Too Late For Regret, Mr. Underboss

Nero’s hands dropped to his sides. In the silence, I heard the faint, rhythmic grind of his molars.

“If you’re going to give me the cold shoulder over a bouquet, I’m not staying.”

He pulled his car keys from his pocket, the metal clinking sharply in the still air.

“Valentina lives in a secluded area. I need to make sure she gets home safely.”

I didn't say a word. I didn't stop him.

I simply watched as the heavy steel door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in the echo of his departure.

The moment he was gone, my shoulders slumped. I collapsed onto the leather sofa.

I stared at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the low hum of the central air, which sounded like the deep breathing of some great beast.

Slowly, I pushed myself up and walked down the dim hallway.

I stopped at the room at the far end.

It had reinforced steel walls and bulletproof glass to keep the scent of gunpowder and bleach away from the contents.

It was supposed to be our future nursery.

I walked to the small safe in the corner and clicked it open.

Inside were the mementos of eight years of surviving this brutal industry.

I pulled out a faded photo of us as teenagers.

Nero had his arms wrapped tightly around me, glaring at the camera with fierce protectiveness.

That day, he had promised to spend his life guarding mine.

I put the photo back and locked the safe, sealing away the broken promises.

It was past 3:00 AM when I heard the front door open.

Nero walked into the living room, loosening his tie with an air of exhaustion.

He smelled of expensive cigars and something else—the faint, cloying scent of vanilla perfume.

I was waiting for him, sitting in the dark.

“Feeling nostalgic?” he asked softly, noticing I was still awake.

“Did you get Valentina safely to her door?” I asked, my voice flat and calm.

“Her neighborhood is dangerous, Siena,” he said, deftly sidestepping the real question.

He walked over and reached down, grabbing my arm to pull me up.

“Let’s go to bed.”

I jerked my shoulder, breaking his grip.

I stood up on my own, my legs stiff from sitting too long.

I looked directly into his dark eyes, searching for the boy in the photo and finding only a stranger.

“We’re done, Nero.”

He scoffed, a condescending smirk playing on his lips.

“You’re throwing a tantrum over the bouquet.”

He turned his back on me, walking toward the master bath, dismissing me entirely.

“I’ll buy you a bigger, more expensive bouquet tomorrow to appease you.”

I watched his broad shoulders move away from me, the final thread of our connection snapping.

“I’m getting married next week.”

Nero stopped dead in his tracks.