Too Late To Apologize, Mr. Billionaire

For seven years, I scrubbed floors, cooked books, and hid my identity as the Vitiello heiress just to test if Dante Moretti loved me for me, not my father’s power. But the massive digital billboard in Times Square froze the blood in my veins. It wasn’t my face next to his under the headline "The King and his new Queen." It was a cocktail waitress named Lola. When I walked into the lobby to confront him, Lola slapped me across the face and crushed my late mother's locket under her stiletto heel. Dante didn't defend me. He didn't even look sorry. "You’re useful, like a stapler," he sneered, checking his watch. "But a King needs a Queen, not a boring clerk. You can stay on as my mistress if you want to keep your job." He thought I was a nobody. He thought he could use me to launder his money and then discard me like trash. He didn't realize that the only reason he wasn't in federal prison was because I was protecting him. I wiped the blood from my lip and pulled out a secure satellite phone. Dante laughed. "Who are you calling? Your mommy?" I stared him dead in the eyes as the line connected. "The pact is void, Papa," I whispered. "Burn them all." Ten minutes later, the glass doors shattered as my father’s military helicopters descended onto the street. Dante fell to his knees, realizing too late that he hadn't just lost a secretary. He had just declared war on the Capo dei Capi.

Chapters

Chapter 2

For a woman who looked like she’d never lifted anything heavier than a Centurion card, Lola moved with shocking speed.

The slap didn't just connect; the crack of her palm against my cheek echoed through the marble lobby like a gunshot.

My head snapped to the side. The impact was blinding, a sharp, burning heat instantly spreading across my skin.

Dead silence fell over the room.

The security guards near the elevators immediately found the floor tiles fascinating. They knew who Lola was sleeping with. They knew who signed their checks.

I tasted copper in my mouth.

"You civilian rat," Lola spat, her face twisted in ugly triumph.

"You think flashing a plastic badge scares me? You’re a glorified maid who thinks she has a shot at the Prince."

She snatched out her phone.

"You want to see what Dante really thinks of you?" she asked, her voice rising to a piercing screech. "Hey! Everyone! Look at this!"

She waved her phone at the reception staff, at the security guards, at her friends.

"Look at what my fiancé says about his stalker!"

She shoved the screen inches from my nose.

It was a text thread with Dante.

*Dante: Ugh, I have to go into the office early tomorrow. Seraphina messed up the shipping logs again.*

*Lola: Why don't you just fire her, baby?*

*Dante: I can't yet. She's a workhorse. She does all the boring crap I don't want to deal with. She’s useful, like a stapler. But god, she bores me to death. You’re my true release, babe. The only woman who makes me feel alive.*

I stared at the words.

*Like a stapler.*

I had spent seven years scrubbing his sins.

I had rewritten ledgers to keep the RICO investigators blind. I had negotiated with corrupt unions to keep his trucks moving. I had stood between him and federal prison every single day.

And to him, I was office supplies.

Something inside my chest—that soft, hopeful creature I’d nurtured since university—didn't just break. It disintegrated.

It turned to cold, grey ash.

"See?" Lola laughed, pulling the phone back. "He keeps you around because you’re a mule. But no one wants to marry the mule."

The receptionist, a girl I had helped get maternity leave for last year, covered her mouth to hide a giggle.

"She really thought she had a chance," Bella whispered, loud enough for the back row. "It’s kind of sad. She doesn't get the aesthetic. She’s not... Mob Wife material."

They were recording now. Three or four phones were pointed at me, capturing my humiliation for Instagram stories.

"Security!" Bella screamed, pointing a manicured finger at the door. "Throw this trash out! She's harassing the future Don's wife!"

Two guards stepped forward hesitantly.

"Miss Vitiello..." one started, using the fake last name I used at work. "Maybe you should go."

I touched my cheek. It was throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I looked at Lola.

"Are you sure those texts are true, Lola?" I asked softly.

"Of course they're true!"

"Because seven years ago," I said, my voice dangerously steady, "Dante sat outside my dorm room for three weeks begging for a date. He chased me, Lola. I didn't chase him."

Lola rolled her eyes. "That was college. People experiment in college. He grew up. He realized he needed a Queen, not a clerk."

"A Queen," I repeated.

"Yes," Lola said, stepping into my personal space until I could smell her expensive perfume. "And you are trespassing in my kingdom."

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