The Don's Regret: Choosing The Wrong Queen

For three years, I was Dante’s shadow, the woman who took a bullet for the heir to New York’s most powerful crime family. I believed him when he said we would rule together.

But while I was bleeding for his empire, he was secretly finalizing a merger to marry Sofia, a pristine Mafia Princess.

I found the encrypted report on his desk. It didn't describe me as his partner. It called me a "useful shield" and a "necessary diversion" to protect his real bride.

When I tried to walk away, he didn't let me go. He humiliated me.

Worse, when Sofia staged a fake attack and blamed me to cover her own lies, Dante didn't ask for proof.

He dragged me out of my hospital bed, fresh from surgery, and hauled me to the estate fountain.

He shoved my head underwater, drowning the woman who had once saved his life, while Sofia watched from the balcony with a smirk.

"You touched what is mine!" he screamed, choosing a liar over the soldier who loved him.

I left that night, bleeding and broken, vanishing into the storm without a trace.

Two years later, I am a celebrated artist in Paris, and the man standing beside me looks at me like I am the sun, not a shield.

Dante stands outside my gallery in the freezing rain, looking ruined, begging for a second chance.

He tells me he knows the truth now. He tells me he loves me.

I look at him, then at the engagement ring on my finger—one given by a man who never had to break me to love me.

"I didn't erase our history, Dante," I say, rolling up the car window.

"I survived it."

Chapter 1

I stood there, clutching the encrypted tablet that contained the proof of my three years of slavery, realizing that while I was bleeding myself dry for his empire, he was picking out engagement rings for another woman.

The device felt heavy in my hand.

Heavier, even, than the gun I had used to save his life three years ago.

That night was etched into my skin like a brand.

Dante, the heir to the most powerful crime family in New York, had been cornered.

I hadn't thought. I hadn't hesitated.

I had threw myself in front of him.

The bullet meant for his heart had grazed my ribs instead.

The phantom scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne flooded my senses.

I remembered the way he had looked at me afterwards.

It wasn't love.

It was interest.

He had touched my cheek with bloodstained fingers and made a promise.

He told me that if I handled the West Coast expansion-a suicide mission for anyone else-I would earn my place.

He said I would be the Don's wife.

He said we would rule together.

And like a fool, I believed him.

I spent three years living out of suitcases.

I dodged federal agents and rival cartels.

I laundered his money and secured his