Too Late To Apologize, Mr. Billionaire

The distant hum of the city was drowned out by the aggressive purr of the motorcade.

Through the glass doors, four black Rolls Royces pulled up to the curb with military precision. The doors opened in unison.

Dante stepped out of the lead car.

I had to admit, he looked impeccable. He was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, tailored to hide his flaws and accentuate his power. His hair was slicked back. He looked every inch the Mafia Prince he pretended to be.

He didn't look like a man who was cheating. He looked like a conqueror surveying his new kingdom.

Bodyguards flanked him, shoving aside the few paparazzi who had gathered.

Lola let out a squeal of delight that pierced the air. She abandoned me on the floor and ran toward the doors.

"Dante! Baby!"

Dante caught her as she threw herself into his arms. He spun her around, laughing. It was a picture-perfect moment. The King and his Queen.

He kissed her, deep and showy, making sure the cameras caught the angle.

"There she is," Dante announced, his voice booming as he walked into the lobby, Lola hanging off his arm like an expensive bauble. "My Old Lady. The woman who tames the beast."

The staff, who had been watching me get beaten moments ago, exchanged nervous glances before breaking into applause.

"Congratulations, Mr. Moretti!"

"You look beautiful, Lola!"

Dante beamed, soaking in the adoration. He raised a hand, silencing them.

"Tonight is a celebration," he declared. "I’m authorizing a five-thousand-dollar bonus for every employee in the building. Drinks are on me!"

A raucous cheer went up. They loved him. He was generous. He was charming.

He was a fraud.

I slowly dragged myself up to a sitting position. My body ached with every breath. My lip was definitely swollen, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

I began to pick up the pieces of the locket. One shard of silver. One bent hinge. A fragment of the photo—just my mother’s eye, staring up at me from the cold marble.

"Look at her," Lola sneered, pointing a finger at me. She was safe in Dante's arms now. "She’s still picking up trash."

Dante frowned. He followed her finger.

He saw a woman on the floor, hair disheveled, bleeding, surrounded by broken glass.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to place the inconvenience.

Then, recognition struck him like a physical blow.

His tan face drained of all color. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

He dropped his arm from Lola’s waist as if she had suddenly caught fire.

"Seraphina?" he whispered.

The lobby went quiet again. The staff looked back and forth between the glowing couple and the broken woman on the floor.

I stood up.

I swayed slightly, but I locked my knees. I wiped the blood from my lip with the back of my hand and met his gaze.

"Hello, Dante," I said.

"What... what are you doing here?" he stammered. Panic was starting to seep through his composure. "You're supposed to be... I thought you were at home."

"I was," I said. "Then I saw the billboard."

Dante flinched.

"Look, Seraphina, I can explain," he started, taking a step toward me, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just business. It's a strategy. You know how the families are."

"She attacked me!" Lola interjected, grabbing Dante’s arm again, her nails digging into his suit. "She came in here acting crazy! She tried to hurt me, Dante! Look at what she did!"

Lola had absolutely no injuries, but she wailed like a grieving widow.

Dante looked at Lola, then back at me. He saw the blood on my face. He saw the torn blazer.

He knew exactly what had happened.

And for a second, I saw the calculation in his eyes. He weighed me—the useful, boring secretary—against Lola, the trophy he wanted to show off.

He made his choice.

He straightened his spine and put on his mask of arrogance.

"Seraphina," he said, his voice cold. "You shouldn't have come here. You're drunk. You're embarrassing yourself."

I smiled.

It wasn't a nice smile. It was the smile of a woman who had just realized she was holding the detonator.

"Am I?" I asked.

"Yes," Dante said dismissively. "Go home. We'll talk about your severance package in the morning."

The thumping noise outside was deafening now. The glass walls of the lobby began to vibrate violently.

Shadows fell over the plaza outside as a massive black military helicopter descended right onto the street, blocking traffic and blotting out the sun.

The side of the helicopter bore a crest. A golden lion holding a bleeding heart.

The Vitiello crest.

Dante turned to look. His knees actually knocked together.

"Dante," I said softly, my voice cutting through the roar of the rotors. "I don't think I need a severance package."

The doors of the lobby were blown open by the force of the landing.

My father walked in. He wasn't alone. He was flanked by ten soldiers carrying assault rifles at the ready.

But I only saw him.

Don Salvatore Vitiello stopped in the center of the room. He looked at Dante. He looked at Lola.

Then he looked at me. He saw the blood.

"Who touched her?" he asked.

His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a grave being dug.

"Do you know the penalty for striking a Vitiello?" he asked Dante.

Dante fell to his knees.