Too Late For Regret: The Mafia Don's Lost Wife

For five years, my husband Bennett refused to give me a child, claiming a "Blood Curse" would kill me during childbirth.

I believed him. I thought his refusal was the ultimate act of love.

That illusion shattered the day I found the surrogacy contract hidden in the gallery archives.

There was no curse.

There was just Aria—the mistress he paid to carry his legacy while I played the role of the immaculate, barren trophy wife.

The truth turned violent when a massive steel sculpture snapped from the gallery ceiling.

Bennett had a split second to choose who to save.

He didn't look at me.

He roared and dove to shield Aria, leaving me to be crushed by the falling beam.

I lay bleeding on the marble floor, watching him frantically check her for scratches, completely ignoring my broken body.

Even in the hospital, he didn't come. He was too busy playing house with the mother of his future heir.

I didn't wait for an apology. I left my wedding ring on the table and vanished to Paris.

Six months later, when Bennett finally found me and fell to his knees begging for a second chance, he didn't realize who he was talking to.

I wasn't his wife anymore.

I was the woman holding the hand of the rival billionaire who had just bought Bennett's empire out from under him.

Chapter 1

I stood frozen in the suffocating silence of the gallery archives, clutching the document that proved my husband wasn't protecting me from a family curse. He was replacing me.

The paper in my hand felt heavy, the edges biting into the pad of my trembling thumb.

It was a surrogacy agreement.

But it wasn't just a standard contract. It was a comprehensive payout plan for a woman named Aria Diaz.

Mere minutes ago, I had been out there in the main hall, playing the role of the immaculate trophy wife to Bennett Vitale, the Underboss of the most feared crime family in New York.

I had smiled at the Capos. I had laughed at their wives' dull jokes.

I was the golden ornament on Bennett's arm, the woman who kept his public image pristine while he broke fingers and ordered hits in the shadows.

For five years, I had begged him for a child.

For five years, he had cradled my face in his rough, blood-stained hands, swearing he loved me too much to risk it.

He had christened it the Vitale Blood Curse.

He claimed the men in his line were poisoned by violence, that every son born to a Vitale destroyed the mother during birth. He told me he would rather die than watch me suffer.

I believed him. I loved him for his sacrifice. I thought his refusal was the ultimate act of devotion.

My eyes scanned the document again, burning as the words blurred into a sickening gray.

The stipend was astronomical. The background check was waived by order of the Don.

But it was