Too Late For Regret, Mr. Underboss

Nero’s Perspective

Seven days of silence.

In the eight years we had been together, Siena had never been out of touch for more than twelve hours.

She was waiting for me to crack and apologize.

I tossed my phone onto the leather blotter.

Fine. Let her wait.

A sharp knock sounded at the door, and Enzo stepped into the room, his expression uncharacteristically hesitant.

“Boss, you need to see this,” Enzo said, sliding his phone across the polished surface of my desk.

“It’s from Gia’s secure feed.”

I looked down at the glowing screen.

Siena was standing in front of a floor-length mirror, wearing a bespoke white wedding gown that hugged her curves perfectly.

She looked radiant and untouchable.

A dark, ugly flare of anger ignited in my chest.

She was taking this bit too far.

“She puts on a good show,” I said coldly, sliding the phone back to Enzo.

“The men are asking if we should prepare for the ceremony today,” Enzo whispered.

“No,” I said, leaning back in my heavy leather chair.

“Let her stand at the altar alone. She needs to learn that her temper doesn't control me.”

Enzo gave a short nod and quickly exited the room.

I grabbed my own phone and opened the encrypted Syndicate group chat.

My men were actively discussing the wedding rumors, placing bets on my reaction.

I typed a single, blunt message into the chat:

“What’s the rush? Let her wait.”

I could almost see the look of panic on her face when she realized I wasn't coming.

It would be a harsh lesson, but a necessary one for my future wife.

My phone suddenly buzzed again with a loud notification, a new image loading in the chat.

Gia had somehow bypassed our security protocols to upload a photo directly to the channel.

It was an image of a massive, fortified estate.

The caption below read: “The Fortress of the New Queen.”

I stared at the photo, a cold trickle of dread seeping into my veins.

That wasn't our penthouse.

That was a compound located deep in neutral territory.

I pressed my thumb against the edge of the oak desk, the wood groaning under the pressure as my nails turned white with the collapse of my final bit of restraint.

She was actually trying to pull another Mafia family into this childish game.

I stood up, strode to the wardrobe, and pulled out my bespoke black suit.

I cursed her stubbornness under my breath.

She had successfully forced my hand.

I was going to drag her out of that place and lock her in our penthouse until she remembered who she belonged to.

I was halfway into my dark suit jacket when my burner phone rang.

It was my advisor.

“Have the armored cars ready in five minutes,” I commanded.

“Boss,” his voice sounded impossibly tight. “The title deed for your penthouse just cleared our internal legal audit.”

I froze, the gold cufflink slipping from my fingers.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“It’s gone, Nero,” he said. “Siena sold it.”