Too Late, Don Moretti

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.