Too Late: The Innocent Traitor I Destroyed

I walked out of the federal penitentiary with a terminal cancer diagnosis and exactly six months to live.

Desperate for money to pay for a sky burial, I returned to the Vitiello family, the people who now wanted me dead.

Dante, the man I had loved since childhood, looked at me with pure hatred.

He thought I was the monster who killed his mother.

He didn't know I had confessed to a crime I didn't commit to hide the ugly truth—that she had taken her own life.

To punish me, Dante became cruel.

He forced me to work as a servant, making me stand guard outside his bedroom door while he was intimate with his fiancée, Sofia.

When the estate caught fire, I didn't hesitate. I ran into the inferno.

I dragged Dante to safety, my back burning as debris fell on me, scarring me forever.

But when he woke up, I hid in the shadows and let Sofia take the credit. I couldn't let him feel indebted to a "murderer."

I thought that was the worst of it. I was wrong.

On the eve of his wedding, Sofia had an accident and needed a blood transfusion. I was the only match.

Dante didn't know my body was already shutting down. He didn't know my blood was poisoned with cancer markers.

"Take it all," he roared at the doctors, ignoring my frail, trembling body. "Just save my wife."

I died on that table, drained dry to save the woman who stole my life.

It wasn't until the monitor flatlined that his right-hand man finally threw a file onto Dante's lap.

"She didn't kill your mother, Dante. And she didn't just leave town. You just executed the only person who ever truly loved you."

Chapter 1

I walked out of the federal penitentiary with five years of darkness behind me and exactly six months of life left in front of me.

The prison doctor had handed me the diagnosis along with my release papers, his eyes filled with a pity that burned more than the bile in my throat. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Inoperable. Terminal.

I did not cry. Crying was a luxury for people who had a future to lose. I had nothing but a blood oath and a body that was slowly turning against me.

My first stop was not a warm bed or a hot meal. It was a funeral home on the edge of the city. I placed my entire prison wage on the counter, a pathetic stack of crumpled bills that smelled of sweat and desperation.

"I want a Sky Burial," I told the director. "In the Aspen mountains."

He looked at my cheap clothes and my hollow cheeks. "That is expensive, miss. This is barely a deposit."

"I will get the rest," I promised.

That promise led me to The Night Banquet.

It was the most exclusive gentleman's club in New York, a place where the air smelled of oak-barrel scotch and sin, and where the Vitiello family held court. I knew this because I used to belong to them. I used to be Elena, the cherished ward, the girl who sat at the dinner table next to the heir. Now I was Xiang Wanning, the Rat, the Murderer, the girl who killed the Don's wife.

I secured a job as a server because the manager liked that I did not speak. I was a ghost in a black uniform, invisible until I wasn't.

The VIP lounge was dimly lit, the leather seats occupied by men whose suits cost more than my life was worth. I balanced a tray of crystal glasses, my hands trembling slightly from the weakness that was now my constant companion.

Then I heard him.

"Make it a double, Matteo."

The voice was low, a dark baritone that scraped against my nerves. It vibrated through the floorboards and traveled up my spine, paralyzing me. Dante Vitiello. The Capo dei Capi. The man I had loved since I was six years old. The man who now wanted me dead.

I froze. He was sitting in the center of the booth, his presence sucking the oxygen out of the room. He was bigger than I remembered, his shoulders broader, his jawline sharper. The boy I knew was gone, replaced by a ruthless king.

Next to him sat Sofia. She was glowing, her hand resting possessively on his thigh. A diamond the size of a robins egg glittered on her finger.

"We should choose the lilies for the ceremony, Dante," she purred, leaning into him. "White lilies. Like your mother loved."

The tray slipped.

It was a fraction of a second, a moment of weakness caused by the cancer or the heartbreak, I wasn't sure. The glass shattered against the edge of the table. Amber liquid splashed onto the polished shoes of a soldier sitting near the edge.

"You stupid bitch!" the soldier roared, jumping up.

I dropped to my knees instantly. It was a reflex learned in prison. Keep your head down. Make yourself small. I began to pick up the shards with my bare hands. A jagged piece of crystal sliced into my palm. I watched the blood well up, dark and thick, mixing with the spilled scotch.

"Look at this," the soldier sneered, realizing who I was. "If it isn't the Rat."

The room went silent.

I felt Dante's gaze before I saw it. It was a physical weight, heavy and cold. I looked up. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, devoid of any warmth. He looked at me not like a human being, but like a stain on his floor.

"Clean it up," the soldier commanded. "With your tongue."

Laughter rippled through the room. The soldier grabbed my hair, forcing my face toward the alcohol-soaked carpet. I grit my teeth, preparing to obey. I had no dignity left to protect. My only goal was the money for the mountains.

"Stop."

One word. Spoken softly, yet it cracked like a whip.

Dante stood up. He towered over the soldier. He did not look at me. He looked at his man.

"She is Vitiello property," Dante said, his voice void of emotion. "And Vitiello property is mine to break. Not yours."

He grabbed the soldier by the collar and threw him toward the door like a ragdoll. "Get out."

The room cleared instantly. Even Sofia looked uneasy, smoothing her dress. Dante turned to me. I was still on my knees, blood dripping from my hand onto the expensive rug.

"Stand up, Elena."

The use of my old name felt like a slap. I stood, swaying slightly. He stepped closer, invading my space. He smelled of tobacco and rain and danger. He looked at my bleeding hand, then at my face. There was no pity in his eyes, only a dark, consuming hatred.

"You have fallen far, little bird," he whispered.

"I need this job, Dante," I said, my voice raspy from disuse.

He laughed, a cold, humorless sound. "You need money?"

"Yes."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of cash. He held it up.

"I will give you this," he said. "But you have to earn it."

"I will do anything."

"Anything?" His eyes gleamed with cruelty. "Good. Because tonight, you are going to stand guard outside my bedroom door while I fuck my fiancée. You will listen to every sound. And you will not move until morning."

My heart slammed against my ribs. It was a torture designed specifically for me. He knew I loved him. He knew this would kill me faster than the cancer.

I reached out and took the money. My bloody fingers stained the crisp bills.

"I accept," I whispered.