Too Late To Beg: The Don's Regret

I was still bleeding into the mesh underwear the hospital gave me when the photos hit the internet: my husband, the Don, forcing his tongue down his mistress's throat. Three days ago, that very mistress had shoved me off a yacht. I lost the baby. I lost my uterus. I was left completely barren. Yet, when my husband finally called, it wasn't to ask if I was alive. "The press is eating us alive," Dante barked through the phone. "Send a gift basket to Sofia. Fix this mess." To make matters worse, his grandmother stood at the foot of my bed, holding the hand of the daughter they had stolen from me at birth. "Mommy looks like a ghost," my daughter said, her voice devoid of love. That was the moment the last ember of affection died. I realized I wasn't a wife to them; I was just a broken vessel. So, when they sneered that I was useless, I didn't cry. I pulled a black USB drive from under my pillow and threw it on the bed. "Divorce papers," I said calmly. "And the complete security blueprints of the Moretti Fortress. Every blind spot. Every tunnel I designed." "Sign the papers and let me go, or I sell this drive to your enemies for one dollar." I left the country with nothing but the clothes on my back, vanishing into a freezing attic in Paris. I thought I was finally free. But three weeks later, Dante kicked down my door, looking at my poverty with horror. "Come home," he begged, tossing a box of diamonds onto my drafting table. "We can be a family." I looked at the man who had destroyed me and opened the window. "You're looking for the girl who loved you," I whispered, throwing the diamonds into the trash alley below. "But you killed her."

Chapters

Chapter 3

Elena POV

The memory slammed into me like a physical blow.

Three years ago. That was the first time the scent of her had clung to his skin.

I had been pregnant then, too. Eight months heavy with Mia.

I had waited up for him in the library, desperate for him to come home, to touch my belly, to be the man who had promised to protect me.

When he finally walked in, lipstick smeared like a bruise on his collar, I had screamed. I had cried. I had begged him to tell me why I wasn't enough.

He had tossed a scrap of black lace at me. Panties. Sofia's.

"Put them on," he had said, his eyes glazed with vodka and hate. "Maybe then you'll look like something I want to fuck."

I had turned and run. I had run for the stairs, blinded by tears. And I had fallen.

I remembered the sensation of tumbling, the hard marble striking my spine, the sickening crunch as I landed at the bottom. I remembered lying in a pool of my own blood, screaming his name.

He hadn't come. He had stepped over me, walked out the front door, and driven back to her.

I nearly died that night. They cut Mia out of me while I flatlined. And when I woke up, she was gone.

Nonna had taken her to the nursery in the East Wing, and I was told I was too weak, too unstable to be a mother.

Dante never visited me in the ICU. Not once.

Reality crashed back in as Dante shoved me against the wall. His forearm crushed against my throat, cutting off my air.

"Stop lying!" he roared.

The pressure on my neck was immense. My vision spotted with black.

But the pain in my abdomen was worse. His thigh was pressing directly against my fresh incision. I could feel the stitches popping, the warm wetness of blood seeping into my jeans.

"You love me," he spat, his face inches from mine. "You are obsessed with me. You stayed. You took the humiliation. You took the abuse. You stayed!"

He whipped his phone out with his free hand and tapped the screen. A video started playing.

It was me. Years ago. Kneeling on the floor of this very room, begging him not to leave for the night. Begging him to stay and hold me.

"Look at you," he sneered, shoving the screen in my face. "Look at how pathetic you are. Is that the woman who doesn't love me?"

I looked at the woman on the screen. She looked so young. So full of hope.

I looked back at Dante.

"That woman is dead," I whispered, my voice raspy from the pressure on my throat. "You killed her."

He froze.

I smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the baring of teeth from an animal caught in a trap, realizing the only way out was to chew off its own leg.

"You think I stayed because I loved you?" I laughed, a broken, wheezing sound. "I stayed because Nonna threatened to put my father in a cement mixer. I stayed because I thought if I gave you a son, you would let me see Mia."

His grip loosened slightly. Confusion clouded his rage.

