Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

Aria POV

Luca held the line in silence for a long, stretching moment.

I could hear the distant, chaotic hum of a busy street on his end, a stark and brutal contrast to the tomb-like stillness of my bedroom.

"Explain," he finally demanded, his voice low.

"I am dead here, Luca," I whispered, gripping the phone. "If I stay, they will kill me. Or I will kill myself. I need to vanish."

I heard the metallic click of a lighter, followed by the hiss of a sharp exhale.

"The Reaper will tear this city down to the bricks if you go missing."

"He won't," I said, my gaze drifting to the wedding photo on the nightstand. The glass was spiderwebbed from where it had been thrown. "He has a replacement lined up. A new heir. I am just a loose end waiting to be cut."

I told him everything-the divorce papers, the sham marriage, the chemical glaze I saw in Dante's eyes.

"I need a crash," I said, my voice trembling. "Total destruction. A classic disposal on the route to the coast."

"Consider it done," Luca replied, his tone shifting to professional ice. "Be at the private strip in two hours. I have a safe house in Provence prepped for you."

I hung up. Provence. Endless fields of lavender. A place where the name Vitiello carried no weight, no blood.

I began to pack with frantic efficiency. No clothes, no jewelry. I took only cash and the fake passport Luca had forged for me years ago-a failsafe I had prayed never to use.

I was just zipping the lining of the suitcase shut when the door handle turned.

I shoved the bag under the bed just as the housekeeper, Maria, stepped inside. She looked pale, her hands wringing in her apron.

"The Don is asking for you, Donna Aria."

I nodded, composing myself. I checked my reflection in the mirror; I looked pale, ghostly. Fitting for a woman walking to her own funeral.

I walked out and descended the grand staircase. Dante was waiting in the foyer. Gia stood beside him, her hand resting on his forearm with a possessiveness that made my stomach turn.

The boy, Leo, was playing with a toy car on the cold marble floor.

Dante looked up. For a heartbeat, I saw the man I used to love fighting to surface through the haze-confused, in pain. Then the chemical glaze returned, swallowing him whole.

"There you are," he said. His voice was too loud, too manic.

I took the last few steps slowly. I smelled it immediately-her perfume. It was cloying, sweet, and heavy, clinging to his suit jacket like a second skin.

"Who are our guests?" I asked, keeping my face mask-like.

Dante blinked, as if genuinely surprised I had to ask.

"This is Gia. The new nanny. And this is Leo. I am taking him on as a ward. He needs a father figure."

Gia smirked. It was a small, sharp expression, like a blade slipping from a sheath.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Vitiello," she said, emphasizing the title she had already stolen.

Leo looked up from his car. He was ten years old, but his eyes held no childhood innocence.

"Hi, Mommy," he sneered.

The word was a calculated slap. Gia let out a small, delicate laugh.

"He is just playing," she cooed.

I felt the bile rise in my throat, burning. I turned to retreat upstairs, my hands trembling at my sides.

"Wait," Dante ordered. His tone shifted, becoming sharp and authoritative. "Leo made you lunch. To start off on the right foot."

Leo stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his knees. He ran into the kitchen and returned a moment later with a steaming bowl of tomato soup. He walked toward me, a strange, eager expression plastered on his face.

"Here," he said.

I reached out to take the bowl, intending to set it down on the nearest table and leave.

But the moment my fingers brushed the ceramic, Leo's expression twisted. He shoved the bowl forward with vicious force.

The boiling liquid splashed over my hand and wrist.

I gasped, the pain instantaneous and searing. The bowl shattered on the floor, the red soup looking like a splatter of arterial blood on the white marble.

Before I could even draw a breath, Leo threw himself backward onto the floor.

"She burned me!" he screamed, clutching his unblemished arm, his face contorted in fake agony. "She threw it at me!"