Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

Elena Vitiello POV:

The estate was quiet, possessing the heavy, suffocating silence of a tomb.

I walked into the master bedroom, my head throbbing in a brutal rhythm with my heartbeat.

Dragging the suitcase from beneath the bed, I checked my phone as it buzzed against my palm.

*Isabella: Visa ready. Jet waiting at Teterboro. You have 40 minutes.*

Forty minutes. That was all I had to erase three years of my life.

I moved with cold efficiency. I didn’t pack clothes. I didn’t pack jewelry. I packed only the essentials—the things that were mine before I became a ghost in this house.

My phone buzzed again.

A text from Dante’s number.

I opened it to find a video.

Dante was sleeping in a hospital chair, his head tipped back, mouth slightly parted in exhaustion.

The caption beneath it read: *He sleeps so peacefully when he knows I'm safe.*

Sofia had sent it. She had his phone.

Anger should have burned me alive, but I felt nothing. I was hollowed out, a shell moving on autopilot.

I walked to the fireplace. Above the mantle hung our wedding portrait. It was six feet tall—an oil painting of a beautiful lie.

I gripped the heavy frame. I pulled.

With a deafening crash, it hit the floor, the canvas tearing under the strain.

I didn’t stop. Snatching the heavy brass letter opener from the desk, I drove it into the canvas. I slashed his face. Then I slashed mine.

I tore the ruined strips free and fed them to the fireplace. I lit a match.

The oil paint caught quickly, sending thick black smoke curling up the chimney like a dark signal.

Turning to the closet, I pulled out Dante’s suits. His custom Italian silk suits.

I grabbed a roll of black trash bags.

I stuffed the silk into the plastic, jamming them in with zero regard for the fabric. I didn’t fold them; I crushed them.

I dragged the bags to the door.

My phone buzzed.

Another photo from Sofia.

A yellow diamond ring on her finger.

*He gave me the sun,* the text taunted.

I looked down at my left hand. The platinum band sat heavy on my finger. The Moretti family ring. It wasn't jewelry; it was a shackle.

I pulled it off.

My finger felt light. Naked. Free.

I placed the ring on the nightstand, letting the metal click against the wood.

Going to my bedside drawer, I pulled out my diary. Ten years of entries. Ten years of loving a man who didn’t exist.

I walked back to the fireplace.

I tossed the book into the flames.

I watched the pages curl and blacken, watching the ink of my past disappear into ash.

"Mrs. Moretti?"

The housekeeper stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with shock. She looked from the slashed painting to the trash bags, and finally to the fire.

I dragged the bags toward her.

"Here," I said, my voice flat. "Take these to the curb."

"But... these are Mr. Moretti's clothes."

"Mr. Moretti doesn't live here anymore," I said.

She stared at me, confused and frightened.

I grabbed my go-bag.

I walked past her, not breaking stride.

At the door, I stopped. I looked back one last time.

The room smelled of smoke and ruin. The bed was empty. The ring glinted on the nightstand, cold and abandoned.

My phone buzzed.

Sofia again. A photo of Dante’s parents smiling next to her hospital bed.

I didn't even open the image. I deleted the thread entirely.

Then I did the final thing.

I navigated to my contacts. I selected *Dante*.

Delete Contact.

The confirmation prompt blinked at me.

Yes.

I walked out of the house and climbed into the waiting Uber.

I didn't look back at the windows. I didn't shed a tear.

I was already gone.