Too Late To Love: The Don's Dying Wife

At my boyfriend's poorest moment, I suddenly broke up with him.

Later, he became a Don in the Mafia and married me by any means necessary.

Everyone said he loved me to the bone.

But every night, he brought different women home, deliberately trying to provoke me.

I asked no questions, shed no tears, and never disturbed his trysts with his mistresses.

He went crazy with rage instead, kissing me fiercely and demanding, "Why aren't you jealous?"

He didn't know I was sick. Dying.

While he was furiously taking his revenge on me, I was slowly walking toward death.

Chapter 1

The tissue in my hand grew heavy, stained the color of rust with the third nosebleed of the morning.

The doctor said I might be lucky enough to see the cherry blossoms bloom in Central Park next spring.

"But the quality of life will be very poor. Seizures. Memory loss. Gradual loss of motor function," the doctor said.

Death would be a mercy.

The real crisis was that I had to walk into the lion's den and beg the husband who loathed me for the money to preserve my dignity before the end.

My fingertips brushed the skin beneath my eyes; it was thin as papyrus, and felt as if the slightest pressure might tear it. The woman whose face it belonged to was a stranger.

Her skin had taken on the translucent, yellowed hue of old parchment.

Her eyes were sunken, rimmed by violet shadows that no amount of luxury concealer could mask.

I was twenty-six years old, yet I looked like a ghost haunting the ruins of her own life.

My phone buzzed against the cold marble counter, the vibration a jarring intrusion into the room's profound stillness.

It was a notification from a gossip site, the screen lighting up with a headline that screamed: The Don and his Muse: Dante Cavallaro and Sofia Rossi spotted ring shopping?

I waited for the sting of jealousy, but it never came.

Jealousy requires energy, and my body had none left to give.

Instead, I felt only a dull, grinding pain that seemed to originate from the very center of my bones, a friction of skeletal dust.

Terminal illness.

I wasn't afraid of death, but I didn't like the pain.

I wanted the high-grade morphine that cost more on the black market than a luxury sedan, the kind insurance wouldn't cover.

But my bank accounts were frozen.

Dante had cut me off three weeks ago. He liked to control me with money because he realized he could no longer control my heart.

I pulled on my heaviest winter coat, wrapping it tight around me. I had to hide the fact that I had lost fifteen pounds in a single month.

If Dante saw the sharp angles of my bones, he might mistake my condition for a plea for pity.

I went to the High-Rise, the beating heart of the Chicago Outfit.

It was the fortress where Dante ruled as the