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

Desperate for air, I retreated toward the edge of the boat.

I needed to escape the suffocating stench of their shared madness, the cloying mix of expensive perfume and deceit.

"Where are you going?" Aria called out, her voice cutting through the humid night air. "We haven't cut the cake!"

She didn't just follow me; she pursued me.

Her fingers dug into my arm, spinning me around.

"Don't you dare walk away from this," she hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling of champagne. "I spent days planning this. You will smile. You will thank Bennett. And you will accept that I am the one who pulls the strings."

She flaunted her left hand.

There was a ring on her finger.

A massive, ostentatious diamond.

"He proposed," she whispered, a cruel smile playing on her lips. "Technically, we're engaged. Once he figures out how to divorce you without upsetting the Don, you're out. But until then, play nice."

She pulled out her phone.

"Look," she said, swiping to a photo.

It was Bennett and her in Italy.

Smiling.

Happy.

The backdrop was the very villa I had begged him to take me to for our honeymoon.

"He took me there last month," she said, twisting the knife. "He said it was too beautiful to waste on someone who doesn't appreciate art."

Before I could respond, the boat lurched violently beneath our feet.

The engine sputtered and let out a dying cough before silence fell.

The current of the Seine caught the vessel, spinning it sideways like a toy.

A barge was coming down the river, looming out of the darkness.

The captain shouted.

The impact was jarring, bone-rattling.

We were thrown sideways.

I grabbed the railing, my knuckles turning white.

Bennett was across the deck.

He saw us both stumble.

He saw Aria slide across the wet teak wood.

And in that split second, the truth was laid bare.

He didn't hesitate.

He didn't look at me.

He lunged for her, wrapping his body around hers, cushioning her from the impact as they hit the bench.

I was left exposed.

I was thrown into the metal stanchion.

My head cracked against the steel with a sickening thud.

Blackness swallowed me.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital room in Paris.

A soldier was standing by the door.

Not Bennett.

A soldier.

"Mrs. Vitale," he said, straightening up. "You're awake."

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice raspy and dry.

"Mr. Vitale is with Miss Diaz. She... she was shaken up. He took her back to the hotel to rest."

The words hit harder than the steel beam.

"I see."

"He sent me to get your things," the soldier said, shifting awkwardly on his feet. "He says you're causing too much trouble. He wants you to go back to New York. The Don will deal with you."

I sat up, fighting the nausea.

My head throbbed in rhythm with my heart.

"No," I said.

"Mrs. Vitale, please. Don't make this hard."

"I'm not going back."

I reached into my bag on the side table.

I pulled out the velvet box I had carried with me.

The wedding ring.

The earrings he gave me for my birthday.

The brooch that belonged to his grandmother.

I handed the pile of metal and stone to the soldier.

"Give these to him," I said, my hand steady despite the pain.

"Mrs. Vitale..."

"Tell him the debt is paid. Tell the Don I resign."

"You can't resign from the family."

"Watch me."

I stood up.

I was dizzy, but I was determined.

I signed the discharge papers against medical advice, ignoring the nurse's protests.

I walked out of the hospital and into the cold Paris night.

I went to the airport.

I bought a ticket to the furthest place I could find on the departure board that wasn't New York.

Oslo.

As the plane taxied down the runway, I looked out the window at the lights of Paris fading below.

I left my marriage in the Seine.

I left my fear in that hospital room.

I was bruised.

I was alone.

But for the first time in five years, the air in my lungs belonged only to me.