Too Late, Mr. Don: The Wife You Buried

Aria POV

The next morning, I found Dante in the kitchen. He was wearing an apron, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of a whisk against a stainless-steel bowl filling the silence.

The domesticity of the scene was terrifying because it was so perfectly, violently normal. His eyes were bright. Too bright.

"Good morning, Cara," he said, his voice light, as if he hadn't verbally flayed me the night before.

I stood frozen in the doorway. My suitcase was still shoved under the bed upstairs. The plane was waiting.

"We are going out," he announced, not asking. "A family day. Gia needs things for the boy."

"I am not going," I said.

The whisking stopped instantly. He set the bowl down with a heavy, deliberate clatter.

He walked over to me, closing the distance in two strides, and gripped my chin. His fingers dug into my jaw, pressing against the bone until I tasted copper.

"You will go," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "We are a united front. You will show respect."

I got dressed. I put on a long-sleeved shirt to hide the burn.

The SUV was waiting in the driveway. Gia and Leo were already in the back seat. Dante opened the front passenger door for me, a mockery of chivalry.

We drove to the Magnificent Mile. Dante played music. Leo sang along. I stared out the window, watching the city blur, counting the minutes until I could escape.

Inside the luxury mall, Dante was a king. He threw money around like confetti, buying loyalty with every swipe of his black card. He bought Leo a new video game console. He bought Gia a floor-length fur coat.

He bought me a scarf.

Silk. Expensive. Impersonal.

We walked into the jewelry store. The manager rushed over, practically bowing to the Don.

Dante looked at the display case, his gaze sweeping over the gold and platinum until it locked on a necklace. It was a sapphire pendant surrounded by a halo of diamonds. It was deep blue, like the ocean at night, cold and bottomless.

"It is beautiful," I said, the words slipping out involuntarily. It was the kind of piece a Capo bought his Donna for a milestone anniversary.

Dante nodded. "Wrap it up," he told the manager.

He took the velvet box. He turned to me. For a split second, my heart stuttered. I thought he was going to apologize. I thought this was the peace offering, the bribe to keep me compliant.

Then, he turned past me.

"For you," he said, handing the box to Gia. "To match your eyes."

Gia's eyes were brown.

She squealed and threw her arms around him. The sales staff looked at the floor, embarrassed by the blatant cruelty. I stood there, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, burning hotter than the wound on my arm. I was the wife, standing in the shadows of the mistress.

"I'm going to the car," I said, my voice hollow.

Dante didn't even look up. "Take the keys. We will be right behind you."

I walked out. The air in the parking garage was stale and cold, smelling of exhaust and damp concrete. I needed to breathe. I needed to run.

I heard them behind me. Gia's laughter echoed off the concrete walls, a sharp, grating sound.

I unlocked the SUV.

Suddenly, tires screeched. A white sports car came tearing around the corner, speeding the wrong way down the lane. It was moving fast, the engine roaring, aiming straight for the group.

Gia froze. She was directly in the path.

I was closer to the car. I was standing right next to the open door.

Dante didn't hesitate. He didn't look at me.

He lunged. He shoved me aside-hard.

It wasn't a push to save me. It was a shove to clear the way. I slammed into the side mirror of the SUV, the metal casing gouging into my hip, and fell to the pavement.

Dante threw his body over Gia and Leo, shielding them as the car swerved at the last second and sped off toward the exit.

Silence followed. Heavy and suffocating.

Dante scrambled up. He checked Gia. He checked Leo. He ran his hands over them, frantic, desperate.

"Are you hurt? Did he hit you? My God, Gia."

I was lying on the asphalt. My hip throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. My burned hand had scraped against the ground, reopening the wound, the bandage tearing away.

"Dante," I whispered.

He didn't turn. He was kissing Gia's forehead, murmuring comforts, checking her for scratches that weren't there.

I stood up. I limped backward.

He hadn't just chosen them. He had used me as an obstacle-human debris to be tossed aside-to save them.

I turned around and started walking toward the exit ramp.

I didn't look back. I didn't call the family doctor. I just walked.