The Don's Regret: Choosing The Wrong Queen

I woke up to the sharp, chemical sting of antiseptic and the rhythmic, steady beep of a monitor.

I was in the private wing of the family hospital.

My shoulder throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and my head felt like it was packed with lead.

I tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea and dizziness shoved me back against the pillows.

The door clicked open.

Dante walked in.

He looked exhausted. His dress shirt was rumpled, the top button undone, his hair a mess.

For a second, a foolish, microscopic part of me hoped that the disarray meant he had been worried about me.

"You're awake," he said flatly.

"Where is she?" I asked, my voice raspy.

"Sofia is resting. She's in shock."

"She wasn't hit," I said, confused.

"She was traumatized," he snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. "She's not like you, Elena. She's not built for war."

"And I am?"

"You chose this life."

He walked to the window, staring out at the grey sky. He wouldn't look at me.

"Why were you with her?" he asked, his back to the room.

"She came to me."

"Don't lie to me."

He turned around slowly. His face was a mask of cold fury.

"Sofia said you lured her there. She said you tipped off the Russians."

My mouth fell open. The accusation was so absurd it took me a moment to process.

"What?"

"She said you wanted to get her out of the way."

"That's insane," I choked out. "I saved her life!"

"Did you?"

He walked to the bed, his movements predatory. He loomed over me, blocking out the light.

"Or did you set up a controlled hit to play the hero? To make me owe you?"

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. He was twisting reality to fit her narrative, erasing my sacrifice completely.

"Check the security cameras," I pleaded.

"There were no cameras in that dump you were staying in."

The door opened again.

Sofia walked in.

She was wearing a pristine silk robe. She looked pale, yes, but perfectly groomed, her hair falling in soft waves.

"Dante," she whined, her voice pitching high and fragile. "I can't sleep."

He went to her immediately, his posture softening. He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders.

"It's okay, baby. I'm here."

She looked at me over his shoulder.

Her eyes were hard, glittering with malice.

"Is she going to hurt me again?" she asked, her voice trembling with a practiced fear.

It was a performance. An Oscar-worthy performance designed to bury me.

"No," Dante said, his voice low.

He looked back at me, and the softness vanished.

"She's not going to hurt anyone."

He marched back to the bed.

"Get up."

"Dante, I just had surgery," I said, pressing a hand to my bandage.

"Get up!"

He grabbed my good arm and yanked me out of the bed.

I stumbled, my legs giving out.

The IV line ripped out of my vein.

Hot blood splattered onto the linoleum floor.

"Dante, stop!" Marco yelled from the hallway, sprinting toward us.

"Stay back!" Dante ordered, his voice thundering off the walls.

He dragged me out of the room. He hauled me down the corridor, ignoring my stumbling feet.

He dragged me out into the courtyard.

It was raining again. A cold, relentless downpour.

There was a large decorative fountain in the center of the garden. The water was dark, churning with the rain.

He pushed me toward it.

I fell to my knees on the wet pavement, the impact jarring my wounded shoulder.

"You want to play dirty?" he yelled over the sound of the rain. "You want to act like a thug?"

He grabbed the back of my neck in a vice grip.

He forced my head down toward the black water.

"Dante, please," I gasped.

"You touched what is mine," he snarled close to my ear. "Sofia is off-limits. Do you understand?"

He shoved my head under the water.

The cold shock paralyzed me instantly.

Water flooded my nose. I couldn't breathe.

I thrashed. I clawed at his wrist, my nails digging into his skin.

He was too strong. He held me there like I was nothing.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

My lungs burned as if they were on fire. Panic exploded in my brain, a primal scream for air.

He pulled me up.

I gasped, choking, sputtering water and air.

"Did you hear me?" he screamed.

"I... didn't... do it," I coughed, water spilling from my lips.

He pushed me under again.

This time, he held me longer.

The darkness started to creep in at the edges of my vision, narrowing the world to a pinprick.

I stopped fighting.

I went limp.

He pulled me up again and threw me backward.

I landed hard on the concrete, coughing up water, shivering violently.

My shoulder wound had reopened. Fresh, bright red blood was mixing with the rain and the fountain water, swirling around me in a pink puddle.

Dante stood over me, his chest heaving.

He looked down at the blood.

For a split second, his mask slipped. He looked horrified at what he had done.

But then he looked up at the balcony above us.

Sofia was watching.

He hardened his jaw, killing whatever pity had sparked in his eyes.

"If you ever go near her again," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, "I won't stop next time."

He turned and walked away, leaving me in the storm.

I lay in the rain, too weak to move.

I watched the blood flow away from me, draining into the gutter.

It was draining out of me, and with it, the last drop of love I had ever held for him.

Through the haze, I saw a service gate near the back of the garden.

It was slightly ajar.

The guard was gone, likely distracted by the commotion Dante had caused.

I knew I couldn't walk.

I had to crawl.

But I knew one thing for certain.

If I died tonight, I would die outside these walls.