Too Late For Regret: The Mafia Don's Lost Wife

Bennett didn't return until the sun was already bleeding through the sheer curtains of our bedroom.

I was awake.

In fact, I hadn't slept at all.

I lay perfectly still, feigning deep slumber, my ears straining against the silence as I listened to the heavy sound of the front door closing, followed by the muffled thud of his boots being kicked off in the hallway.

He entered the bedroom quietly, moving with the practiced stealth of a predator trying not to wake the wife he thought was asleep.

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge.

A wave of nausea rolled over me. He smelled of stale smoke, the metallic tang of gunpowder, and something floral that wasn't me.

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against my cheek.

"Sleep well, bellissima," he whispered.

It took everything in me not to recoil from the heat of his breath.

I kept my breathing even, a skill I had perfected over four years, waiting until he went into the bathroom to shower off the evidence of his betrayal.

When the water started running, I opened my eyes.

They felt dry, gritty from hours of staring into the dark.

I got up and went to the walk-in closet, my fingers hovering over the handle of a suitcase.

No.

Not yet.

If I left now, he would haul me back. I was a Vitale wife. I was property.

I needed a reason that the Don would accept, or I needed to disappear so completely that his reach couldn't find me.

Bennett walked out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist, water dripping from his dark hair.

He looked refreshed. He looked sated.

"You're up early," he said, reaching for me.

I stepped back, pretending to look for earrings on the dresser to avoid his touch.

"I have a headache," I said, keeping my voice flat. "I didn't sleep well."

He frowned, his hand dropping to his side. "I'm sorry I wasn't here. The shipment had complications."

"I'm sure it did," I said.

He paused, sensing the shift in the air like an animal scents a storm. "Is something wrong, Kelsey?"

"Just the headache," I said, finally turning to look at him.

I looked at the man I had spent four years trying to please.

I looked at the scars on his chest, earned in wars for his family. I used to trace them with my fingers, believing they were maps to his soul.

Now, I just wondered how many of them were lies, too.

"I'm going to the gallery," I said. "I want to redecorate the private lounge. It feels... stale."

He nodded, seemingly relieved to avoid a confrontation. "Do whatever you want, baby. It's your space."

I left before he could try to touch me again.

At the gallery, I went straight to the private lounge.

It was a space Bennett used for meetings when he didn't want to go to the warehouse, a room that reeked of masculine authority.

I started moving cushions, stripping the room of its warmth, needing to purge his presence.

I reached under the sofa to pull out a rug, but instead, my hand brushed against silk.

I pulled it out.

It was a scarf.

Hermès.

Bright orange and garish.

Decidedly not my style.

I brought it to my nose, and there it was. It smelled like the floral scent I had detected on Bennett's skin.

I didn't cry.

I didn't scream.

I just folded the scarf neatly and placed it on the coffee table, a silent accusation.

That evening, we had to attend a dinner at the Capo's house.

I wore black, like a widow in mourning before the body was even cold.

Bennett wore a matching suit, his hand possessively on my lower back as we entered.

The room was filled with the acrid smoke of cigars and the murmur of dangerous men.

I saw her immediately.

Aria Diaz.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She was a nobody, an outsider.

But she was standing near the bar, laughing at something a soldier said.

She was young. Vibrant.

And she had a hand resting protectively over her flat stomach.

My breath hitched in my throat.

Two of the Capo's wives were standing near me, their backs turned, sipping champagne.

"That's the one," one whispered, her voice dripping with gossip. "The new girl. Bennett set her up in the penthouse on 5th."

"Bold," the other said. "Does Kelsey know?"

"Please. Kelsey is a statue. Pretty to look at, but hollow. Bennett needs a legacy, not a decoration."

I felt the blood drain from my face.

I looked across the room at Bennett.

He was looking at Aria.

His expression wasn't the cold, calculated mask he wore for business.

It was soft. It was open.

He saw me looking, and his face hardened instantly, but the damage was done.

He walked over to me, grabbing my elbow a little too tightly.

"Smile," he hissed, his voice a lethal command. "You look like you're at a funeral."

"Maybe I am," I said.

He narrowed his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm tired, Bennett. I want to go home."

"We just got here."

"I said I want to go home."

He glared at me, asserting his dominance, waiting for me to fold like I always did.

"Go then," he said dismissively, releasing my arm as if I were a burden. "Take the driver. I have things to discuss with the Capo."

He turned his back on me.

He turned back to her.

I walked out of the house, the night air biting against my skin.

I didn't go home.

I went back to the gallery.

I went to the lounge.

I picked up the scarf.

I picked up the wedding photo I kept on the desk.

I looked at the smiling girl in the white dress.

I didn't know her anymore.

I dropped the photo into the trash can.

The glass shattered.

It was the most satisfying sound I had heard in years.