Too Late For The Mafia Don's Regret

Dante Moretti POV

The chair in Isabella’s hospital room was an instrument of torture.

It was stiff, unyielding, and likely designed with a singular purpose: to encourage visitors to leave.

Isabella was sleeping.

Or pretending to.

I studied her features. This was the face that had launched a thousand ships in my imagination for ten years.

But right now, looking at her perfectly unblemished skin, I felt... nothing.

No, not nothing.

I felt an itch. A restless, crawling sensation beneath my skin.

I pressed a hand to my chest. There was a sharp, phantom pain there, distinct and cutting, like a rib cracking under pressure.

"Dante?" She stirred, her eyelashes fluttering open. "Don't leave me."

"I’m here," I said, the response automatic.

"My neck hurts," she whined, her voice thin.

"The scans were clear, Bella. It’s just whiplash."

"It feels like more." She reached for my hand.

I let her take it. Her skin was impossibly soft, untouched by labor.

Elara’s hands were always rougher.

They were calloused from her pencils, stained with charcoal, and marked by the sharp edges of her rulers.

Elara.

I hadn't heard from the transport car. They should have picked her up hours ago.

I pulled my hand away, perhaps too abruptly.

"I need to check in at home."

"No!" Isabella shot up, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "You promised. You said you’d stay until I felt safe."

"You are safe. I have four guards posted outside this door."

"But I need *you*."

She pulled me down.

She kissed me.

I kissed her back. It was a reflex, muscle memory from a decade of longing.

But as our lips touched, I felt a wave of repulsion so strong I almost gagged.

It tasted like ash.

It felt like cheating.

Which was insane. She was the love of my life.

Elara was just the wife.

I pulled away, wiping my mouth. "I have to go."

I didn't wait for her to argue. I turned and walked out.

The drive back to the estate was a blur of motion and streetlights.

The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and black, reflecting the city like a dark mirror.

When I walked into the house, the silence hit me physically.

It wasn't the usual quiet of a large, well-staffed home. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

"Elara?" I called out.

My voice echoed, bouncing off the marble floors.

I walked to the kitchen. Empty.

I checked the living room. Empty.

I took the stairs two at a time. The door to her studio was open.

I walked in.

It had been stripped.

The drafting tables were bare. The sketches that usually littered every surface were gone. The architectural models were smashed into the trash bin, reduced to splintered wood and twisted wire.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced my gut.

"Alfredo!" I shouted for the butler.

He appeared in the doorway moments later, looking pale and shaken.

"Where is she?" I demanded. "Where is my wife?"

"The Madam left, sir. About two hours ago."

"Left? Left for where? The store?"

"She... she didn't say, sir. She walked out the front door. She didn't take a car."

My phone rang, shattering the tension.

It was Isabella.

"Dante!" She was screaming into the receiver. "She sent them! She sent thugs! They're outside my window!"

"Who?"

"Elara! She’s trying to kill me because she’s jealous! You have to come back!"

Rage flared in my chest.

Elara? Threatening Isabella?

It was absurd. It was impossible.

But it was something I could focus on. It was a target. Something that made sense in a world that was suddenly spinning off its axis.

Elara was acting out. She was throwing a tantrum.

"I’m coming," I growled.

I turned to Alfredo, my voice low and dangerous.

"If she comes back, lock her in her room."

I stormed out of the house.

But deep down, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered in the back of my mind:

*I hope she did it.*

*I hope she hates you enough to fight.*

*Because if she’s fighting, she’s still here.*