Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Despair

I woke to a blinding whiteness that stung my eyes.

The sharp, chemical tang of antiseptic and lemon cleaner assaulted my nose, instantly grounding me in a clinical reality.

My hand throbbed with a searing heat, as if the veins beneath the skin were filled with molten lead.

I tried to lift it, but the limb was dead weight, encased in layers of thick, sterile gauze.

A stifled sob broke the heavy silence.

I turned my head, fighting the stiffness in my neck.

Maria, our housekeeper, was huddled in the corner chair.

She was weeping into her apron, her shoulders shaking with silent tremors.

"Maria?" I croaked.

My voice was a wrecked thing, dry as sandpaper against stone.

She rushed to the bedside, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Oh, Miss Bella. You're awake."

She poured water into a flimsy plastic cup and held it to my cracked lips with trembling hands.

I drank greedily, the cool liquid soothing the fire in my throat.

"Where am I?"

"The family clinic," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She glanced nervously at the door, as if expecting a monster to barge in.

"They brought you here after... after the incident."

The memories crashed back in.

The spider.

The venom.

"Where are they?" I asked, dread coiling in my stomach.

Maria looked down at her hands, twisting the fabric of her apron.

"They are at the penthouse."

"Why aren't you there?"

She took a shaky breath, her eyes darting away from mine.

"They left you on the floor, Miss Bella."

The words hung in the sterile air, heavy and suffocating.

"Mr. Jameson... he kicked you away from Miss Haleigh. They thought you pushed her."

I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me.

The burning in my hand was nothing compared to the glacial cold spreading through my veins.

I was burning up with fever from the venom, delirious and dying, and they had kicked me.

Maria gripped my good hand, her fingers tight.

"I saw the bite," she whispered fiercely.

"I killed the spider. I told them."

"And?"

"They said you must have brought it in yourself. To terrorize her."

I laughed.

It was a broken, jagged sound, devoid of any humor.

"Of course they did."

I stayed in the clinic for two days.

Solitary confinement.

No one came.

Not my brothers.

Not Jameson.

On the third day, the fever finally broke, leaving me weak but lucid.

I discharged myself.

I put on the clothes Maria had smuggled in for me-a simple, shapeless grey dress-and hailed a cab back to the penthouse.

I walked in.

The penthouse had been transformed into a palace of celebration.

Balloons choked the ceiling.

Pink and gold everywhere.

A massive banner was draped across the floor-to-ceiling windows, blocking out the city skyline.

Happy Birthday Haleigh.

I froze in the entryway.

It was October 14th.

Our birthday.

Twins.

Jameson was standing by the fireplace, looking every bit the lord of the manor.

He was holding a velvet box.

Derrick and Blake were laughing nearby, clutching champagne flutes.

Haleigh was in the center of the room, crowned with a glittering tiara.

She looked at me.

Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a glitch in her perfect facade, before widening into something sharp.

"Oh, look! The ghost is back!"

Jameson turned.

His face was a mask of indifference, impervious as stone.

"Enjoy your vacation?" Blake called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"A spider bite isn't an excuse to disappear when your sister needs you."

He didn't know.

Or he simply didn't care.

I walked further into the room.

My bandaged hand throbbed in a painful rhythm with my heartbeat.

"Happy Birthday, Haleigh," I said softly.

Jameson stepped forward, ignoring me entirely.

He held out the velvet box to Haleigh.

"Open it," he said.

His voice was soft.

A tender tone I used to think was reserved only for me, in the dark.

Haleigh snapped the box open.

A diamond necklace.

It glittered violently under the chandelier lights.

"Oh, Jameson!" she squealed.

She threw her arms around his neck, claiming him.

Derrick handed her a set of keys.

"Vintage Porsche," he announced proudly.

Kane handed her a deed.

"The vineyard in Napa," he said.

I stood there.

Empty-handed.

Forgotten.

Jameson looked at me over Haleigh's shoulder, his eyes cold.

"You need to accept this, Isabella," he said.

"She is my wife."

I looked at him.

I looked at the man who had once promised to protect me from the world.

"You're right," I said.

My voice was calm.

Unnervingly so.

It unsettled him.

He frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

Haleigh clapped her hands, demanding attention.

"Time for the slideshow!" she announced.

She pointed a remote at the projector screen that had been set up in the corner.

"I made it myself! To celebrate my journey!"

The lights dimmed automatically.

Music started playing-an upbeat, sugary pop song.

Photos of Haleigh flashed on the screen.

Haleigh as a cherubic baby.

Haleigh posing at graduation.

Then, the atmosphere shifted.

The photos changed.

Haleigh, sloppy drunk in a nightclub.

Haleigh snorting a line of white powder off a glass table.

Haleigh sitting provocatively on the lap of a rival mob boss.

The room went deadly silent.

The silence was thick, suffocating.

The music kept playing-a cheerful soundtrack to a train wreck.

The final slide appeared.

It was a high-resolution photo of Haleigh passed out on a bathroom floor.

Text was superimposed over it in bright, dripping red letters:

Happy Birthday to New York's Favorite Whore.

The silence was shattered by Haleigh's blood-curdling scream.

Jameson roared.

"Kill it! Turn it off!"

Blake scrambled for the projector, ripping the cord violently from the wall.

The room plunged into darkness.

When the lights flickered back on, Haleigh was on the floor, sobbing hysterically.

She pointed a shaking finger at me.

"She did it!" she screamed, her face blotchy and ruined.

"She hates me! She wants to ruin me!"

I stood perfectly still.

I hadn't done it.

I had been rotting in a clinic with spider venom coursing through my veins.

But facts didn't matter in the Douglas family.

Only perception mattered.

Jameson turned to me.

His face was twisted into a snarl.

He looked like a wolf who had finally decided to devour the sheep.

He stalked toward me.

"You," he said.

His voice was a low rumble of thunder, vibrating in his chest.

"You are going to regret that."