Too Late For The Mafia King's Regret

On our seventh anniversary, the Capo dei Capi lit up the New York skyline with drones spelling my name, swearing on his life that I was his only Queen.

Moments later, he abandoned me on the dock to rush to his mistress—my own sister, Sophia.

Sophia sent me a photo of him kissing her belly with the caption: "He finally has a real woman. It's a boy."

Lucien wanted an heir above all else. I was just the placeholder; she was the vessel.

I didn't scream. I didn't confront him.

I simply initiated Ghost Protocol.

I left the wedding ring, signed the divorce papers, and erased Eleonora Marino from existence.

By the time Lucien found the DNA test proving Sophia’s baby wasn't his—that he had betrayed his loyal wife for a lie—I was already gone.

He executed my sister in a rage and spent his fortune burning down the world to find me.

Six months later, he bought the high-security Swiss lab where I was hiding, forcing his way back into my life.

He stood before me, gaunt and desperate.

"I killed her, Nora. She paid for what she did to us. Come home."

I looked at the man I had once worshipped.

"Infidelity is a choice, Lucien. But murder? That is who you are."

"We are enemies now."

Chapter 1

Nora POV

I stood in the center of a ballroom that cost more than a small country, my fingers white-knuckled around a crystal-encrusted evening bag that held two secrets capable of destroying the most powerful crime syndicate in New York.

One was a pregnancy test with two pink lines-the heir my husband had demanded for seven years.

The other was a burner phone with a single draft message addressed to the FBI.

Happy Anniversary to me.

Seven years ago, my father sold me to Lucien Marino to prevent a turf war. I was the price of peace, a Vittori daughter traded to the Capo dei Capi, the Boss of Bosses. I expected a monster. Instead, I got a god. A dark, ruthless, beautiful god who made me forget I was a prisoner in a gilded cage.

Or so I had let myself believe. Until tonight.

I stood near the heavy velvet curtains, watching Lucien hold court. He was terrifyingly handsome in his tuxedo, the sharp lines of his jaw and the predatory grace of his movements drawing every eye in the room. He was the sun everyone orbited, burning anyone who got too close.

Marco, his Underboss, leaned in close to him. They thought the swelling crescendo of the orchestra drowned out their voices. They thought I was just the pretty, oblivious doctor wife who only knew how to smile and host galas.

They forgot my grandmother was Sicilian. I learned the dialect before I learned to say 'Daddy.'

"The little bird is getting impatient, Boss," Marco said, swirling his scotch. "She keeps asking when she gets her turn at the head of the table."

My heart stopped. I