Too Late To Love: The Don's Dying Wife

The penthouse was unnervingly silent.

I didn't bother with the lights. I walked straight to the bedroom and collapsed onto the mattress.

I didn't even take off my coat.

I curled into a tight ball, pulling my knees to my chest to preserve whatever heat I had left.

I dry-swallowed two over-the-counter sleeping pills, letting my mind grow foggy.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness swallow me whole.

I dreamt of snow.

The memory pulled me back ten years.

We were in the Little Italy district. Dante wasn't a Don then. He was just a soldier. A nobody.

He wore a threadbare jacket, and his knuckles were raw and split from a fresh fight.

We were standing in front of a bakery window, our breath misting against the glass. It was Christmas Eve.

Inside, there was a cake. A pristine white cake topped with strawberries. It looked like a cloud suspended on a platter.

I pressed my face against the cold glass.

"It looks like snow," I whispered. "But sweet."

Dante looked from the cake to me.

Slowly, he reached into his pocket and counted the crumpled bills there.

He didn't have enough.

I saw the realization hit him, and I knew he didn't have enough.

I laughed, tugging sharply on his arm to break the spell.

"I hate strawberries anyway," I lied, forcing a bright smile. "Let's go get pizza."

Three days later. I was sitting on the rusted fire escape of my father's building.

Dante climbed up to meet me. His face was fresh with bruises. His hands were red, bitten by the cold.

But he held a box.

He opened it. It was the cake. Or at least, a version of it.

It was smaller, the frosting smashed on one side. He had worked three extra shifts at the docks just to buy it.

"For my Princess," he said.

He looked so proud, it broke my heart.

I ate it with my fingers, ignoring the cold. It tasted like cheap sugar and stale cream.

It was the best thing I had ever eaten.

I cried in the dream.

I cried because I knew what was coming.

I knew that, eventually, I would have to kill that sweet boy to save the man.

A harsh noise jolted me awake.

My phone was ringing.

I groaned, turning over. My body felt like lead, weighted down by the memory.

I fumbled for the device on the nightstand, not bothering to look at the caller ID.

"Hello?" I mumbled. My voice was thick with sleep and lingering pain.

"Elena." It was Dante. His voice was rough, stripping away the softness of the dream.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"I'm in bed," I rasped.

"It's only eight o'clock," he said.

"I'm tired, Dante."

Silence stretched over the line. I drifted back toward the dream, unable to anchor myself in reality.

The snow. The bakery.

"Dante..." I whispered.

"What?" he asked, his tone sharpening.

"It's snowing," I murmured, my eyes fluttering closed. "I want the cake."

"What?"

"The strawberry one," I said, my consciousness slipping. "The one that tastes like snow."

I let the phone slip from my hand onto the pillow. I fell back into the dark before he could answer.