Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

The chandeliers of the Crystal Room dripped with diamonds, mirroring the women beneath them.

It was the Famiglia Anniversary Gala, the one night a year where the five families pretended to be civilized. The air smelled of expensive cologne, hairspray, and blood money.

Dante stood beside me, his hand resting on the small of my back. To an outsider, it might have looked possessive, even protective. To me, it felt like a brand—a warning to other men: *This property is taken.*

"Smile, Elena," he murmured, leaning down to my ear. "The Russian Don is watching."

I pasted a smile on my face. It felt tight, brittle like dried clay.

"I *am* smiling, Dante."

He squeezed my waist—harder. A pinch of warning.

We moved through the crowd. Men kissed his ring; women looked at me with a mixture of envy and pity. They knew. Everyone knew about the yacht. Everyone knew about Sofia.

I was the Caged Canary: pretty to look at, but unable to fly.

Marco, a soldier from Dante's inner circle, approached us, clutching a rusted metal box.

"Boss," he grinned, his teeth stained with red wine. "We found it. The time capsule from the Young Capos initiation. Five years ago."

The men around us laughed. It was a tradition—proof that before they became monsters, they were just boys with dreams.

"Open it!" someone shouted.

Dante looked bored, but he nodded.

Marco pried the lid open and started pulling out items: a switchblade, a bottle of cheap whiskey, a polaroid of a dead rival. And letters.

"Here is one from Sofia!" Marco shouted, drunk on the atmosphere.

The room went quiet. Even her name commanded attention.

"She wants to be a Hollywood star," Marco read, laughing. "She wants a mansion in Beverly Hills and a husband who doesn't carry a gun."

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter went through the room. We all knew she ended up with a Capo who died in a gutter, and now she was clinging to the Don.

"And here is one from... Mrs. Moretti!" Marco pulled out a piece of cream-colored stationery.

I froze. I remembered writing that note. I was eighteen. Betrothed to Dante. Naive. Stupid.

"Read it!" the Russian Don shouted.

Marco unfolded the paper. He cleared his throat.

"I hope," he read, "that by the time this is opened, Dante looks at me the way he looks at the sunrise. I hope I am not just a duty, but his home."

The silence was absolute.

It was humiliating. It was raw, naked vulnerability in a room full of sharks.

I felt the heat rise up my neck. I stared at the floor, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

Dante went still beside me. I could feel the tension radiating off him.

He took the paper from Marco's hand and looked at it—my handwriting, loopy and girlish.

He looked at me. For the first time in months, he really *saw* me. There was shock in his eyes. Maybe even a crack in the ice.

"Elena," he started, his voice low.

Then, his phone rang.

The sound shattered the moment like glass.

Dante didn't ignore it. He never ignored it.

He pulled it out. "Sofia," he answered.

He listened for two seconds. His face hardened into stone.

"Where?" he barked.

He hung up and turned to Marco.

"Rally the men. The Genovese have her. They have Sofia at the warehouse on 4th."

The room exploded into motion. Soldiers were running, pulling weapons from concealed holsters.

Dante turned to follow them.

"Dante," I whispered.

He stopped. He looked back at me.

"Please," I said. "Stay."

It was a plea. A desperate, pathetic plea. I was asking him to choose me. Just once. Over her.

He looked at the door. Then he looked at me.

"She is in danger, Elena."

"I am dying here," I thought.

"Stay put," he ordered. "Don't move. Security will watch you."

He checked the chamber of his gun. "I have to go."

He turned and sprinted out of the ballroom.

I watched him go. I watched him run toward death to save her.

He left me standing in the middle of the ballroom, surrounded by staring eyes. The wife who hoped for love. The husband who ran to his mistress.

I was unprotected. I was unloved.

I walked over to the table where he had dropped my note. I picked it up.

I walked to the balcony. The night air was freezing.

I took a lighter from a silver tray on a passing waiter's table.

I flicked the flame. I held the corner of the paper to the fire.

I watched the words curl into ash. *Dante... sunrise... home.*

All of it, burning.

I dropped the burning paper into a crystal ashtray.

"Goodbye, Dante," I whispered to the smoke.

I didn't cry. Tears were for people who had hope.

I had nothing left but the cold, hard truth.