Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Despair

Mr. Abernathy was a ghost draped in a bespoke suit.

He sat behind a glass desk that cost more than most people's entire education, and he didn't so much as blink when I told him my budget.

Nor did he ask where the daughter of the Douglas crime family had acquired millions of dollars in untraceable cryptocurrency. He simply tapped the screen of his tablet, his face a mask of professional indifference.

"I need isolation," I said, sitting spine-straight, my hands folded demurely in my lap. "No neighbors. No flight paths. No maps."

Abernathy slid the tablet across the polished surface of the desk.

The screen displayed a solitary speck of green lost in a vast sea of blue.

"It's in the Caribbean," he said smoothly. "Technically, it doesn't exist on any modern tourist chart. It was utilized for smuggling operations in the eighties, which works to your advantage. It comes equipped with a generator, a high-grade water filtration system, and a bunker."

"Perfect," I whispered.

I didn't even glance at the price.

I pressed my thumb against the biometric scanner to authorize the transfer. The money-years of skimming off the top of my brothers' laundering operations-vanished in seconds.

They thought I was stupid. They thought I was just painting pretty pictures in my room while they discussed 'business.' They never noticed that the numbers didn't add up.

"The deed will be held under the shell company," Abernathy said, his eyes finally meeting mine. "Ms. Hale."

The name sounded strange on his tongue.

Clean.

"Thank you," I said.

I stood up. My legs felt heavy, as if dragging the weight of my past, but my chest felt lighter than it had in a decade.

"The jet leaves in forty-eight hours," Abernathy warned. "Don't be late."

I walked out into the city, the noise washing over me.

I had forty-eight hours to survive.

I returned to the penthouse at dusk. The elevator opened directly into the living room, and laughter hit me like a physical blow.

Jameson was in the kitchen.

He had discarded his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the dark ink of tattoos wrapping around his forearms. He was plating pasta with a domestic grace that terrified me.

He never cooked. Not for me.

Haleigh was perched on the counter, swinging her legs like a teenager. She was nursing a glass of red wine.

Alcohol and pancreatic cancer. A miracle combination.

Derrick and Blake were sitting at the island, watching her with rapt attention, as if she were a favorite television show they had missed.

The laughter died the moment I crossed the threshold.

Jameson looked up. The chef's knife in his hand paused, hovering over the cutting board.

"Where have you been?" he asked.

His voice was low. Dangerous. It was the tone he used seconds before ordering a hit.

"Out," I said simply.

I turned toward the hallway, intending to disappear.

Derrick slapped his palm against the marble counter. "Don't walk away when he's talking to you, Isabella."

I stopped. Slowly, I turned to face them.

"He's not my fiancé anymore, Derrick. I don't answer to him."

The room went dead silent.

Jameson's eyes narrowed into slits. He set the knife down. Very slowly.

"You live under my protection," he said, his voice deceptively calm. "You answer to me until I say otherwise."

I looked at Haleigh. She was smirking behind the rim of her wine glass.

"Did you discard me for her dying wish, Jameson?" I asked, my voice steady. "Or was I just a placeholder for the real thing all along?"

Jameson rounded the island. He stopped inches from me, invading my space.

I could smell the garlic and fresh basil on his hands, clashing with the metallic scent of violence radiating off him.

"You were a duty," he said coldly. "Haleigh is a choice."

The words carved a hollow space in my chest, but I refused to bleed for them.

I nodded once. "Understood."

I turned to go to my room.

"Not that room," Blake interrupted.

He pointed a callous finger toward the small door near the laundry room. "We moved your things. Haleigh needs the master suite. She needs the space for her... recovery."

The guest room. The room meant for staff.

"Fine," I said.

I walked into the cramped space without looking back. Boxes were piled haphazardly against the wall. My paintings were stacked in the corner, and I could see the canvas of my favorite piece dented inward.

I sat on the narrow, lumpy bed.

A moment later, the door creaked open.

Haleigh slipped inside, clutching a small, ornate wooden box.

She closed the door softly behind her.

"I brought you a peace offering," she said.

Her voice was sweet. Sickeningly so.

"I don't want it," I replied.

"Come on, Bella. Don't be bitter." She stepped closer, invading my sanctuary. She pressed the box into my reluctant hands. "It's a welcome home gift."

She leaned in, her face close to mine. Her eyes were dead, devoid of any genuine light.

"I always get what I want," she whispered.

With a flick of her finger, she unlatched the box.

I felt something scuttle across my fingers-light, frantic legs.

Panic flared in my chest. I looked down.

A brown recluse spider, massive and terrifying, leaped from the velvet lining.

It landed squarely on the back of my hand.

I screamed.

I thrashed my hand wildly, throwing the box across the room. A sharp, stinging pain pierced my skin-fire spreading instantly from the bite.

Haleigh threw herself onto the floorboards.

She started screaming, her voice shrill and theatrical.

"Help! Jameson! She's trying to kill me!"

The door burst open.

Jameson and my brothers rushed in, a wall of testosterone and fury.

They saw me standing over Haleigh.

They saw the practiced fear on her face.

They didn't see the spider scuttling into the shadows under the bed. They didn't see the bite mark already swelling angrily on my hand.

They only saw what they wanted to see.

The monster attacking the angel.