Too Late To Love: The Don's Dying Wife

I needed to go to Headquarters. Not for money. Not for Dante. I was going for my mother.

When she died, she had left me a small porcelain doll.

It was a Lucky Doll, a delicate antique from Sicily that she swore held the prayers of our ancestors.

Three years ago, on the day we were married, I had placed it on his desk when he wasn't looking—a silent, foolish wish for his safety.

I needed it back. I needed to hold it when the end finally came.

I walked into the high-rise, the air conditioning chilling the sweat on my skin.

The guards studied the polished marble floor as I passed, unable to meet my eyes.

They had seen the video. They knew I was broken.

I took the elevator up. When I reached his floor, I stepped out.

But Enzo was there, blocking the heavy oak doors.

"Mrs. Cavallaro," he said, his voice hesitant. "The Don is... occupied."

"I don't care, Enzo," I said, my voice barely a rasp. "Let me in."

He looked at me. He looked at the bruises under my eyes, the way my clothes hung off my skeletal frame. He touched his earpiece.

"Boss," he murmured. "She's here. She looks... bad."

A pause. "Let her in," Dante's voice crackled through the silence, cold and indifferent.

Enzo stepped aside. I pushed open the doors.

Dante was there. He was staring at his computer screen, his face bathed in its artificial glow.

On the monitor, a video played on a loop: me, bleeding, broken.

He looked up when I entered, his expression unreadable, a mask of stone.

"Elena," he said. His voice was tight, strained.

I didn't look at him. I walked straight to the shelf behind his desk where the doll had sat for three years.

I shoved aside leather-bound books. I knocked over framed photos.

Empty.

"Where is it?" I asked, my voice a thin, unsteady thread. I turned to face him. "Where is my mother's doll?"

Dante leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if my presence were a migraine he couldn't shake. He looked exhausted. "What doll?"

"The porcelain one. The one with the blue dress. It was right here."

"Oh, that old thing?" The voice drifted from the corner, dripping with amusement.

I hadn't seen her. Sofia was perched on the leather sofa, legs crossed, holding a flute of champagne. She was smiling.

"Dante gave it to me," she said lightly.

My stomach dropped, a hollow sensation opening up beneath my ribs. "What?"

"I cut my hand yesterday, remember?" Sofia said, pouting slightly at Dante. "I was upset. Dante told me to take whatever I wanted to make me feel better. I liked the doll. It looked... expensive."

I looked at Dante, horror constricting my throat. "You gave her my mother's doll?"

Dante shrugged, a gesture of casual cruelty. "It was just a trinket, Elena. You never touched it. I didn't think you cared."

"It was my mother's," I whispered.

It was the only thing I had left of her. And he had given it to his mistress to stop her from crying over a papercut.

"Give it to me," I said, turning back to Sofia. I held out my hand, my own hand betraying me with a slight tremble.

Sofia swirled her drink, watching the bubbles rise. "I don't think so," she said. "It's mine now. Dante said so."

"Dante," I pleaded, my pride shattering. "Tell her to give it back."

Dante sighed, the sound of a man bored with his wife's hysteria. "Elena, stop causing a scene. It's just a doll. I'll buy you ten more."

"You can't buy this!" I screamed, my voice cracking. "It's not about the money!"

Sofia laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "With you, it's always about the money." She reached into her oversized designer purse and pulled out the doll.

"Here," she said, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Catch."

She didn't toss it to me. She lobbed it high into the air, creating a cruel arc destined for the unforgiving marble floor.