Too Late For The Mafia Don's Regret

The air in the lawyer’s office hung heavy with the scent of lemon oil and the musk of old money—a smell that usually promised security, but today tasted like ash.

Mr. Henderson, a man who had served as my father’s legal counsel for decades, peered at me over the gold rims of his spectacles.

"Elara," he said gently. "This is... unconventional. In our world, a legal separation isn't just a formality. It’s a liability."

"I don't want a divorce yet," I said, my hands clasped tightly in my lap to hide their trembling. "I want a draft. A framework. So when the time comes, the break is clean. No alimony. No shares in the shell companies. I just want my name back."

"You want nothing?" His brows shot up. "You are the wife of the *Capo dei Capi*. You are entitled to millions."

"I don't want his blood money," I said quietly. "I just want my freedom."

He let out a resigned sigh and began to type. The sound pattered against the silence like rain on a tin roof.

An hour later, I stepped out into the cool air, a heavy envelope weighing down my purse.

My next stop was the hospital.

It was my duty. The dutiful mafia wife brings soup to her injured husband. It was part of the script.

The Family owned the entire fourth floor of St. Jude’s. Security guards nodded at me as I walked past. They didn't check my bag. They knew who I was.

To them, I was just part of the architecture—silent, decorative, and easily ignored.

I reached Dante’s room. The door was slightly ajar.

I raised my hand to knock, but then I heard her voice.

"You’re an idiot," Isabella whispered.

I froze.

Through the sliver of space between the door and the frame, I saw them.

Dante was sitting up in bed, his left arm bandaged from shoulder to wrist. His face was pale, but his eyes were alive. He was looking at her with a raw, unguarded warmth that made my chest ache.

Isabella sat on the edge of the mattress. She was holding a roll of gauze, tentatively trying to adjust his dressing.

"Let the nurse do that," Dante said softly.

"No," she said. "I caused this. I fix it."

"You didn't cause anything, Bella. It was faulty wiring."

"I was stupid," she sniffled. "I went back for the portfolio."

"It’s your life's work," Dante said. He reached out with his good hand and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I would have gone back for it too."

"You wanted to be an architect once," she said. "Remember? Before your father died. Before the Oath."

"I remember," he said. "I wanted to build things. Now I just break them."

"You built that warehouse for me," she said, leaning into his touch.

"I’d build you a castle if you asked," he murmured.

He pulled her down. She rested her head on his uninjured shoulder. He closed his eyes, and the expression on his face wasn't pain. It was peace.

He looked like a man who was finally home.

I looked down at the thermos of chicken soup in my hand. It felt like a prop in a play I had been written out of.

I set the thermos on the floor outside the door.

I walked away. My heels clicked on the linoleum, but they didn't hear me. They were in their own world.

Near the elevator banks, a soldier named Luca intercepted me.

"Mrs. Moretti," he said, holding out a thick manila folder. "The Boss asked for this file to be brought up, but..."

He hesitated, glancing toward the closed door of Dante's room. He didn't want to walk in on them either.

"I’ll take care of it," I said, saving us both the awkwardness. "I'm heading back to the estate."

I got into the back of the town car. The driver pulled away from the curb.

I opened the folder. It was labeled *Emergency Protocol*.

I thought it was contingency plans for the Outfit. Routes out of the city, safe houses, bank accounts.

I flipped through the pages.

It was a blueprint.

Labeled simply: *Project True North.*

It detailed the design for a massive estate in Tuscany. A vineyard. A sanctuary away from the violence of Chicago.

I looked at the notes in the margins. They were in Dante’s handwriting.

*Studio facing east for morning light - for her painting.*

*Nursery near the master suite.*

*Rose garden - pink varieties only.*

"True North." That was his nickname for her in high school. Because she was the only thing that guided him.

He was planning a life. A retirement. An escape.

And nowhere in those sprawling lines and careful measurements was there a room for me.

I closed the folder.

I didn't cry. I think I was long past the luxury of tears.

I opened the ledger in my mind.

*Minus ten.*