Too Late For Regret: The Don's Queen

Sophia POV

I stood on the pavement, watching Marco's silhouette be swallowed by the corner's darkness.

From the depths of my purse, I produced my telephone. My fingers moved across the screen, composing a brief message to Alessandro, inquiring if his evening was free.

His reply came through a second later. He confirmed his availability and added that he was already on his way to collect me.

A genuine smile touched my lips for the first time all evening.

I put the telephone away, but a sharp wind that cut across the street recalled to my mind the chill that had settled deep in my bones two years prior.

That was the year Marco had first declared his obsession with Isabella.

I remembered the day of her arrival at our compound. She was a new associate, hailing from some poor and unconnected lineage.

She was quiet and weak, and possessed an air of profound pathos.

She was a thing of soft edges and downcast eyes, a stark anomaly in this life of ours, where even the fine linen of a dinner table might conceal the cold steel of a pistol.

I recalled asking Marco about our arranged betrothal not long after her arrival.

He had looked at me then with a strange, sickening admixture of resentment and justification. He claimed I was strong enough to endure it; he said I already possessed everything, whilst Isabella had nothing.

He insisted his actions were a form of protection for her, swearing he would still fulfill his duty to me, if only to satisfy the Dons.

That was the exact moment I realized he was serious.

In that moment, I understood my place in his grand design. I was not his partner, but a chess piece to be sacrificed, a convenience held in reserve for the sake of a political gambit.

I became their forced chaperone.

I was the perfect shield behind which they conducted their illicit affair, hidden from the ever-watchful eyes of the Family elders.

During their clandestine meetings, Isabella's gaze would find mine, her smile a confection of cloying pity. Yet, beneath this veneer of sympathy, I could always discern the hard, triumphant glint of a victor.

He made of me a tool, an instrument of his deception, and with it, he chipped away at my standing, piece by patient piece.

He forced me to serve as a third party to their flirtations, which he conducted openly in my presence.

A deep and sickening disgust churned in my stomach, but I held my tongue, honoring the stoicism expected of me. Marco, however, noticed my cold demeanor and dismissed it. He justified his cruelty by claiming I was tough enough to withstand a little discomfort.

He reminded me that Isabella was delicate and required a softer environment.

I lost my temper that night.

But Marco was unmoved. He explained, with a brutal frankness, that my presence was a necessity; with me there, the Consigliere would not report his distraction to the Don.

If they were discovered alone, Isabella would face exile—or worse.

The silent compact I had maintained with him for years, a thing stretched taut by a thousand small betrayals, did not so much break as simply cease to exist. It vanished without a sound, leaving not even an echo in the hollow of my chest.

I remembered one particular month-end, when the illicit ledger reports were due.

Isabella had failed utterly to complete her section and was weeping in Marco's office.

Marco took my own meticulous, finished work and handed it to Isabella, instructing her to present it as her own.

Because my work was now missing, I was summoned by the Underboss. I endured a harsh reprimand and a thorough humiliation before the assembled capos.

Marco addressed the matter the following day with an air of complete indifference.

He remarked, with an almost breathtaking casualness, that my own standing in the Family was secure enough to absorb such a blow. He said Isabella would have suffered severe punishment, perhaps even a beating, had she failed.

My humiliation was of no consequence to him; her safety was his only concern.

They would dine at secure safehouses, and I was compelled to accompany them so the guards would log my presence.

They would enact their small intimacies across the table, while I sat as a silent sentinel, my gaze fixed upon the untouched food on my plate.

During one such dinner, Marco leaned close to my ear.

He whispered that Isabella found my presence vexing, that my conversation was ruining her appetite.

I stood and walked out of the safehouse without having touched a single bite.

Marco pursued me into the yard, his hand closing on my shoulder as he loudly accused me of tormenting Isabella with my bitter attitude.

I did not bother to argue. The ledger theft, the forced chaperoning, the stolen meals—each betrayal had been a brick in the wall I was building around my heart. What Marco failed to realize was that the wall was nearly complete, and on the other side of it, I was no longer his to wound.