Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.

The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window.

He didn't bother to read a single word.

He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business.

In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet.

He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years.

"Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me.

"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."

Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone.

His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly.

"Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared.

He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home."

He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom.

I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years.

By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco.

And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret.

Chapter 1

I watched my husband sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.

The nib of the black Montblanc pen scratched against the thick paper, a harsh sound that rose above the rain hammering against the bulletproof glass of the coffee shop.

Dante Moretti, the Capo dei Capi of the New York Outfit, didn't bother to read the document. He did not check the clauses. He did not ask why his Consigliere was not present to oversee the transaction.

He was too busy typing a message on his encrypted phone, his brow furrowed in that dark, lethal way that made grown men wet themselves in fear.

But I wasn't afraid. I was just cold.

"Done," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mahogany table.

He tossed the stack of papers through the open window, aiming perfectly for the passenger seat of his waiting armored SUV. He didn't even glance at me.

"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."

I stared at the leather interior where the papers landed. The top page was titled "Dissolution of Union." Hidden beneath a cover sheet regarding routine shipping manifests, it was the death certificate of us.

And he had just signed it.

My heart should have been pounding. I should have been sweating. But after three years of being the invisible wife, the trophy on the shelf, the caged canary, I felt nothing but a hollow chill.

Dante