person who knew where the bodies were actually buried.

He just chuckled. "She knows her place, Cat."

My stomach turned to lead. My place.

I stood up. The chair legs scraped loudly against the marble floor, a scream of wood on stone that echoed through the vast hall.

"Is something wrong?" Jax asked, his eyes finally meeting mine. They were dark, void of the warmth they used to hold. They were the eyes of the Don now, not the boy I grew up with.

"I'm not feeling well," I said. My voice was steady. It was a lie, but in this life, truth was a liability. "Enjoy your meal."

I walked out of the dining hall, shoulders back, chin high. I felt their eyes on my back. I felt the weight of the emerald necklace, heavy as a shackle around my throat.

I walked straight to the master bedroom. His bedroom. The room I was supposed to share with him in three months.

Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, mirroring the storm that should have been raging inside me. But I felt strangely hollow.

I walked to the vanity and stared at my reflection, hardly recognizing the woman staring back. I unclasped the emerald necklace. The metal was cold against my skin.

I placed it on the dark wood of his desk, right next to his gun.

It was a statement. A resignation letter written in gems and gold.

Downstairs, laughter erupted. His laughter. Her laughter.

I went to the guest room down the hall and turned the lock with a definitive click. I didn't cry. Tears were for people who had hope left to lose.

I had nothing.

The next morning, the house was submerged in silence.

It wasn't a peaceful quiet; it was heavy and oppressive, like the static in the air before a tornado touches down.

I walked into the kitchen, my footsteps echoing on the tile.

Jax was already there, leaning against the granite island with his usual imposing grace, nursing a black coffee.

Catalina was sitting on the counter-my counter-swinging her legs back and forth.

She was wearing one of his oversized t-shirts.

My t-shirt.

The vintage band tee I had stolen from him in college, back when we were something else entirely.

Jax looked up as I entered.

He didn't look guilty.

He looked annoyed, as if my presence were static interrupting a scheduled broadcast of his happiness.

"You left early last night," he said.

It wasn't a question.

It was an accusation.

"I had a headache," I lied again.

It was becoming a habit, a shield I raised automatically.

He pushed a ceramic mug across the island toward me.

"I poured you one."

It was a peace offering.

A pathetic, lukewarm gesture intended to wash away the humiliation of the night before.

He actually thought he could buy my compliance with caffeine.

"No, thank you," I said softly.

I walked past him to the fridge, angling my body to ensure my arm didn't graze his.

I treated him like he was radioactive.

Jax frowned, his brow furrowing.

"Don't start, Eliana. Cat was just having fun. You don't have to be so stiff all the time."

Stiff.

That was his word for dignity.

"I'm going to the studio," I said, grabbing a bottle of water and turning away.

"About that," Jax said, scratching the back of his neck.

I paused.

"Cat needed a place to store her things," he continued, his voice casual. "Her apartment isn't safe right now. I had the boys move some boxes into the studio."

I froze, the cold water bottle biting into my palm.

The dance studio was my sanctuary.

It was the only place in this fortress of testosterone and violence that belonged solely to me.

"You did what?"

"It's temporary," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Just until the heat dies down on her family's side. You weren't using it much anyway."

I used it every day.

He just never noticed.

I walked out of the kitchen without another word.

I went straight to the studio.

It was ruined.

Cardboard boxes were stacked floor to ceiling, walling off the mirrors.

A rolling rack of Catalina's designer coats stood in the center of the floor, the metal wheels scratching the specialized wood I had imported from Italy.

My ballet barre was being used to hang a wet towel.

I stared at it.

I expected anger.

I expected to want to scream, to throw her cheap coats out into the rain.

But I felt nothing.

Just a quiet, terrifying calm that settled over me like a shroud.

I turned around and walked back to my room.

I pulled a suitcase from the top shelf of the closet.

I didn't pack everything.

That would raise alarms.

Jax had guards stationed at every gate.

If I looked like I was running, I'd be locked in the basement before I reached the driveway.

I packed only the essentials.

My passport.

The cash I had been squirreling away from the household budget for months.

A few plain clothes that wouldn't draw attention.

Then, I opened the jewelry box Jax had filled over the years.

Diamonds, rubies, sapphires.

Blood money turned into pretty, cold rocks.

I took them all out and slid them into a velvet bag.

I walked downstairs and found the head housekeeper, Maria.

She had raised Jax.

She loved him, but she looked at me with sad, knowing eyes.

"Maria," I said, pressing the bag into her hands. "Take these. Sell them. Keep the money for your retirement."

Her eyes widened in panic. "Miss Eliana, I can't. The Don..."

"The Don doesn't know what he has," I said softly.

"And he won't notice they're gone. He never looks at me closely enough to notice what I'm wearing anymore."

Later that afternoon, there was a gathering in the main lounge.

The Capos were reporting on the week's earnings.

Catalina was there, of course.

She was recounting Jax's schedule for the next week to one of the Lieutenants, acting as if she were his secretary and his wife rolled into one.

"He likes his coffee at eight, not seven," she chirped, her voice grating against my nerves. "And he hates the blue ties. Only black."

The Lieutenant looked uncomfortable.