"I didn't love you, Dante. I survived you."

He dropped his arm. I slid down the wall, clutching my bleeding stomach.

"You're lying," he whispered.

I looked up at him, my vision blurring.

"Check the dates, Dante. Check the bank accounts. I haven't spent a dime of your money on myself in two years. I haven't slept in your bed in three. I haven't said 'I love you' since the night you pushed me down the stairs."

"I didn't push you," he said automatically. "You fell."

I closed my eyes. "It doesn't matter."

I pushed myself up, using the wall for support.

"I'm bleeding, Dante. Again. Because of you. Again."

He looked down at the dark stain spreading on my shirt. His eyes widened. He reached out a hand.

"Elena—"

"Don't," I said. "Just... don't."

Continue to next part

My husband, a Mafia Underboss, built me a perfect life. I was the Chief Resident at a top hospital, the accomplished Dr. Falcone. But my world shattered when a woman brought her four-year-old son to my clinic. The boy had a rare genetic allergy—one that runs only in my family. On his intake form, his father’s name was listed as "Emilio Thomas," my husband's secret middle name. Then, my husband’s voice came through the woman’s phone, and I saw him pick them up from my office window, a perfect, secret family. That night, at our family's most important gala, the boy ran up to me, screaming, "You're the bad lady trying to take my daddy away!" The crowd turned on me, whispering that I was the other woman. On the boy's wrist was the custom bracelet I gave my husband on our first anniversary. When I reached for it, Emilio shoved me. I hit my head on a table, and a sharp pain ripped through my abdomen as blood soaked my dress. I lost the baby I didn't even know I was carrying—the legitimate Moretti heir. My husband turned his back on me, leaving with his other family as I bled on the ballroom floor. He never visited me in the hospital. His mistress, Hayden, did. She gloated that she’d planned it all, and that Emilio swore he'd never have another child after their son was born. I was just a barren, placeholder wife. But this was more than a betrayal; it was a declaration of war. That night, I stared at two pink lines on a pregnancy test I’d taken before the gala. I was six weeks pregnant with the true Moretti heir, and now, I had a weapon.

Mafia Modern Romance

7.9

He Chose The Mistress, Losing His True Queen

7.9

I was the Architect who built the digital fortress for the most feared Don in New York. To the world, I was Brendan Wiggins’s silent, elegant Queen. But then my burner phone buzzed under the dinner table. It was a photo from his mistress: a positive pregnancy test. "Your husband is celebrating right now," the caption read. "You are just the furniture." I looked across the table at Brendan. He smiled and held my hand, lying to my face without blinking. He thought he owned me because he saved my life ten years ago. He told her I was just "functional." That I was a barren asset he kept around to look respectable, while she carried his legacy. He thought I would accept the disrespect because I had nowhere else to go. He was wrong. I didn't want to divorce him—you don't divorce a Don. And I didn't want to kill him. That was too easy. I wanted to erase him. I liquidated fifty million dollars from the offshore accounts only I could access. I destroyed the servers I had built. Then, I contacted a black-market chemist for a procedure called "Tabula Rasa." It doesn't kill the body. It wipes the mind clean. A total hard reset of the soul. On his birthday, while he was out celebrating his bastard son, I drank the vial. When he finally came home to find the empty house and the melted wedding ring, he realized the truth. He could burn the world down looking for me, but he would never find his wife. Because the woman who loved him no longer existed.

