Too Late To Beg: My Cold Ex-Husband

On our ninth anniversary, my husband Dominick didn't toast to us. Instead, he rested his hand on his mistress's pregnant belly in front of the entire crime family.

I was just a debt payment to him, a ghost in a forty-thousand-dollar gown.

But the humiliation didn't end in the ballroom. When his mistress, Chastity, started hemorrhaging later that night, he didn't call an ambulance. He dragged me to the family clinic.

He knew I had a serious heart condition. He knew a transfusion of that magnitude could trigger a fatal cardiac event.

"She is carrying my son," he said, his eyes devoid of any humanity.

"You will give her whatever she needs."

I begged him. I bargained for my freedom. He lied and agreed, just to get the needle in my arm.

As my dark red blood flowed through the tube to save the woman destroying my life, my chest tightened. The monitors began to scream. My heart was failing.

"Mr. Reyes! She's crashing!" the doctor shouted.

Dominick didn't even turn around.

He walked out of the room to hold Chastity's hand, leaving me to die on the table.

I survived, but Annis Myers died in that clinic.

He thought I would return to the penthouse and continue being his obedient, silent wife. He thought he owned the blood in my veins.

He was wrong.

I went back to the penthouse one last time. I struck a match.

I let the room burn.

By the time Dominick realized I wasn't in the ashes, I was already on a plane to London.

I had left my wedding ring in an envelope, along with the medical records that proved his cruelty.

He wanted a war? I would give him one.

Chapter 1

Annis POV

I stood in the center of the ballroom wearing a forty-thousand-dollar gown, watching my husband rest his hand on another woman's pregnant belly while our guests toasted to nine years of our marriage.

The crystal flute in my hand didn't shatter. I didn't scream. I didn't throw my drink in his face.

I just took a sip of the vintage champagne -a bottle that cost more than my father's life -and I swallowed the bile rising in my throat.

Dominick Reyes was not just a husband. He was a Capo in the Olsen crime family, a man who had killed seven men before his twenty-fifth birthday and doubled the family's territory in the last three years. He was a predator in a tailored suit, and I was the debt payment his family had accepted nine years ago.

Tonight was supposed to be about us.

Instead, he had brought Chastity.

She wore red. A vibrant, blood-red silk that clung to the swell of her stomach, a stark contrast to my pale, icy blue. She looked like life. I looked like a ghost.

Dominick's hand lingered on the small of her back as he guided her through the crowd of made men and their silent wives. Every eye in the