Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King

Elena POV:

The sound of the word _divorce_ had barely left my lips before Vincent moved.

His backhand struck my cheek with the force of a slab of stone.

My head snapped to the side, and the taste of fresh copper instantly filled my mouth.

My knees buckled, and I caught myself against the heavy oak doorframe, gasping for air as the fever spiked a searing heat through my blood.

"Do not _ever_ use my mother's life as a sick joke to win an argument," Vincent roared, his voice making the room's crystal decanters tremble.

His chest heaved, and thick veins stood out against the collar of his tailored shirt.

He looked less a husband and more a predator ready to tear me apart.

"You think you can come in here, curse my bloodline, and make demands?"

The armed soldiers at the perimeter of his office muttered in low agreement.

"Crazy bitch," one of the enforcers whispered from the deeper shadows of the corner.

"Disrespecting the Matriarch like that."

I pressed a hand that would not keep still to my stinging cheek, trying to find my balance.

"I am not lying!" I screamed, my voice cracking with the weight of grief. "She took the bag because I was too sick to walk! She died on the highway making _your_ delivery!"

Vincent's face twisted into a mask of unyielding hatred.

I could see in his eyes that he did not believe a single word.

In his mind, I was playing a manipulative game to pull his attention away from Chloe.

He raised his hand, pointing a rigid finger at the two enforcers standing near the double doors.

"Throw her out," he commanded, with the absolute, chilling authority of a Mafia Don. "Get her out of my sight before I do something I will regret."

The two massive men moved forward, their rough hands seizing me by the shoulders.

I fought them, kicking and thrashing, but my fever-weakened body was no match for their strength.

They dragged me down the estate's long hallway, my shoes scraping against the polished marble floor.

From behind me, I could hear the faint strains of jazz starting back up in Vincent's office—the dark, celebratory atmosphere resuming as if I had never existed.

The enforcers shoved me through the heavy front doors.

I tripped over my own feet and landed hard onto the wet, unforgiving concrete of the driveway.

The freezing autumn rain crashed into my back, soaking through my thin clothes.

A moment later, the heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind me, locking me out in the darkness.

I lay there on the abrasive ground for a long time, the fight drained out of me.

The steady rain washed the blood from the corner of my mouth.

Looking up into the pitch-black sky, I thought about Rosa.

I remembered how she used to hold my hand when Vincent was away on business, telling me in a soothing voice that family was everything.

She had paid the ultimate price for my weakness, and for my foolish inability to see her son for the brute he truly was.

Slowly, with an agony in every joint, I dragged myself up from the pavement and began to walk through the raging storm.

Over the next two days, I arranged Rosa's underground Mafia cremation alone.

I picked out the heavy marble urn myself.

I paid the shady mortician in unmarked cash to hasten the process and keep the authorities from asking questions.

Standing alone in the cold, sterile basement of the crematorium, I watched the flames take her body, feeling utterly and irrevocably detached from the syndicate and the man I had married.

Three days after being thrown out, I sat on the edge of the plush velvet couch in the penthouse apartment that had become my prison, a vital IV drip taped to the back of my hand by a private underground doctor who had just departed.

The worst of the fever had broken, leaving a hollowed-out and bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.

The click of the front door unlocking broke the silence, and Vincent walked in, using his master keycard to bypass the security system.

He pulled off his expensive, rain-slicked coat and tossed it over a dining chair.

He looked across the room at me, opening his arms slightly as if he expected me to run to him.

"Are you done pouting?" he asked, his tone thick with condescension as he walked past me, straight toward the kitchen to pour himself a drink.

He acted as if the brutal events of the last three days had not happened.

"You embarrassed me in front of my men, Elena," he said with a chill, taking a slow sip of his amber liquor. "You threw a massive tantrum over a basic loyalty test. My time is too valuable for your childish drama."

Without a word, I reached over and pulled the IV needle out of my hand.

A single drop of crimson blood welled up and fell onto the hardwood floor.

Ignoring the sting, I stood up on legs that did not feel steady and walked toward him.

"Your sick game killed your mother," I said, my voice an icy, deadened whisper.

Vincent slammed his crystal glass onto the granite counter, the liquor sloshing over the rim.

"I told you to stop with that fucking lie!" he shouted, stepping into my personal space. "You are testing the limits of my patience, Elena. Do not curse my family."

His breath coming in heavy bursts, he reached into his tailored suit pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

He tossed it onto the counter in front of me.

"Here," he said, his tone shifting back to arrogant indifference. "An apology for being rough the other night. Now drop this morbid nonsense."

With numb fingers, I reached out and opened the box.

Inside was a glittering diamond bracelet.

I picked it up, feeling the cheap, light weight of the metal beneath the flashy stones—a perfect symbol for our marriage.

I looked him dead in the eye, raised my hand, and threw the bracelet as hard as I could.

It hit the kitchen's marble floor with a sharp crack, the thin metal snapping and sending the false diamonds scattering like worthless pieces of glass.