Too Late: The Don's Queen Is Not Me

Julian POV

A heavy, breathless silence descended upon the office.

Leo recovered from his initial stupefaction and puffed out his chest.

He had no comprehension of the mortal danger that stood before him.

With his arms crossed, he smiled with a fool’s arrogance.

“You’re getting married? Good for you, errand boy,” he announced, his ignorance of my station a stunning thing. “Tell Enzo congratulations on finding someone to put up with his lackey.”

He then pledged to take Serena on their romantic trip right after I was wed to my nameless bride.

Snatching his jacket from a chair, Leo walked out of the office.

Serena waited in a taut silence until the door latched shut.

The moment we were alone, she slammed her palms down on her mahogany desk and screamed at me.

“You tracked me here just to use your family’s power to trap me!” she accused, her voice shaking with rage.

At those words, what remained of my heart felt as if it had turned to lead in my chest.

It was brutally clear she held no reverence for the sacred code of Omertà.

She saw my protection not as a vow, but as a twisted form of leverage.

Watching her frantic display, I realized a formal severance was beneath my station.

“Get out!” Serena shouted, jabbing a finger toward the shattered doorway.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her civilian employees peering at us through the splintered frame.

I clenched my fists at my sides, the leather of my gloves creaking.

I drew a slow, deliberate breath, banking the fires of my restraint.

Without another word, I turned my back on her and walked out of the building.

With every step, I felt the final emotional cord that bound me to her fray and snap.

By the time I reached the street, I was no longer the man she had hidden in the shadows. I was the Underboss, and I was finished.

I drove back to my penthouse in a dead calm.

By the time I parked the vehicle, the grief in my chest was gone.

The ruthless, cold clarity of a Don had taken its place.

Enzo arrived at my residence an hour later with a discreet team of family tailors in his wake.

He was almost vibrating with a grim satisfaction over the coming union.

While the tailors took my measurements, he meticulously orchestrated the security logistics for the ceremony.

He even took photographs of me being fitted for a custom white tuxedo.

Without asking my leave, he posted the updates directly to the syndicate's highly encrypted network.

Presently, my phone buzzed on the marble counter.

It was a text from Serena.

She asked, with a note of taunting disbelief, if I truly had the spine to confess our affair to her brother.

I stared at the screen for a moment, then set the device down and ignored the message.

Later that night, Enzo and I sat in the seclusion of a dimly lit, private booth at the speakeasy.

I took up the bottle and poured two heavy glasses of bourbon.

I looked across the scarred wood of the table at my most trusted Capo.

“Enzo,” I began, my tone flat, “would you be compelled to invoke a blood Vendetta against me if you were to discover I had been sleeping with your sister?”

Enzo did not so much as flinch; he simply took a slow, measured sip of his drink.

He set the crystal glass down and looked at me with a chilling pragmatism.

He said he had long suspected she pursued me in the shadows.

Leaning forward, his forearms on the table, he stated that his loyalty to his Don superseded the claims of his own bloodline.

Hearing that absolute, unhesitating devotion, the crushing weight of five wasted years descended upon my shoulders.

My stoic facade cracked for a fraction of a second.

A single, treacherous tear escaped my eye and traced a hot path down my cheek.

I wiped it away with the back of my thumb, burying the weakness before it could be truly seen.

Just then, Enzo's wife walked into the crowded speakeasy.

Serena walked in right behind her, her eyes sweeping the room.

Serena saw me sitting there, my shoulders uncharacteristically slumped, and instinctively rushed over.

She gripped my arm tightly.

Before I could recoil, Leo and a boisterous group of her mafia-affiliated friends walked through the front door.

These were the wives and daughters of my own soldiers. The moment their eyes fell upon me, the color fled their faces. Their laughter died in their throats, replaced by a thick, trembling terror. Several of them dropped their gazes to the floor, their knees seeming to weaken as they prepared to show deference to their Underboss.

Seeing them, Serena panicked.

She dropped my arm as if it were a hot coal and took a large step back.

She hastily smoothed down her designer skirt, a desperate attempt to maintain her clean image.

Forcing a brittle smile, she turned to her friends and pointed a dismissive finger in my direction.

With a voice laced with agonizing condescension, she introduced the Underboss of the city as nothing more than her brother's low-level associate.

The women stared at her in sheer horror, their bodies rigid with her blasphemy. I met the eyes of the trembling group and offered a slow, deliberate blink. The silent command was absolute. Too terrified to expose the lie, they remained frozen in silence, trapped in Serena's delusion.

Maintaining my icy composure, I reached slowly into my breast pocket.

I withdrew the heavy, gold-embossed family wedding invitation that had been intended for her.

I held it out to her, my expression unreadable.

Her eyes widened, and with a gasp of outrage, Serena aggressively snatched it from my hand.