He glanced at me.

I sat in the corner, staring at a book I wasn't actually reading.

"She really knows the Boss inside out," a Capo's wife whispered loudly to her neighbor.

"Maybe she's the better fit. More... spirited."

I turned the page without seeing the words.

Jax walked in then.

He went straight to Catalina, placing a possessive hand on her shoulder.

Then, he looked at me, sitting alone in the periphery.

For a second, his face softened.

He took a step toward me.

I stood up immediately.

"I need to rest."

I walked away before he could speak.

From the corner of my eye, I saw his hand drop to his side.

He looked confused.

He looked like a man who was used to the sun always rising at his command, suddenly baffled by an eclipse.

He went back to Catalina.

And I went back to planning my escape.

The Charity Gala was the apex of the social season for the families, a dazzling display of teeth disguised as smiles. It was less about philanthropy and more about a showcase of raw, dynastic power.

I wore black. It was a simple, sleek column of silk that covered more than it revealed, feeling less like evening wear and more like mourning clothes for a funeral that hadn't happened yet.

Catalina, predictably, wore red. A violent, arterial crimson that demanded the room's attention. She coiled around Jax's arm like a second skin, claiming him with every touch.

I stood by the champagne tower, nursing a glass I had no intention of drinking, watching them. They looked like a jagged, perfect power couple. He was the dark, dangerous king, and she was his vibrant, chaotic queen. I was merely the shadow cast in the corner.

Catalina was currently holding court with a phalanx of the older wives. I drifted closer, keeping my back to them, letting their voices wash over me.

"Oh, Jax is terribly protective," Catalina was saying, her voice carrying clearly over the polite swell of the string quartet. "You know, back when we were barely teenagers, he actually took a bullet for me."

I froze. The glass in my hand felt suddenly fragile.

"A bullet?" one of the wives gasped, clutching her pearls.

"Yes," Catalina sighed, the sound thick with dramatic flair. "It was a mess with the Irish mob. My father owed them debts he couldn't pay. They came for me to send a message. Jax... he didn't even hesitate. He drove straight into their territory, alone. He got me out, but he took a shot to the shoulder in the process. He hid the wound from his father for weeks so no one would know he risked the fragile truce just for me."

The air left my lungs.

I knew that scar. I had traced the raised, jagged ridge of it with my fingertips a thousand times in the dark. He had told me it was a training accident. He had told me he fell on a rusted fence.

He had lied.

He had risked a faction war for her. Before we were even engaged. Before the contracts were ink on paper.

"He's always been my guardian angel," Catalina continued, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper. "Even now. He told me, 'Cat, as long as I breathe, no one touches you.' Isn't that romantic?"

The wives cooed in unison.

I felt sick. Physically, violently sick. The room began to tilt on its axis.

I thought of all the times I had begged him to stay home because I had a bad feeling. All the times he had dismissed my intuition as paranoia. All the times he had told me his duty to the family came first.

It wasn't duty. It was preference.

He would burn the world to ash for her. For me, he wouldn't even skip a board meeting.

I turned to leave, needing air, needing to be anywhere that wasn't this suffocating ballroom.

Catalina was suddenly in front of me. With a calculated stumble, she "accidentally" bumped into me, tipping her glass. A splash of dark red wine bloomed across the front of my black dress.

"Oh, Eliana! I'm so sorry," she exclaimed, though her eyes gleamed with pure, unadulterated malice. "I was just telling the ladies about Jax's heroics. Did you know about the time he broke a man's hand just for looking at me wrong?"

She leaned in close, the scent of expensive perfume and alcohol cloying in my nose, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He never did that for you, did he? You're too safe. Too boring. Jax likes the fire. He likes the damsel in distress."

She wasn't just marking her territory. She was salting the earth so nothing would ever grow there for me again.

"You're right," I said, my voice surprisingly steady, devoid of the tremor I felt inside. "He never did."

Because he didn't love me. He owned me. There was a chasm of difference.

"Eliana?"

Jax appeared behind Catalina. He looked breathless, his eyes scanning her face with frantic intensity. "Are you okay? I saw you stumble."

He didn't look at me. He didn't see the wine soaking into the silk at my waist. He didn't see the devastation fracturing my gaze. He only saw her.

"I'm fine, Jax," Catalina cooed, leaning into his solid frame. "Eliana and I were just talking about old times."

Jax finally looked at me. There was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual mask of command. "Eliana, go clean up. You look messy."

Messy.

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The sharp jawline I used to kiss. The broad shoulders I used to cry on.

He was a stranger.

"I'm leaving," I stated.

"Don't be dramatic," he snapped, his patience thinning. "Go to the bathroom, fix your dress, and come back. We have to take press photos later."

"No," I said.

I turned and walked away. I walked past the security detail, past the valet who scrambled to offer the car. I walked out into the cool, biting night air of the city.

I hailed a taxi. A beat-up yellow cab. The kind of car a Mafia princess never steps foot in.

I slid into the backseat.

"Where to?" the driver asked, eyeing my dress in the rearview mirror.

"Anywhere," I said, staring out at the blurring city lights. "Just drive."