Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

The penthouse was silent. It was a heavy, suffocating silence that cost ten million dollars.

Marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, and modern art that resembled blood splatters on snow. It was a fortress. It was a museum. It was not a home.

I sat on the kitchen island, staring at my phone until the screen blurred.

Dante: *Business. Not coming home.*

Four words. The summary of my marriage.

I didn't reply. Instead, I opened the contact settings and scrolled down to his number. My finger hovered over the delete button. I couldn't block the Don—that would trigger an immediate security alert—but I could wipe him from my personal life.

I tapped delete. The name Dante vanished, replaced by a cold string of digits.

It was a small act of rebellion, but it felt like cutting a chain.

I slid off the stool and walked to the hidden panel in the pantry. Behind a row of imported olive oils, I pulled out the go-bag.

A burner phone. Three encrypted flash drives. A passport with my maiden name.

I sat at the kitchen table and opened my laptop. It was time for the digital purge.

I logged into the joint offshore accounts. My name was on them for tax purposes, a convenient loophole for the Moretti empire. Methodically, I removed my authorization. I unlinked my biometric access from the safe in the study. I erased my digital footprint from the estate's security logs.

I was ghosting my own life.

My phone buzzed. An Instagram notification.

I shouldn't have looked. I knew I shouldn't have. Pain was an addiction, and I was looking for a fix.

I opened the app.

There she was. Sofia.

The photo was taken on a yacht. The skyline of New York was a glittering backdrop. She was holding a glass of champagne, wearing a silk robe that I recognized instantly. It was Dante's.

Caption: *Safe Harbor.*

I felt acid rise in my throat.

The security threat. The emergency that required the Don to leave his wife in the rain. It was a lie.

He was drinking scotch on a boat with his ex-mistress while I sat in his empty tower.

I checked the date on my laptop.

October 24th.

Happy twenty-third birthday, Elena.

I closed the laptop with a snap.

I walked to the stove. I had bought ingredients to make *osso buco*. It was a traditional recipe, one his mother had taught me. I thought, stupidly, that if I cooked like a good Italian wife, he might stay.

I turned on the gas burner. The blue flame flickered to life.

I started chopping carrots. Then onions. The rhythmic sound of the knife against the wood was soothing.

*Chop. Chop. Chop.*

The elevator chimed.

I froze. He wasn't supposed to be here.

Dante walked in. He looked disheveled. His tie was loose, his top button undone. He smelled of sea salt and that cloying, floral perfume.

He was holding a white bakery box.

He stopped when he saw me, looking surprised to find his wife in his kitchen.

"You are cooking," he said.

I didn't look up. I kept chopping.

"I thought you were working," I said.

"Negotiations ran late," he said, placing the box on the counter.

He pushed it toward me.

"Happy Birthday," he muttered. It sounded like an obligation. Like paying a tax.

I put down the knife and opened the box.

It was a vanilla cake. A generic, store-bought vanilla cake with white frosting.

I loathed vanilla. I have hated vanilla since I was a child. Dante knew this. Or at least, the man who married me should have known this.

I stared at the white expanse of sugar. It looked like snow. Cold and tasteless.

"I'm not hungry," I said.

Dante sighed. It was a heavy, irritated sound.

"Don't be ungrateful, Elena. I made time to come back."

"Made time?" I laughed. It was a dry, brittle sound. "Did the negotiation go well? Did she sign the treaty?"

Dante stiffened. His eyes narrowed.

"What are you talking about?"

I pulled up the photo on my phone and turned the screen toward him.

"*Safe Harbor*," I read. "She looks very safe, Dante. And very comfortable in your robe."

Dante didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He looked annoyed that he had been caught, like a parent catching a child spying.

"She was hysterical," he said. "The boat was the only secure location available on short notice. The robe was because she was cold."

"And the champagne?" I asked. "Was that for shock?"

"Watch your tone, *tesoro*," he warned. His voice dropped an octave. "Do not make me regret coming home."

"Regret coming home?" I stepped closer to him. "You didn't come home, Dante. You just changed locations. You are still with her. You are always with her."

I picked up the cake box and dropped it into the trash can. It landed with a heavy thud.

"I'm not eating that."

Dante grabbed my wrist. His grip was iron.

"You are acting like a child," he growled. "I protect this family. I protect you. Sofia is a responsibility. She is the widow of my best friend."

"She is the woman you wish you had married!" I yelled.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Dante stared at me. He didn't deny it.

He released my wrist.

His burner phone rang.

We both looked at it. It sat on the marble counter like a bomb.

He picked it up. "Luca," he said.

He listened. His eyes flicked to me, then away.

"I understand. I'm on my way."

He hung up.

"I have to go," he said.

"Of course you do," I said. I turned back to the stove.

"Elena," he started.

"Go, Dante."

He hesitated. For a second, just a second, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt? Fatigue?

But then the mask slammed back down. The Reaper returned.

"We will discuss your attitude later," he said.

He turned and walked out. The elevator doors closed.

I was alone again.

I turned off the stove. The half-chopped vegetables sat on the board.

I went to the drawer and pulled out a single birthday candle.

I lit it. I held it up in the dark kitchen.

"I make a wish," I whispered to the empty room.

I wish to stop loving the monster.

I blew out the candle. Smoke curled up into the air, vanishing just like my hope.