Too Late For Regret: The Mafia Don's Lost Wife

(Bennett POV)

The gala was loud.

Too loud.

Aria was clinging to my arm, her nails digging into my bicep through the fabric of my tuxedo.

She was drunk.

She had been drinking since we got back from Paris.

She stood on the small stage, tapping a spoon against her champagne glass until the crystal rang sharply.

"Everyone!" she shrieked. "Listen up!"

The room went quiet.

The Capos, the soldiers, the politicians.

They all looked at her.

Some with amusement.

Most with judgment.

"I just want to say," Aria slurred, leaning heavily against me, nearly throwing me off balance. "That true love wins! We went through hell, didn't we, Benny? But we won!"

She kissed my cheek, leaving a wet smear of lipstick.

"To us!" she yelled.

"To the Underboss," the crowd murmured, raising their glasses.

I raised mine.

I drank.

The scotch burned, but it didn't fill the hole in my chest.

It felt... empty.

Usually, Kelsey would be standing here.

She would be quiet.

She would be elegant.

She would anticipate my needs before I even knew them.

If I was thirsty, a water would appear.

If I was bored, she would gracefully extract us from the conversation.

Aria just wanted more.

More attention.

More wine.

More noise.

"Isn't this great?" Aria whispered, hanging off my neck.

"Yeah," I said, forcing the word out. "Great."

I looked around the room.

I felt a phantom itch.

Something was wrong.

I excused myself and walked out onto the balcony.

I pulled out my phone.

I dialed Kelsey's number.

It went straight to voicemail.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

I frowned.

She changed her number?

Petty.

She was just throwing a tantrum.

She would be back.

She had nowhere else to go. She was a Vitale. Her father wouldn't take her back; the alliance was too important.

She was probably sitting in some hotel room, crying, waiting for me to come save her.

I decided to go to the penthouse.

Our penthouse.

I left Aria dancing on a table and took the driver.

When I walked into the apartment, it was silent.

Cold.

"Kelsey?" I called out.

No answer.

I walked into the bedroom.

The closet doors were open.

Her side was empty.

Not just empty of clothes.

Empty of her.

The smell of her shampoo was gone.

The books on the nightstand were gone.

The sketchpad she always kept by the window was gone.

I walked to the dresser.

There was a small pile of jewelry there.

The necklace I bought her after the miscarriage scare.

The bracelet for our anniversary.

And right in the center...

My grandmother's brooch.

The one thing she had told me she cherished more than anything because it meant she was family.

I picked it up.

The pin pricked my finger.

A drop of blood welled up, bright red against the gold.

She left it.

She left everything.

I walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the city that I ruled.

I had the power.

I had the money.

I had the girl carrying my heir.

I had won.

So why did the room feel so damn big?

I squeezed the brooch in my fist until the metal bent into my palm.

"You'll be back," I muttered to the reflection in the glass.

"You'll run out of money. You'll get scared. And you'll come crawling back."

I raised my glass to the empty room.

"To victory," I said.

But the silence that answered me was deafening.