Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

Aria POV I made it back to the estate in a taxi, the silence of the house pressing against my ears like water. I went upstairs and pulled the suitcase from under the bed. The front door slammed downstairs. "Aria!" Dante's voice thundered through the halls. It shook the crystals of the foyer chandelier. He found me in the bedroom before I could even undo the latches. His shirt was torn, a smear of grime across his chest, and a fresh cut bled sluggishly on his cheek. He looked feral. "Where did you go?" he shouted, advancing on me. "You abandoned us!" I stood my ground, my voice hollow. "You have them. You don't need me." "They are hurt!" he screamed, the cords in his neck straining. "The car sideswiped Gia's leg. Leo is in shock. They are at the clinic right now." "So go to them," I said. "I need you," he said. I froze. For a single, treacherous second, hope flared in my chest. A warm, desperate thing. "Gia lost a lot of blood," he continued, breathless. "She has a rare type. You match her. I checked your medical file." The hope died-cold, instant, and absolute. "You want me to give blood to your mistress?" "I want you to save the mother of my heir!" he roared, grabbing my arm. "Get in the car." He didn't wait for me to walk. He dragged me. He physically hauled me down the stairs, my heels catching on the steps, and shoved me into the backseat of his car. At the private clinic, the mob doctor didn't ask questions. He didn't look me in the eye. He just hooked me up. I watched my red blood flow through the clear plastic tube, leaving me to fill the veins of the woman who was poisoning my marriage. Dante paced the small room like a caged tiger. He didn't offer me water. He didn't ask if I was dizzy. He just watched the bag fill, his eyes fixated on the fluid that would save his prize. When it was done, I sat up. The room tilted dangerously. "Come," Dante said, checking his watch. "You need to apologize." "Apologize?" I laughed. It was a weak, brittle sound, like dry leaves stepping on stone. "For what?" "For leaving the scene. For the security lapse." He placed a hand on the small of my back-not to steady me, but to push me into the recovery room. Gia was lying in bed, looking flushed and healthy with my life force coursing through her system. Leo was sitting on the chair, aggressively tapping at a handheld video game. "Look who decided to show up," Gia sneered, smoothing the sheets. "I saved your life," I whispered. Leo stood up. His eyes were wide, manic. He picked up a heavy crystal vase from the bedside table. "Get out!" the boy screamed. "You hate us!" He threw the vase. It wasn't a child's clumsy toss. It was heavy, aimed with vicious intent. It smashed against my shoulder, the impact sending a shockwave of blinding pain down my arm. I stumbled back, gasping. Leo immediately threw himself to the floor, screaming at the top of his lungs. "She hit me! She hit me first!" Dante rushed in from the hall, his eyes scanning the scene. He saw the broken glass. He saw his son crying on the floor. He turned to me. "You are done," Dante whispered. He looked at me with pure, unadulterated hatred. "You are unfit to be a Vitiello. Get out of my sight before I kill you myself." I clutched my throbbing shoulder. I looked at the three of them-the father, the mistress, the son. The family portrait of hell. I turned and walked out of the clinic. It was raining outside. A cold, miserable downpour. I walked down the dark alleyway toward the main street to catch a cab. I was dizzy from blood loss, aching from the burn of the needle and the bruise blooming on my shoulder. Shadows detached themselves from the wet brick walls. Three men. They wore ski masks. One of them slapped a metal pipe into his palm. "This is from the Don," the lead man said, his voice muffled. "A lesson in respect." I didn't fight. I didn't have the strength. The first blow hit my ribs. I heard the wet crack of bone. I fell face-first into the mud. They beat me until the world went gray. They kicked me until I couldn't feel the biting cold of the rain anymore. As I lay there, bleeding into the dirty water, one of them pulled out a phone. "It's done, Boss," he said into the receiver. "She learned." He hung up. Footsteps splashed away, leaving me there. I closed my eyes. I wasn't Aria Vitiello anymore. Aria Vitiello died in this alley. I dragged myself toward the street lights, inch by painful inch. I had a plane to catch. And when I came back, I wouldn't be the wife. I would be the Reaper.