Too Late For The Mafia Don's Regret

I kept a ledger to track my marriage to the most feared man in Chicago.

Loyalty started at one hundred. Every time Dante looked through me to stare at his mistress, Isabella, I subtracted one. Every time he left our bed to answer her calls, I subtracted five.

The day the score hit zero, I was lying in a secret clinic, bleeding out.

I had been in a severe accident. I was pregnant, and the hemorrhage was critical.

But the nurse, eyes red with weeping, told me they couldn't give me the blood transfusion I needed.

Dante had ordered the clinic's entire supply of O-negative blood to be reserved for Isabella.

She had a bruised knee and was "in shock." He prioritized her comfort over his unborn child's life.

I lost the baby.

I left the ledger on his desk with a final note: *You bought her comfort with your heir’s blood. Score: 0.* Then, I vanished.

Two years later, Dante found me at a gala in Seattle.

The ruthless Capo dei Capi, a man who never bowed to anyone, fell to his knees in front of hundreds of people. He begged, tears streaming down his face, claiming he had made a mistake, that I was his only true love.

I looked at him, then at Julian, the man standing beside me who treated me like a queen.

I pulled my hand away from Dante’s grip and smiled coldly.

"Apologies don't fix dead things, Mr. Moretti. Go back to your grave."

Chapter 1

I claimed the high-backed leather chair that belonged to the most feared man in Chicago, and I wrote the number down in red ink: minus five.

It was a simple math problem.

Loyalty started at one hundred. Every time my husband, Dante Moretti, looked through me like I was nothing more than a pane of glass, I subtracted one. Every time he prioritized the woman he actually loved, I subtracted five.

When the score hit zero, I would break the Omertà. I would disappear.

The heavy oak door creaked open.

Dante walked in.

He didn't look at me. He never really looked at me. He was the *Capo dei Capi*, the Boss of Bosses, a man whose name made the city's toughest criminals tremble in their boots. He had a jawline that could cut glass and eyes the color of espresso over ice—dark, bitter, and unyielding. He was beautiful in the way a loaded weapon is—cold, heavy, and promising destruction.

"Elara," he said, his voice a low rumble that used to make my stomach flip. Now, it just made me tired. "Get out of my chair. I have work."

I closed the ledger.

"It’s late, Dante," I said. "I thought we were having dinner."

He finally glanced at me. He saw the book in my hand, but he didn't ask what it was. He didn't care. To him, my secrets were as interesting as the dust on the baseboards.

"Family business," he said, striding to the liquor