Mafia Modern Romance

8.0

His Fake Heir, My Undeniable Power

8.0

After fifteen years of marriage and a brutal battle with infertility, I finally saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test. This baby was my victory, the heir that would finally secure my place as the wife of mob capo Marco Vitiello. I planned to announce it at his mother's party, a triumph over the matriarch who saw me as nothing but a barren field. But before I could celebrate, my friend sent me a video. The headline read: "MOB CAPO MARCO VITIELLO'S PASSIONATE NIGHTCLUB KISS!" It was him, my husband, devouring a woman who looked like a younger, fresher version of me. Hours later, Marco stumbled home, drunk and reeking of another woman's perfume. He complained about his mother begging him for an heir, completely unaware of the secret I held. Then my phone lit up with a text from an unknown number. "Your husband slept with my girl. We need to talk." It was signed by Dante Moretti, the ruthless Don of our rival family. The meeting with Dante was a nightmare. He showed me another video. This time, I heard my husband's voice, telling the other woman, "I love you. Elara... that's just business." My fifteen years of loyalty, of building his empire, of taking a bullet for him-all dismissed as "just business." Dante didn't just reveal the affair; he showed me proof that Marco was already stealing our shared assets to build a new life with his mistress. Then, he made me an offer. "Divorce him," he said, his eyes cold and calculating. "Join me. We'll build an empire together and destroy him."

Mafia Modern Romance

9.1

I Married My Ex-Fiancé's Dangerous Uncle

9.1

I stood at the altar in a fifty-thousand-dollar custom lace gown, waiting to marry the boy I had loved since I was five. But Silas didn't say "I do." He answered a phone call, turned pale, and bolted toward the exit as if the gates of hell had opened, leaving me to face five hundred of New York's most dangerous criminals alone. He left me for a waitress named Lola. The humiliation was suffocating. The elite of the Five Families looked at me with pity, a Genovese princess rejected for trash. When Silas finally returned, he didn't apologize. He showed up with hickeys on his neck, clinging to Lola, and had the audacity to suggest I become his mistress. He even demanded I hand over my dowry—millions in weapons and cash—so he could fund their lifestyle and "redecorate" with her. He thought I was still the innocent girl who would beg for his scraps. He didn't realize that in the moment he ran, a shadow had stepped forward to fill the void. Dante Moretti. The Don. Silas's uncle. The most feared man in the city looked at me with dark, predatory eyes and offered me a choice: be a victim, or be a Queen. "Since you are to marry a Moretti," Dante said, extending his scarred hand, "why not marry the head of the table?" I looked at the door where Silas had disappeared, then at the Reaper standing before me. "I do," I whispered. Silas thought he had ruined my life, but he only cleared the way for me to marry the monster who would burn the world down for me.

Action Mafia Romance

9.0

She Accused Me of Stealing My Own Business

9.0

During a tense family gathering, Don Vincenzo’s new dancer, Ava, makes a bold move by accusing the protagonist of embezzling from "The Siren's Song." The table turns cold as the mafia family demands answers for this alleged betrayal. However, the accuser is unaware of a crucial secret: the club is actually a private inheritance from the protagonist's father. Having only lent the venue to Vincenzo to help launch his career, she now faces a battle to reclaim her rightful business.

Action Mafia Mystery Romance

9.8

The Capo's Scarred Wife: A Vicious Comeback

9.8

I was the Chicago Outfit's princess, and Luca and Matteo were my sworn protectors. We had mixed our blood at ten years old, promising that nothing would ever touch me. But that oath turned to ash the night Sofia Ricci aimed a Roman candle at my chest. The firework slammed into my shoulder, igniting my silk dress instantly. As I rolled on the concrete, screaming while the flames ate into my skin, I waited for my boys to save me. They didn't. Instead, I watched through the smoke as they rushed to Sofia. They wrapped their jackets—the ones meant to shield me—around the girl who had just set me on fire, comforting her because the "kickback" had scared her. They let me burn to keep her warm. When I woke up in the hospital with permanent scars, they brought me a letter of apology from her and defended her "accident." They even cut their palms to pay her debt, ignoring the fact that I was the one in bandages. That was the moment Elena Vitiello died. I didn't scream. I didn't beg. I simply packed my bags and defected to the one place they couldn't follow: the arms of Dante Moretti, the lethal Capo of New York. By the time they realized their mistake and came crawling back to beg in the rain, I was already wearing another man's ring. "You want forgiveness?" I asked, looking down at them. "Burn for it."

Mafia Modern Romance

Too Late To Beg: The Don's Regret

Chapter 3

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