Too Late To Beg: The Don's Regret

Elena POV

The memory slammed into me like a physical blow.

Three years ago. That was the first time the scent of her had clung to his skin.

I had been pregnant then, too. Eight months heavy with Mia.

I had waited up for him in the library, desperate for him to come home, to touch my belly, to be the man who had promised to protect me.

When he finally walked in, lipstick smeared like a bruise on his collar, I had screamed. I had cried. I had begged him to tell me why I wasn't enough.

He had tossed a scrap of black lace at me. Panties. Sofia's.

"Put them on," he had said, his eyes glazed with vodka and hate. "Maybe then you'll look like something I want to fuck."

I had turned and run. I had run for the stairs, blinded by tears. And I had fallen.

I remembered the sensation of tumbling, the hard marble striking my spine, the sickening crunch as I landed at the bottom. I remembered lying in a pool of my own blood, screaming his name.

He hadn't come. He had stepped over me, walked out the front door, and driven back to her.

I nearly died that night. They cut Mia out of me while I flatlined. And when I woke up, she was gone.

Nonna had taken her to the nursery in the East Wing, and I was told I was too weak, too unstable to be a mother.

Dante never visited me in the ICU. Not once.

Reality crashed back in as Dante shoved me against the wall. His forearm crushed against my throat, cutting off my air.

"Stop lying!" he roared.

The pressure on my neck was immense. My vision spotted with black.

But the pain in my abdomen was worse. His thigh was pressing directly against my fresh incision. I could feel the stitches popping, the warm wetness of blood seeping into my jeans.

"You love me," he spat, his face inches from mine. "You are obsessed with me. You stayed. You took the humiliation. You took the abuse. You stayed!"

He whipped his phone out with his free hand and tapped the screen. A video started playing.

It was me. Years ago. Kneeling on the floor of this very room, begging him not to leave for the night. Begging him to stay and hold me.

"Look at you," he sneered, shoving the screen in my face. "Look at how pathetic you are. Is that the woman who doesn't love me?"

I looked at the woman on the screen. She looked so young. So full of hope.

I looked back at Dante.

"That woman is dead," I whispered, my voice raspy from the pressure on my throat. "You killed her."

He froze.

I smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the baring of teeth from an animal caught in a trap, realizing the only way out was to chew off its own leg.

"You think I stayed because I loved you?" I laughed, a broken, wheezing sound. "I stayed because Nonna threatened to put my father in a cement mixer. I stayed because I thought if I gave you a son, you would let me see Mia."

His grip loosened slightly. Confusion clouded his rage.

"I didn't love you, Dante. I survived you."

He dropped his arm. I slid down the wall, clutching my bleeding stomach.

"You're lying," he whispered.

I looked up at him, my vision blurring.

"Check the dates, Dante. Check the bank accounts. I haven't spent a dime of your money on myself in two years. I haven't slept in your bed in three. I haven't said 'I love you' since the night you pushed me down the stairs."

"I didn't push you," he said automatically. "You fell."

I closed my eyes. "It doesn't matter."

I pushed myself up, using the wall for support.

"I'm bleeding, Dante. Again. Because of you. Again."

He looked down at the dark stain spreading on my shirt. His eyes widened. He reached out a hand.

"Elena—"

"Don't," I said. "Just... don't."