His Ultimate Regret: Losing His Shield

Mia POV

I did not tell Chloe my full plan as I left the casino. I simply got into my car and drove toward the city center.

The grained leather of the steering wheel felt rough against my damp palms. My heart pounded a frantic, unsteady rhythm against my ribs. I told myself I was going to the Plaza Hotel not to confirm a suspicion, for the embossed card had already served as judge and jury. I was going there to witness the architecture of my own ruin.

I parked three blocks away and walked the rest of the distance, the damp March wind, smelling of exhaust and the river, biting at my cheeks. Slipping through the revolving glass doors of the hotel, I found a shadowed corner in the expansive lobby, stationing myself partially hidden behind a massive marble pillar.

I waited for five hours.

A cramp began to work its way up my calf, and the hotel staff cast me glances of mounting suspicion. I ignored them all, my eyes fixed on the gold-plated elevators.

At two in the morning, the elevator doors at last chimed and slid open.

Julian stepped out. He was flanked by four Falcone Soldiers, their hands resting near their holstered weapons. But Julian was not paying attention to his security detail.

His attention was fixed upon the woman clinging to his arm.

Serena Marchesi.

She was wearing a backless silk designer dress. I recognized the gown immediately; a cold knot of nausea formed low in my belly. I had pointed it out in a magazine to Julian months ago, telling him how much I admired the cut.

Julian looked down at Serena. His face, usually a study in granite, seemed to shed its hardness. He smiled at her. It was the exact same soft, unguarded smile he used to reserve only for me in the quiet hours of the morning.

It felt as if a vacuum had been placed to my lips, drawing all the air from my lungs. I watched them walk through the lobby, their bodies swaying in an unnerving, matched rhythm. Every time the silk of her skirt brushed against his trousers, it churned a bitter bile in my stomach. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her temple just before they disappeared through the front doors.

A scream lodged itself, a hard knot of sound in my dry throat. I did not cry. I turned, the bones in my knee grinding softly, and walked out of a side exit, my movements stiff and automatic.

But now I had what I needed—confirmation. Not just of the affair, but of something far more dangerous. The way his Soldiers had scanned the lobby, the way Serena walked as if she owned the ground beneath her feet—this was not a casual infidelity.

This was a strategic alliance already in motion.

I drove straight to my law firm. The building was empty and dark. After securing the deadbolt on my office door, I booted up my encrypted servers and started digging.

I bypassed the standard Falcone firewalls, writing a new script to pry open the Falcone and Marchesi Family archives. A woman about to enter a Falcone marriage alliance would not have the thin file of a civilian associate. There had to be encrypted family data, buried deep.

Lines of code reflected in my eyes as the sun began to rise. At six in the morning, I broke through the final encryption layer.

A scanned document filled my screen.

It was a blood pact. An arranged mafia marriage contract between the Falcone and Marchesi Families. The Marchesi Family had supplied the heavy weaponry and the men Julian had needed to win the war—a war that had been raging for three years before I ever met him, and had continued for two more while I bled at his side.

The payment for that alliance was Julian's hand in marriage to the Marchesi Don's daughter.

I stared at the date at the bottom of the page.

He had signed this three years ago.

Three years ago, I was already two years deep into my devotion to him. Three years ago, I was sleeping on a thin, lumpy cot in that fortified safe house, washing the blood of his dying mother off my hands, signing medical waivers that could have sent me to prison for manslaughter if she had died. Three years ago, he was holding me in the dark and whispering promises of a crown—while his signature dried on a contract that made me nothing more than a placeholder.

He had been lying to me every single day since.

I printed the document. The single sheet of paper, still warm from the printer, felt as if it possessed the weight of a headstone.

I printed a second document as well. My severance agreement. But not just any severance—an ironclad legal dissolution that would strip my name from every Falcone holding, every shell company, every offshore account I had built with my own hands. And attached to it: a detailed forensic accounting report documenting every financial vulnerability I had quietly mapped over the past five years. The hidden accounts. The laundering nodes. The properties held under false names.

Julian thought he owned me. He had forgotten that I was the one who had built the legal fortress protecting his empire.

And fortresses, I knew better than anyone, always had a back door.

I did not go home to change or sleep. I drove directly to the Falcone Headquarters. The guards at the wrought-iron gate recognized my car and let me through without question.

I walked past the Capos in the main hall. They stopped talking as I moved through their midst, sensing the dangerous stillness in my demeanor. The brass handle left a cold, circular impression in my palm as I reached Julian's office. I did not bother to knock. The heavy oak doors groaned in protest as I pushed them open.

Julian was sitting at his desk, reviewing a ledger. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing at my unannounced intrusion.

"Mia," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I told you I had business this morning."

I walked right up to his desk and slammed the printed blood pact down on the polished wood.

He looked at the paper. His jaw clenched, a muscle working in his cheek, but he did not look surprised. He just looked caught.

"It is a strategic move, Mia," he said evenly, not bothering to deny it. "It is temporary. I needed their guns to keep our territory."

"I brought her into our business," I said, my voice shaking with a rage so white-hot it blurred the edges of my vision. "You made me mentor her. You took her to the Plaza Hotel last night. You forgot our anniversary for her."

Julian stood up, his frame towering over the desk. He reached out to grab my hand, but I recoiled, pulling it back so sharply that a pain shot through my wrist.

"I am the Don," he said, his voice hardening, demanding obedience. "I do what is necessary for the Family. The marriage is business. You are the woman I keep."

The callous, unthinking disrespect in his words severed the final thread of my devotion.

I raised my hand and slapped him across the face.

The sound cracked in the vast, silent office. His head snapped to the side. The Capos outside the door shifted, the sound of boots scraping against the marble floor, but Julian barked a cold command through the thick wood, "Stand down," to stop them from entering.

Striking a Don was an automatic death sentence. I did not care.

"You can tear it up," I said, watching him shred my carefully drafted severance agreement into confetti. "But that was just the courtesy copy. The real documents—the account numbers, the structural vulnerabilities, the complete forensic map of every illegal dollar I ever cleaned for you—those went out at six this morning. To people who have been waiting five years for me to hand them your head on a silver platter."

Julian's face went still. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" I met his eyes without flinching. "Ask your accountant why three of your offshore accounts just went into lockdown. Ask your lawyer why he received an anonymous tip about an impending federal audit. Oh wait—I am your lawyer. I was your lawyer. As of sixty seconds ago, I am nothing to you."

"Mia—"

"I will handle the fallout of my exit myself," I told him, my gaze fixed on the red mark blooming on his cheek. "I am going to make you pay for every lie you fed me."

I turned my back on the most dangerous man in the city and walked toward the door.

Julian let out a furious, guttural roar. I saw his knuckles whiten around a heavy crystal tumbler, the water within trembling, before he hurled it against the far wall where it exploded in a shower of fine shards.

As my hand touched the brass doorknob, I heard him pick up his phone and bark a single name.

"Serena."

The sound of his command did not make me pause. The moment I stepped into the elevator's steel cage, my hand was already moving, pulling out my burner phone. I typed out a highly encrypted message to the only man in the city powerful enough to act as my shield. A proposal—not for love, but for war.

To Silas Russo, Don of the Russo Family, I wrote: "I have five years of Falcone financial intelligence and a legal strategy to dismantle Julian's empire piece by piece. I need protection. You need a lawyer who knows where all the bodies are buried. Interested in a fake engagement that will drive Julian Falcone to madness while we strip him bare?"

I hit send just as the elevator doors closed.

His reply came before I reached the ground floor.

"My office. One hour. Come alone."

I smiled for the first time in five years.