Too Late: The Don's Regretful Pursuit

I am the future Mafia Queen.

I loved him for ten years, so deeply that he thought I couldn't live without him.

But mob boss Jack Wells put his hand on the thigh of the woman sitting to his right.

As he pleaded with me to change my mind, another tall man embraced me from behind, mercilessly mocking the loser: "Mr. Wells, don't you have a wife of your own? Why are you harassing my wife?"

She wasn't his fiancée, but I was.

The marriage was betrayed before it even began.

However, after he disappointed me time and time again, I finally made up my mind.

I left my engagement ring in the trash can.

I left a note on his desk: "I release you from your vow. I hope she is worth fighting for."

By the time he realized his mistake and came back to find his own shadow, I had already left, ready to become the queen of my own life.

As he pleaded with me to change my mind, another tall man embraced me from behind, mercilessly mocking the loser: "Mr. Wells, don't you have a wife of your own? Why are you harassing my wife?"

Chapter 1

I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, the weight of the heirloom emeralds around my neck marking me as the future Queen of the Cosa Nostra. But the title felt like a costume.

The man beside me-the most feared Don in New York-had his hand resting possessively on the thigh of the woman sitting to his right.

She wasn't his fiancée.

I was.

The crystal chandelier overhead cast a fractured light over the dinner service, illuminating the scene with a cruel clarity. Jax Viles, the man who could silence a room with a single glance, was currently leaning in to whisper something into Catalina's ear.

She giggled.

It was a wet, breathless sound that grated against the heavy silence of the room like a serrated blade against bone.

I lifted my crystal goblet and took a measured sip of water. My hand didn't shake. I had been trained for this since birth. As the daughter of the Consigliere, composure was my armor. But armor doesn't stop the bruising; it just hides the blood.

Catalina was supposed to be a guest. A protected witness from a rival territory dispute. That was the official story. But guests don't sit at the Don's right hand. Guests don't wear the Don's suit jacket over their shoulders because the air conditioning is slightly too cold.

Jax didn't look at me. Not once. He was too busy meticulously cutting Catalina's steak for her, a gesture of intimacy that belonged to me.

I looked around the table. My father, the Consigliere, stared resolutely at his plate, his jaw tight enough to snap. The Capos shifted in their seats, exchanging glances that ranged from pity to amusement.

They all saw it. The entire hierarchy of our world was witnessing my humiliation, and Jax was