Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.

The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window.

He didn't bother to read a single word.

He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business.

In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet.

He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years.

"Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me.

"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."

Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone.

His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly.

"Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared.

He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home."

He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom.

I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years.

By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco.

And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret.

Chapter 1

I watched my husband sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.

The nib of the black Montblanc pen scratched against the thick paper, a harsh sound that rose above the rain hammering against the bulletproof glass of the coffee shop.

Dante Moretti, the Capo dei Capi of the New York Outfit, didn't bother to read the document. He did not check the clauses. He did not ask why his Consigliere was not present to oversee the transaction.

He was too busy typing a message on his encrypted phone, his brow furrowed in that dark, lethal way that made grown men wet themselves in fear.

But I wasn't afraid. I was just cold.

"Done," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mahogany table.

He tossed the stack of papers through the open window, aiming perfectly for the passenger seat of his waiting armored SUV. He didn't even glance at me.

"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."

I stared at the leather interior where the papers landed. The top page was titled "Dissolution of Union." Hidden beneath a cover sheet regarding routine shipping manifests, it was the death certificate of us.

And he had just signed it.

My heart should have been pounding. I should have been sweating. But after three years of being the invisible wife, the trophy on the shelf, the caged canary, I felt nothing but a hollow chill.

Dante Moretti, the Reaper, the man who controlled the eastern seaboard with an iron fist, had just unknowingly granted me my freedom.

Mia, my sister, sat across from me, her eyes wide. She looked from Dante to the papers, then back to me.

"He didn't read it," she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief. "He just signed it."

"He is distracted," I said, my voice dead flat. "It is a Code Red."

Mia scoffed, though she kept her voice low. "Code Red? You mean Sofia."

The name hung in the air like toxic smoke. Sofia Rossi. The widow. The tragic beauty. The woman who called my husband at two in the morning because she heard a noise. The woman who had been the ghost in my marriage bed since the wedding night.

"He promised to honor you," Mia hissed. "He ignores you for three years and now this?"

"He protects what he values," I replied. "I am just a peace treaty with a pulse."

Outside, the street had cleared. The presence of Dante Moretti did that. Four black SUVs idled at the curb, engines purring like beasts waiting to pounce. Men in dark suits stood in the rain, hands hovering near their waistbands.

This was his world. Violence. Power. Silence.

And I was just a piece of furniture in it.

Dante turned back to me. His eyes were the color of espresso, dark and bitter. They swept over me, checking for threats rather than affection.

"Mother expects us for Sunday gravy," he said. "Get in the car."

He didn't ask. He commanded. That was Dante. He moved through the world assuming it would bend to his will without question.

I stood up, smoothing the skirt of my dress. I leaned down to Mia.

"Tell Isabella to move the timeline up," I whispered.

Mia gripped my hand. "San Francisco is neutral territory, Elena. But he will come for you."

"Let him come," I said. "He won't find a wife. He will find a stranger."

I walked out into the rain. A soldier immediately held an umbrella over me, but the dampness seeped into my bones.

I climbed into the back of the lead SUV, and the scent hit me instantly: Chanel No. 5. Heavy, floral, and cloying.

Sofia's perfume.

It clung to the leather seats. It clung to the air. It was suffocating.

Dante slid in beside me, filling the space with his massive frame and the smell of expensive tobacco and gun oil. He radiated heat, a furnace of raw masculinity that used to make my knees weak.

Now, it just made me nauseous.

"Did you file the manifests?" he asked, his eyes still glued to his phone.

He meant the papers. The divorce papers he thought were shipping logs.

"Yes," I lied.

"Good. The Commission meets next week. I will be confirmed as absolute Boss. I need no loose ends."

I looked out the window at the gray city blurring past. I am a loose end, Dante. And you just cut me loose.

His phone rang. The harsh, jarring ringtone he reserved for emergencies.

His demeanor changed instantly. The cold, calculated Don vanished. In his place was a frantic protector.

"Sofia?" he barked into the phone. "Slow down. Where are you?"

I closed my eyes. Of course.

He listened for a moment, his jaw clenching tight enough to snap bone.

"Driver, divert. Meatpacking District. Now."

The driver hesitated. "Boss, Mrs. Moretti is in the car. The Matriarch is waiting."

"I said turn the damn car around!" Dante roared.

The SUV swerved, tires screeching on the wet asphalt. I gripped the door handle to steady myself.

Dante turned to me. Not an apology. An order.

"Get out at the next corner. Luca will take you home in the follow car."

I looked at him. Really looked at him. The scar above his eyebrow. The cruel set of his mouth. The man I had loved since I was sixteen. The man who had never looked at me with half the intensity he just showed a phone screen.

"She is threatened," he said, noticing my stare.

"She is always threatened, Dante," I said softly.

"Get out, Elena."

The car stopped. The rain was pouring harder now.

I opened the door. The cold wind slapped my face.

I stepped out onto the curb. Luca's car was pulling up behind us, but for a moment, I stood alone in the storm.

Dante didn't look back. He was already shouting orders into his phone.

Before I slammed the door, I looked at him one last time.

"You signed the papers, Dante," I said.

He didn't hear me. He waved his hand dismissively, signaling the driver to go.

The convoy sped away, splashing dirty water onto my shoes. They raced toward the Meatpacking District, toward Sofia, toward the woman who mattered.

I stood there, shivering, watching the red taillights fade into the gray mist.

I was wet. I was cold. I was alone.

But for the first time in three years, I was finally free.