Too Late For The Ruthless Don's Regret

The crystal chandelier swayed violently above the dinner table. In that fraction of a second, time seemed to stop.

My husband, Dante, didn't hesitate. He didn't reach for me.

He dove across the table, tackling his "fragile" first love, Mia, to the floor. He shielded her body with his own.

Gravity took over. The heavy metal slammed into my legs, crushing them instantly.

While I lay buried under the debris, bleeding into the beige carpet, Dante was screaming for a medic—because Mia had a paper cut.

It wasn't the first time he chose her. He had run my taxi off the road because she faked a fall. He gave her my dying father's antique rosary just because she thought it was a pretty accessory.

But the final blow wasn't physical.

While Dante was at a hotel comforting Mia through a "nightmare," he ignored the urgent calls to authorize my father's bone marrow transplant.

My father died alone of infection because Dante was too busy playing hero to a liar.

When Dante finally returned to the penthouse, expecting me to be waiting there to beg for his forgiveness, he found the house silent.

He found the signed divorce papers in the fireplace.

And then, he found the death certificate dated three days ago.

I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave a fight.

I just left him with the silence he deserved, and vanished into the night.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi POV

The world tilted on its axis.

My head throbbed in a brutal rhythm that matched the sharp, stabbing agony radiating from my left arm.

I lay sprawled on the cold marble floor of the auction house foyer.

Above me, standing at the top of the grand staircase, Mia was screaming.

Her hands were empty. Her neck was bare.

"She tried to take it back!" Mia shrieked, her voice echoing sharply off the vaulted ceiling. "She pushed me! She tried to kill me over a necklace!"

Lies.

I tried to push myself up, but my left arm gave way under my own weight.

A sickening crunch vibrated through my shoulder.

I gasped, the sound wet and weak against the stone.

The heavy oak doors crashed open.

Dante.

He looked like a storm carved out of granite. His tuxedo was immaculate, a stark, cruel contrast to the broken mess I had become.

He stopped.

His eyes swept over the scene.

He saw me.

He saw the blood trickling from my hairline, staining the white marble crimson. He saw the unnatural angle of my arm.

Then, he looked up.

He saw Mia clutching the banister, sobbing, her chest heaving in a perfect performance of terror.

Dante moved.

But he didn't move toward me.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing past my crumpled body without casting a single downward glance.

The draft from his urgent stride chilled the sweat on my skin.

"Mia," he breathed as he reached the top.

He didn't ask what had happened. He didn't stop to