Too Late For The Mafia Don's Regret

The restaurant for our "dinner" was actually just the VIP booth at The Sapphire Room.

Dante decided we should stay there since Isabella was feeling "stressed."

Isabella sat across from us, commanding the space. It wasn't an anniversary dinner. It was a business meeting disguised as a meal, with me playing the role of the third wheel.

"This place is exactly how I imagined it," Dante said, looking around the room with a rare warmth. "Do you remember you sketched this layout on a napkin five years ago?"

"You kept that napkin?" Isabella asked, her eyes wide.

"I keep everything," he said.

I took a sip of water. It tasted like ash in my mouth.

A waiter appeared at Dante’s elbow.

"We’ll have the Lobster Risotto, the truffle carpaccio, and the sea bass," Dante ordered smoothly. He didn't even look at the menu.

"Dante," Isabella said with a fake, playful pout. "Ask Elara what she wants. Maybe she doesn't like sea bass."

Dante shrugged, dismissive. "I don't know what she likes. She can speak for herself."

Three years. We had been married for three years.

I was deathly allergic to shellfish. The risotto had lobster stock. Even cross-contamination could shut down my throat.

"I’m not hungry," I said quietly.

"Suit yourself," Dante said.

"I’m going to the ladies' room." I stood up.

I needed to breathe. I needed to get away from the suffocating weight of their shared history, which hung over the table like a toxic fog.

I walked into the restroom. It was a collision of marble and gold—opulent and suffocatingly tacky.

The door opened behind me.

Isabella walked in.

She stood next to me at the sinks, checking her lipstick in the mirror.

"You look tired, Elara," she said.

"I’m fine," I said, scrubbing my hands.

"You know," she said, leaning closer to the mirror. "It’s kind of sad. You trying so hard."

"I’m his wife, Isabella."

She laughed. It was a cruel, sharp sound. "You’re a contract. You’re a handshake between two dead men. You think because you wear his ring, you have his soul? I own every breath he takes."

"Then why didn't he marry you?" I asked, turning to face her.

Her eyes narrowed. "Because he had to protect you. You’re the charity case. The Consigliere’s Bargain."

She smirked. "But don't worry. He comes to me when he needs to feel real."

I opened my mouth to respond, but a deep, groaning sound echoed from above.

The ceiling shook.

We both looked up.

The massive crystal chandelier above the main dining area—the one Dante had installed because Isabella wanted "grandeur"—gave a terrifying high-pitched screech of metal shearing.

It wasn't directly above us. But the structural support beam ran straight through the ceiling of the restroom.

The plaster cracked.

The chandelier in the main room crashed. The impact was like a bomb going off.

The shockwave blew out the wall of the restroom.

Debris rained down. A heavy chunk of plaster and steel support beam plummeted toward us.

I saw Dante in the doorway. He had run from the table the second the noise started.

He saw us both. We were standing three feet apart.

He had a split second. A single heartbeat.

He lunged.

He tackled Isabella, covering her body with his own, shielding her against the far wall.

He left me standing in the open.

The beam hit me.

Pain exploded in my side. Darkness swallowed me whole.

*

I woke up to the rhythmic beep of machines.

My side felt like it was on fire. My head was throbbing in time with my pulse.

I opened my eyes. White ceiling. Hospital.

I turned my head. Dante was bursting through the door. He looked frantic. His tuxedo was covered in dust and plaster.

"Elara!"

I looked at him. I felt a strange, cold clarity.

"I’m awake," I whispered.

"I didn't know," he panted, rushing to the bedside. "I didn't know you were hit. There was so much dust. I got Isabella out and..."

"And you realized the wife was missing later," I finished.

"Elara, don't," he said. "Are you okay? The doctor said you have three broken ribs and a concussion."

"I’m fine," I said.

I closed my eyes. I pictured the ledger in my mind.

*He chose.*

In the moment of life or death, instinct took over. He didn't think. He just acted. And his instinct was to save her.

"Minus ten," I whispered.

"What?" Dante asked, leaning closer. "What did you say?"

"I said minus ten," I said, opening my eyes to look at him dead on.

"Ten points away from freedom."

"What points?" he demanded. "You’re talking nonsense. You have a concussion."

"I have clarity, Dante," I said. "Crystal clear."