Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

Aria POV I woke up to the agonizing bite of plastic digging into my wrists and the sting of the Chicago wind lashing against my exposed skin. My eyes fluttered open, gritty and swollen. I wasn't in a bed. I was upright. My knees buckled, but I didn't fall because my hands were cruelly zip-tied to the wrought-iron railing of the penthouse balcony. I was on display. Like a traitor. Like a trophy from a hunt. Below, the city lights blurred through the relentless rain. I shivered, my clothes soaked through, the bruise on my ribs from the alley throbbing in sickening rhythm with my pulse. Dante hadn't saved me. He hadn't come for me. He had let his men dump me here like trash. I pulled at the ties. My skin tore, but the plastic held. I didn't scream. Screaming was for people who believed someone was actually listening. Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time felt like sludge. Finally, the lock on the balcony door clicked. A guard stepped out, cut the ties without a word, and shoved me inside. I fell onto the carpet, my legs too numb to hold me. I crawled. I actually crawled toward my bedroom, leaving a trail of rainwater and mud like a wounded animal. Laughter drifted from the living room. I looked up. Dante was there. He was sitting in his armchair, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Gia was curled up on the rug at his feet, and Leo was building a tower of blocks on the coffee table. They looked warm. They looked whole. Dante saw me. His eyes flickered over my wet clothes, my bruised face, my bleeding wrists. For a second, his brow furrowed, as if he was trying to solve a difficult math problem. "You're back," he said. His voice was flat. "You tied me to the balcony," I rasped, my throat raw. Dante took a slow, deliberate sip of whiskey. "I was in a meeting," he lied. Smoothly. Easily. "I told security to keep you contained until I returned. You were hysterical at the clinic." Contained. I was his wife, and he had treated me like a rabid dog. Gia didn't look at me. She just placed a block on Leo's tower. "Go to your room, Aria," Dante said, waving his hand dismissively. "You are dripping on the Persian rug." I dragged myself down the hall. My body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead shot. Inside my room, on the nightstand, sat a bottle of pills and a note in Dante's handwriting. For the pain. I stared at the bottle. It was a mercy I didn't expect. Maybe, deep down, under the layers of drugs and Gia's poison, he still remembered that I was human. I opened the bottle. My hands shook so bad I dropped two pills on the floor. I swallowed three dry. I just wanted the throbbing in my ribs to stop. I wanted to sleep. I lay down on the bed, still in my wet clothes. Ten minutes later, the fire started in my stomach. It wasn't relief. It was acid. I gasped, clutching my abdomen. My vision swam. The room tilted sideways. I tried to call out, but my throat closed up. I rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud. Foam gathered at the corners of my mouth. I convulsed, my back arching off the floor. "Dante!" I tried to scream, but it came out as a wet gurgle. The door burst open. Dante stood there. He looked at me, then at the pill bottle. His eyes widened. The glaze over his pupils seemed to crack for a fraction of a second. "Aria?" He dropped to his knees beside me. He smelled like whiskey and Gia's perfume. "What did you take?" he demanded, shaking me. I pointed to the bottle. Blood leaked from my nose. He grabbed the bottle. He looked at the label. Then he looked at me, panic rising in his chest. "Doctor!" he roared. "Get the doctor!" The world went black. When I woke up, I was still on the floor, but there were needles in my arm and the bitter taste of charcoal in my mouth. The mob doctor was packing up his bag. "Neurotoxin," the doctor said quietly. "Mixed with the painkillers. A lethal dose. If she hadn't vomited, she would be dead." Dante was standing by the window. He was pale. "Who?" Dante asked. His voice was a low growl. "Who touched her meds?" "Security footage," the head of security said from the doorway. He held up a tablet. Dante snatched it. I turned my head, my neck stiff, to watch the screen. It was grainy black and white. But the figure was clear. Leo. The boy walked into my room. He opened the bottle. He crushed something into it. He shook it. He smiled at the camera. Dante stared at the screen. The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. My husband looked at the proof that his new son had tried to murder me. I waited for the rage. I waited for the Reaper. Aria POV: "Bring him in," Dante ordered, his voice devoid of warmth. Gia dragged Leo into the room. The boy looked sleepy, rubbing his eyes with a small fist. He took in the sight of me on the floor, surrounded by discarded bandages and saline bags, and he didn't even flinch. Dante knelt in front of the boy, holding the tablet up for him to see. "Did you do this, Leo?" Leo looked at the screen, then up at Dante. His lower lip began to tremble on cue. Tears welled up in his eyes instantly, spilling over his chubby cheeks. "I was scared," Leo sobbed, his voice pitching high. "She's a witch, Dante! Mommy said she's toxic. I just wanted her to go to sleep so she couldn't hurt us anymore." Gia gasped, covering her mouth with a manicured hand. "Oh, my poor baby. He was trying to protect me." Dante looked at the weeping boy. Then he looked at the woman he was drugged to love. Finally, he turned his gaze to me-the woman who had just survived an assassination attempt in her own bedroom. He sighed, a heavy, ragged sound. He reached out and pulled Leo into a hug. "Shh," he soothed, stroking the boy's hair. "It's okay. You made a mistake." "A mistake?" I whispered. My voice was like sandpaper scraping against stone. "He tried to kill me." Dante stood up, shielding the boy with his broad body, blocking him from my view. "He is a child, Aria. He doesn't understand the dosage. He was acting out of fear because you have been hostile." "Hostile?" I tried to sit up, but my arms gave out, trembling under my own weight. "We will not speak of this again," Dante said firmly, the haze in his eyes hardening into steel. "He is my heir. I will handle his discipline." He turned to Gia. "Take him for ice cream. He is upset." Gia smirked at me over Dante's shoulder-a cold, victorious smile that didn't reach her eyes. They left. Dante stayed for a moment longer. He looked at the IV line snake-coiled into my arm. He looked like he wanted to say something, like a memory was clawing at the back of his mind, but the fog in his eyes thickened, swallowing the thought. "Rest," he said simply. Then he walked out.