Too Late For Regret, Underboss

Elena POV

I pulled the leather suitcase from the top shelf of the penthouse closet; the thud of it hitting the floor echoed in the quiet. I didn't pack the expensive gowns Vincenzo had bought me. I didn't pack the jewelry. I only packed the plain clothes I brought with me before the marriage.

Vincenzo stood in the bedroom doorway. His frame filled the space, blocking my exit.

"Are you trying to incite a war between our families by doing this?" he demanded. His voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"I am not returning to my family's estate to hide," I said, folding a simple cotton sweater. "I am formally severing our ties."

He let out a harsh, bitter laugh, striding into the room and kicking the door shut behind him. The violent gust of air it created stirred the dust motes along the edge of the carpet, sending a faint tickle against my ankles.

"A separation? Over phone calls?" He threw his hands up in the air. "I admit I communicate with Camilla. She's involved in Family business. But I have never physically betrayed my vows to you, Elena. Never."

I stopped packing and looked at him.

"Two months ago," I said, my voice calm, "I texted you on the secure emergency line. I told you I was having severe abdominal pain and needed you to authorize a Syndicate doctor. It took you fourteen days to reply."

Vincenzo's eyes shifted away for a fraction of a second. "I was on the ship. Strict Omertà protocols. I couldn't reply to personal messages."

"You spent an hour on a video call with Camilla that same week."

"She was suicidal!" Vincenzo shouted, stepping closer, his jaw taut. "A rival gang shot up her storefront. She was unstable. I had to keep her grounded."

I reached into my handbag and pulled out a thick stack of printed, decrypted communication logs. I threw them onto the center of our king-sized bed, the papers scattering.

"Look at them," I ordered.

Vincenzo stared at the papers, but he didn't move.

"During the week I had a fever of a hundred and four, you called her twice a day," I said, pointing to the dates. "When our safehouse in Queens was compromised, you were texting her about a dress she wanted to buy. And last year, when my father—a respected elder of this Syndicate—suffered a massive heart attack and was in surgery for eight hours..."

My voice finally cracked, just a little.

"I sat in that waiting room terrified he was going to die. You were a ghost. But your logs show you were maintaining high-frequency contact with Camilla because she was sad about her cat dying."

Vincenzo swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I didn't know your father was in surgery."

"I sent you a voice note," I said, my tone flattening once more.

Before he could argue, his burner phone rang. It was Camilla.

He didn't answer it, but she immediately called back on the intercom's main line. The penthouse speakers echoed with the shrill sound.

Vincenzo hit the answer button on the wall panel. Camilla's voice filled the room, hysterical and frantic.

"Vincenzo! She threatened me! Elena threatened to expose my illicit fronts in the restroom tonight! She's trying to get me killed by the Commission!"

Vincenzo's lethal gaze snapped back to me. The guilt in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating stare of an Underboss.

"Did you threaten Family business?" he demanded, stepping toward me. "Camilla would never lie about something like that."

I picked up my phone. I didn't defend myself. I just pressed play on an audio file.

It was my own voice, from a year ago. I sounded weak, terrified, crying into the phone. "Vincenzo, please come home. I think someone is following me. I'm scared. Please."

The audio finished.

I looked at Vincenzo. "That was the voice note I sent you when I thought a cartel hitman was trailing my car."

I pressed play on a second file. It was the exact same audio. But this time, there was a voice message attached to it, forwarded to me by Dominic. He had recovered it from Camilla's compromised cloud account during a routine security sweep of Associate communications—standard Family protocol for anyone with access to Underboss-level intel. Camilla hadn't sent it to me. She had saved it to her private files. She had kept my terrified voice as a trophy.

"Why did your mistress have my compromised position saved in her personal files?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Vincenzo stammered, taking a step back. The ruthless Underboss suddenly looked like a cornered animal. "I... I didn't leak it. I just wanted Camilla's female perspective. I thought you were becoming mentally unstable. I needed advice."

The words hung in the air between us. He had shared my most terrified moment—not with a doctor, not with the Family—but with the one woman who would weaponize it. And he still didn't see the betrayal. He still thought he had done nothing wrong.

I was holding a heavy crystal water glass in my right hand. I gripped it so hard that the thick glass gave a sharp, sickening crack and then shattered.

The sharp shards sliced deep into my palm. Blood instantly welled up, dripping down my fingers and splashing in crimson drops onto the expensive white Persian rug.

Vincenzo flinched. He saw the blood. He took a step toward me.

But his burner phone buzzed in his hand. A text from Camilla.

His eyes darted to the screen. His thumb instinctively moved to type a reassuring reply to her before he even reached for me.

That was it. That was the exact moment the last microscopic shred of my attachment to him died.

I didn't feel the pain in my hand. I didn't feel anything.

I grabbed a towel from the bathroom, pressed it hard against my bleeding palm, picked up my coat, and walked out the door.

The cold night air bit at my cheeks as I stepped onto the street. The blood seeped through the towel, warm against my skin. He would call me later, I knew. He would apologize, make excuses. But it was too late. I was already going to the one place that would end everything for good. And when the Commission asked me why I had finally decided to leave, I would show them the scar on my palm—and the timestamp of the text message he had chosen over my bleeding hand.