Too Late For The Mafia Don's Regret

Elara Rossi POV

I found him the next morning in the garden.

He was passed out on the wrought-iron bench, a chaotic stain on the manicured landscape, still wearing yesterday's rumpled clothes.

An empty bottle of scotch lay in the grass near his limp hand, glistening with dew.

He muttered something in his sleep. A name.

And it wasn't mine.

I turned back, went inside, and walked up the stairs. I went into the master bedroom—the room I hadn't slept in for a year—and started clearing it out.

I didn't pack. I purged.

I took the photos of us from the mantle—stiff, formal portraits where his eyes held no light, only a glazed obligation—and dropped them into the trash.

I took the jewelry he had given me for birthdays, generic diamonds chosen by a personal shopper who knew my taste better than my husband did, and left them in a careless pile on the dresser.

I opened the mental ledger. *Minus five.* Thirty points remaining.

Dante woke up an hour later. He stumbled into the kitchen, looking like death warmed over. He poured coffee with a shaking hand, the china rattling against the saucer.

He looked around the pristine kitchen, blinking against the harsh light. He frowned.

"Where is the... the thing? The vase?"

"I threw it out," I said. I was drinking tea, standing by the island like a statue. "It was dead."

He rubbed his temples. "You’re cleaning. You always clean when you’re angry."

"I’m not angry, Dante."

His phone rang. He clawed for it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline.

"Bella?" He listened, his face softening in a way it never did for me anymore. "I’m coming. Don't cry. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

He hung up and looked at me, already moving toward the door. "I have to go."

"It’s November 12th," I said.

He blinked, his hand on his keys. "So?"

"It’s the anniversary of my father’s death."

He froze. The Consigliere. The man to whom he had sworn his sacred oath.

Guilt, fleeting but real, crossed his face.

"Right," he muttered. "The cemetery. I’ll drive you. It’s... it’s respectful."

"You don't have to."

"Get your coat," he said, trying to regain some shred of authority. "I keep my promises."

The drive was silent. The rain hammered against the windows of the armored SUV, sealing us in a gray, watery tomb.

We stood at the grave for ten minutes. Dante stood stiffly, head bowed, playing the part of the grieving son-in-law, while holding a black umbrella that seemed to shield him more from me than the rain.

I touched the cold stone. *I’m sorry, Papa,* I thought. *But your promise is killing me.*

We got back in the car. Dante was already checking his phone.

"She’s calling again," he muttered.

He answered it on speaker.

"Dante!" Isabella’s voice was shrill, piercing the heavy silence. "I crashed. I crashed the car!"

Dante gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?"

"I don't know! My neck hurts. I’m scared. I’m on the shoulder of I-90. Please, Dante!"

"I’m five miles away," he said, his voice tight. "I’m coming."

He looked at me.

We were on a desolate stretch of road, miles from the city, surrounded by industrial wasteland. It was pouring rain.

"I need to go to her," he said. It wasn't a question.

"And me?" I asked.

"I can't take you to the scene. It’s dangerous if the cops come and see the Don’s wife." He pulled the car over to the muddy shoulder. "Get out. I’ll call a secondary car to pick you up. They’ll be here in ten minutes."

"You’re leaving me on the side of the road?"

"It’s an armored transport coming for you, Elara. You’ll be safe. She’s hurt."

"Get out," he ordered.

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

I opened the door. The rain hit me instantly, soaking my coat, chilling me to the bone.

I stepped out into the mud.

Dante didn't wait for me to close the door fully. He floored the gas. The tires spun, spraying me with gravel and sludge, and the SUV roared away.

I watched his taillights fade into the gray mist.

I was alone.

I stood there for a moment, shivering, the cold seeping into my marrow. I reached into my pocket for my phone to check on the pickup car.

A set of headlights appeared around the curve. Fast. Too fast for the slick conditions.

The car swerved. The driver must have been texting, or drunk, or just careless.

I tried to step back, but my heel caught in the mud.

The impact didn't hurt at first. It was just a massive, world-ending shove.

I flew.

The ground rushed up to meet me.

Then, nothing.