The Mafia King's Regret: She Moved On

For four years, I was the invisible baker's daughter who memorized Dante Vitiello’s routine. I baked stomach-friendly meals for the Underboss of New York, ensuring his ulcer didn't kill him, all while loving him from the shadows.

But when I collapsed from exhaustion in his gym, he didn't help me. He looked at me with pure revulsion and asked his guard:

"Is she dead? Call pest control."

To him, I wasn't a girl; I was a stain that smelled of "grease and desperation."

When the Capo’s daughter framed me for stealing family secrets, Dante knew the truth. Yet, he stood silent. He didn't defend me.

Instead, he handed me a scholarship check—hush money to exile me from the city, sacrificing my reputation to protect his political alliances.

I took the money, not out of gratitude, but out of spite. I burned every sketch, every note, and every shred of the girl who had foolishly loved a monster. I realized I was just a disposable extra in his story.

Five years later, I returned as a ruthless top-tier lawyer, engaged to a safe, clean man. Dante, now the Don, cornered me at a gala, looking at me with a desperate hunger he’d never shown before.

"I broke you to save you," he claimed, his voice rough with regret.

I pulled away and smiled, cold and unyielding.

"You didn't save me, Dante. You burned the only person who ever truly loved you. And she’s never coming back."

Chapter 1

The impact of my knees hitting the rubber mat of the Vitiello private gym sent a shockwave that rattled my teeth, and as my vision blurred into static, the only thing clearer than the pain was the voice of the man I had secretly loved for four years asking his guard if he needed to call pest control.

I didn't black out completely.

That would have been a mercy.

Instead, I was trapped in that gray, buzzing space between consciousness and fainting, my cheek pressed against the cold, sweat-slicked floor.

I had been running on three hours of sleep and a breakfast of stale crusts just so I could afford the tuition deposit for law school.

My body had finally staged a coup.

"Is she dead?"

The voice was deep, smooth, and terrified me as much as it thrilled me.

Dante Vitiello.

The Underboss. The Prince of New York. The man whose tactical routine I had memorized so I could leave stomach-friendly meals in his locker without being seen.

I tried to push myself up, but my arms felt like wet noodles.

Heavy footsteps approached. I saw the tips of expensive combat boots stop inches from my nose.

"She's just the baker's kid, Boss," a guard grunted. "Probably skipped lunch. I'll drag her to the infirmary."

I waited for Dante to crouch down. I waited for the hand that executed traitors to offer even a moment of gentleness. I waited for him to recognize me as the girl who made sure his ulcer didn't burn a hole through his stomach lining.

"Don't touch her with your bare hands," Dante said.

His tone wasn't concerned. It was clinical. Cold.

"She's always hovering around here," he continued, his voice dropping lower, but not low enough to spare me. "Like a sticky shadow. It's irritating."

My heart, which had been hammering against my ribs, simply stopped.

"She smells like the back of a kitchen," Dante added. "Grease and desperation. It makes me nauseous. Get her out of here before she contaminates the mats."

The words were a bucket of ice water dumped over a burning fever.

It wasn't just rejection. It was revulsion.

He didn't see a girl. He saw a stain.

Adrenaline spiked through my veins, fueled by pure, unadulterated humiliation.

I scrambled to my feet, swaying violently.

The guard reached for me.

"Don't," I choked out.

I looked up.

Dante stood there, shirtless, his torso a map of scars and muscle, sweat glistening on his skin like diamonds. He looked like a god of war.

And he was looking at me like I was a cockroach he didn't want to dirty his boot with.

Our eyes met.

For a second, I saw something flicker in his dark gaze-surprise, maybe? Or maybe he was just shocked the rat could speak.

I didn't wait to find out.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, the bile rising in my throat, and shoved past the guard.

I ran.

I didn't stop until I crashed into the locker room sinks, heaving until my stomach was empty, trying to purge the sickness of my own delusion.