The Don's Regret: She Saved His Life

Three thousand white roses.

That was the exact count required to fill the grand atrium of the Vitiello estate. I knew because I had counted the bundles myself, my fingers pricked and bloody from the thorns I hadn’t stripped fast enough.

"Move the arch to the left," I instructed the florists, my voice raspy from dehydration. "The light hits better there at sunset."

"You have a good eye for a maid," a voice drawled behind me.

I turned. Sofia stood at the top of the marble staircase. She wore a silk robe that cost more than my father’s medical practice used to make in a month. She descended slowly, her hand gliding down the banister like she already owned the place.

"It's perfect, Elena," she said, stopping a step above me so she could look down. "Dante will propose right here. He’ll kneel, just like you are kneeling in life."

"I hope you’re happy, Sofia," I said, clutching the clipboard to my chest like a shield. The LVAD pump hummed against my ribs, a constant, mechanical reminder of my expiration date. Forty-eight hours left.

"Happy?" She laughed, a brittle sound. "I’m ecstatic. But I’m also impatient. I don’t want to wait for you to die on your own schedule. I want you gone now."

She took a step closer. Her eyes darted to the security camera in the corner, then back to me.

"Dante loves a damsel in distress," she whispered.

Before I could react, she threw herself backward.

It wasn't a stumble. It was a calculated launch. She screamed, her arms flailing theatrically as she tumbled down the last six marble steps. She landed at my feet with a sickening thud, sprawling amidst the white rose petals.

"Elena! No!" she shrieked, clutching her ankle. "Why did you push me?"

The doors burst open. Dante stormed in, followed by three guards. He took in the scene instantly: Sofia weeping on the floor, me standing over her, and the accusation hanging in the air like smoke.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't look at the security cameras.

He struck me.

The backhand connected with my cheekbone, the force of the blow knocking me into the floral arch. The structure collapsed, burying me in an avalanche of white roses and thorns.

"Get the car!" Dante roared, scooping Sofia up as if she were made of glass. "If she has a scratch on her, Elena, I will peel the skin from your bones."

*

The hospital lights were blinding.

I sat on a plastic chair in the hallway, handcuffed to the armrest. My cheek throbbed where he had hit me, but the pain in my chest was worse. My battery indicator blinked red: 15%.

Dante emerged from the private room. He rolled up his sleeves, his forearms tense with corded muscle.

"She needs a transfusion," he said. "She lost blood from a gash on her leg. She has a rare blood type. O-negative."

"So do I," I said quietly.

"I know," he said. He signaled to a nurse. "Hook her up."

"Dante," I said, panic rising in my throat. "I can't. My heart condition... I’m anemic. If you take my blood now, with the pump struggling..."

"You took five years of my life," he cut in, his voice cold and flat. "You can spare a pint of blood for the woman you tried to cripple."

He grabbed my arm, forcing it straight for the nurse. I looked at the woman, begging her with my eyes to check my chart, to see the LVAD controller at my waist, to see that draining me was a death sentence.

But the nurse looked at Dante, saw the heavy outline of the gun in his holster, and paled. She didn't argue. She swabbed my arm.

The needle slid in.

I watched the red tube fill. It was my life leaving me, flowing out to sustain the lie that was Sofia Moretti.

Dante watched the bag fill, his expression unreadable. He didn't look at my face. He only looked at the blood.

When the bag was full, the room spun. Black spots danced in my vision, and the hum of my pump seemed to grow distant, like a failing engine.

"Done," Dante said. "Now, get up."

"I... I can't," I whispered.

He hauled me up by the handcuffs. My legs were like rubber. He dragged me into Sofia’s room. She was sitting up in bed, looking flushed and healthy, scrolling through Instagram.

"Look who it is," Dante said, shoving me toward the bed. "Apologize."

I swayed, gripping the bedrail to stay upright. Sofia smirked at me behind Dante’s back.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"Like you mean it," Dante commanded. He placed a hand on the back of my neck, his fingers tightening. "Kneel."

I sank to the floor. The humiliation was absolute. I was the donor, the savior, the victim, and yet here I was, kneeling before the thief.

"I am sorry, Sofia," I said, my voice breaking. "I am sorry I exist."

Dante released my neck. He looked at me for a second, his gaze lingering on the fresh bruise on my cheek, then on the bandage on my arm where he had stolen my blood. For a heartbeat, something flickered in his eyes—a question, perhaps, or a memory.

Then Sofia groaned. "Dante, my leg hurts."

He turned away from me instantly. "I'm here, baby. I'm here."

I used the bedrail to pull myself up. I walked out of the room. Neither of them watched me go. I was a ghost before I was even dead.