Too Late: The Innocent Traitor I Destroyed

I woke up in a hospital room that reeked of antiseptic and artificial lemon.

My ribs were taped tight against my chest. My head throbbed with the dull, heavy ache of a concussion.

The doctor told me I was lucky to be alive, but he didn't know about the cancer quietly rotting my pancreas, so his definition of luck was severely skewed.

Dante never came.

I was discharged three days later. The moment I stepped out of the hospital doors, Matteo was waiting by the curb.

"The Boss wants you at the estate," he said, not meeting my eyes. "Wedding preparations."

Of course.

I was put to work immediately.

I had to address the invitations. Hundreds of cream-colored envelopes, my pen carving the names of the people who would celebrate the union of Dante and Sofia.

My hand cramped, locking into a claw, but I didn't stop.

Then came the anniversary.

It was five years to the day since Lucrezia died. The family gathered at the private cemetery on the estate grounds.

I was ordered to attend, to stand at the back like a spectre—a living reminder of what happens to traitors.

It was raining. A cold, gray drizzle that soaked through my thin coat and settled into my bones.

Dante stood at the front, holding a black umbrella over Don Salvatore. The old Don looked frail, leaning heavily on a cane topped with a silver wolf's head.

Sofia stood next to them, dabbing at dry eyes with a lace handkerchief.

When the priest finished, the family began to place roses on the grave. I waited until everyone had retreated to the cars—or so I thought.

I approached the tombstone.

*Lucrezia Vitiello. Beloved Mother and Wife.*

I had no flower. Instead, I placed a small, smooth stone on the marble.

"I kept your secret," I whispered to the cold earth. "I kept them safe."

"You dare?"

The voice was a thunderclap.

I turned. Don Salvatore had returned. He stood ten feet away, shaking with a rage that seemed too big for his withered frame. Dante was behind him, his face an unreadable mask.

"You dare touch her grave?" Salvatore screamed. "You murderer! You poison!"

He lunged at me. He was old, but his grief gave him a terrible strength. He swung the heavy cane.

I didn't dodge. I deserved this. Not for killing her, but for leaving her son alone in this cruel world.

The silver wolf's head struck my temple.

Pain exploded in my skull. I fell to the muddy grass, warm blood instantly blinding my left eye.

"Father!" Dante shouted, stepping forward.

"No!" Salvatore yelled, raising the cane again. "She killed my Lucrezia! She took my light!"

He struck me again, on the shoulder, right over the old burns. I cried out, curling into a ball in the mud.

*Let him,* I thought. *Let him kill me. It would be faster than the cancer.*

Dante caught his father's arm before the third blow could land.

"Enough," Dante said. His voice was tight, strained. "Not here. Not in front of Mother."

Salvatore spat on me.

I lay in the mud, my body mixing with the rain and the blood. I looked up at Dante.

He was looking at his father with concern, checking the old man's heart rate. He didn't look at me.

"Get her out of here," Salvatore wheezed. "Before I finish it."

Dante looked down at me then.

For a second, I saw something flicker in his eyes. Guilt? Regret?

No. It was just disgust.

"Go, Elena," he said coldly. "Before I let him kill you."

I dragged myself up, using a tombstone for support.

I limped away into the rain, leaving a trail of blood on the pristine grass, walking toward a death that couldn't come fast enough.