Too Late For The Ruthless Don's Regret

Elena Rossi POV

Dante didn’t come home for three days.

He claimed he was "handling the legal fallout" of the accident.

Translation: he was paying off the taxi company to bury the evidence and comforting Mia between the silk sheets of a five-star hotel.

I spent those seventy-two hours packing.

Not clothes. Not jewelry. Nothing that would be missed at a glance.

I packed the essentials: my mother’s gold locket, the first edition of *The Great Gatsby* my father gave me—bulky, but non-negotiable—and my passport.

I wedged the duffel bag deep into the ventilation shaft behind the guest closet, screwing the grate back in place with trembling fingers.

When Dante finally returned, he strolled into the bedroom as if he hadn't run my taxi off the road just days ago.

"Get dressed," he commanded, tossing a heavy garment bag onto the bed. "We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?" I didn't look up from my book, though the words blurred before my eyes.

"Mia's donation. The surgery is scheduled for next week. We're having a private dinner at Le Coucou."

"I'm not going."

Dante moved in a blur.

He gripped my chin, his fingers digging into my jaw with bruising force, tilting my head back.

"You are going. You will sit there, you will smile, and you will thank her for saving your father's life. Do you understand?"

I searched his dark eyes for a flicker of the man I once knew.

There was no love left there. Only possession. Only control.

"I understand," I whispered.

The dinner was a torture chamber disguised in velvet and crystal.

Mia sat at the head of the table—my place—surrounded by Dante's captains and their wives.

She was glowing, radiant with false modesty. She held court like a queen, recounting the "accident" with dramatic flair, painting herself as the brave survivor who had endured so much stress.

Dante hand-fed her an oyster, a slick, intimate display that made my stomach turn.

I sipped my ice water, trying to numb the phantom ache radiating from my fractured arm.

"Let's play a game," one of the wives suggested, her voice slurred by expensive vintage. "Truth or Dare."

The empty wine bottle spun on the crisp white tablecloth, a dizzying blur of green.

It slowed, wobbled, and stopped.

Pointing directly at me.

"Truth or Dare, Elena?" Mia asked, her eyes gleaming with predatory delight.

"Truth."

The chatter at the table died instantly.

"What's the best gift you've ever given Dante?" Mia asked, leaning forward, a challenge in her smile.

Dante smirked, swirling the red liquid in his glass. He expected me to say my virginity, my unwavering loyalty, or some other pathetic offering he felt entitled to.

I looked him dead in the eye, my gaze steady and cold.

"I haven't given it yet," I said.

"Oh?" Dante raised a dark eyebrow. "Is it a surprise?"

"You could say that." I forced a smile. It felt like a blade between my lips. "I am giving you a very large, very permanent gift soon."

The table murmured in approval. They thought I meant a Ferrari. Or maybe a child—an heir to his empire.

Dante looked pleased, his ego sufficiently stroked. "I look forward to it."

I picked up my glass.

"To gifts," I toasted.

I drained the wine in one swallow.

It tasted like freedom.

He didn't know the gift was my absence.

And by the time he unwrapped it, I would be nothing more than a ghost.