Too Late To Love: The Don's Dying Wife

Sofia's long, acrylic nails drummed against the glass desk.

Click. Click. Click. It was a staccato rhythm calculated to grate on the nerves.

"Can I get you anything?" Sofia asked suddenly. "Tea? Coffee? Vodka?"

"No, thank you," I said.

"Oh, come on," she sighed, standing up.

She sauntered over to the small kitchenette in the corner of the waiting area, moving with a hip sway so practiced it looked choreographed.

She poured a cup of tea and brought it over, placing it on the low table in front of me with a delicate clink.

"Dante hates keeping people waiting," she said, perching on the arm of the chair opposite me. "But he's in the War Room. Dealing with... you know, the heavy stuff. He hates interruptions when he's looking at maps."

She smiled, clearly understanding nothing of the blood spilled for those maps, only that it sounded important to be near it.

It was a specific kind of smile. It reached her eyes, crinkling the corners.

It was innocent. It was the exact same smile I used to give Dante ten years ago.

Before I broke his heart to save his life.

That was when I realized why he kept her.

It wasn't just the sex. It wasn't even to humiliate me.

It was because she was a ghost of the girl I used to be. He was trying to recreate the past with a cheaper substitute.

"He treats me so well," Sofia continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He bought me a villa in Tuscany. He says he wants to take me there next summer."

Next summer.

I wouldn't be here next summer. I would be nothing but ash in a ceramic urn.

"That sounds lovely," I said.

She frowned, visibly disappointed by my apathy.

"He loves me, you know," she pressed, her voice harder this time.

I looked at her hands. They were smooth, unblemished by worry or time.

"Sofia," I said softly.

She blinked, startled by the use of her name.

"Why do you settle for this?" I asked.

"Settle for what?" She scoffed. "Being the Queen of Chicago?"

"Being a mistress," I corrected gently.

Her face flushed a violent red.

I wasn't trying to be cruel. I was simply tired. My bones felt like they were grinding against each other with every breath.

"If you think you have his heart," I said, leaning forward slightly, "then convince him to sign the divorce papers."

I had signed them a year ago. They were sitting in his safe, gathering dust.

He had refused to sign them.

He told me I didn't get to walk away until he was finished playing with his food.

Sofia stood up abruptly.

"You think you're so superior," she hissed. "You're just a washed-up princess, Elena. You're barren. You're cold. You're nothing."

"You abandoned him when he had nothing, didn't you?"

She was shouting now, her voice shrill.

"Look at you! You're withering away. You look like an old hag. No wonder he never touches you. No wonder he spends every night in my bed."

A sharp pain lanced through my chest.

Not from her insults, but from the phantom memory of Dante's touch.

It had been three years since he had touched me with anything other than anger.

"You're right," I said.

Sofia stopped mid-breath, her mouth hanging open.

"I am withering," I admitted quietly. "So take the advice. Get him to divorce me."

Her hand trembled with rage.

She wasn't used to a target that didn't fight back. She wanted a scream. She wanted a catfight.

But I had long ago promised myself I wouldn't get angry for Dante, wouldn't get sad for him.

And I certainly wouldn't fight over him with another woman.