Too Late For The Ruthless Don's Regret

The crystal chandelier swayed violently above the dinner table. In that fraction of a second, time seemed to stop.

My husband, Dante, didn't hesitate. He didn't reach for me.

He dove across the table, tackling his "fragile" first love, Mia, to the floor. He shielded her body with his own.

Gravity took over. The heavy metal slammed into my legs, crushing them instantly.

While I lay buried under the debris, bleeding into the beige carpet, Dante was screaming for a medic—because Mia had a paper cut.

It wasn't the first time he chose her. He had run my taxi off the road because she faked a fall. He gave her my dying father's antique rosary just because she thought it was a pretty accessory.

But the final blow wasn't physical.

While Dante was at a hotel comforting Mia through a "nightmare," he ignored the urgent calls to authorize my father's bone marrow transplant.

My father died alone of infection because Dante was too busy playing hero to a liar.

When Dante finally returned to the penthouse, expecting me to be waiting there to beg for his forgiveness, he found the house silent.

He found the signed divorce papers in the fireplace.

And then, he found the death certificate dated three days ago.

I didn't leave a note. I didn't leave a fight.

I just left him with the silence he deserved, and vanished into the night.

Chapter 1

Elena Rossi POV

The world tilted on its axis.

My head throbbed in a brutal rhythm that matched the sharp, stabbing agony radiating from my left arm.

I lay sprawled on the cold marble floor of the auction house foyer.

Above me, standing at the top of the grand staircase, Mia was screaming.

Her hands were empty. Her neck was bare.

"She tried to take it back!" Mia shrieked, her voice echoing sharply off the vaulted ceiling. "She pushed me! She tried to kill me over a necklace!"

Lies.

I tried to push myself up, but my left arm gave way under my own weight.

A sickening crunch vibrated through my shoulder.

I gasped, the sound wet and weak against the stone.

The heavy oak doors crashed open.

Dante.

He looked like a storm carved out of granite. His tuxedo was immaculate, a stark, cruel contrast to the broken mess I had become.

He stopped.

His eyes swept over the scene.

He saw me.

He saw the blood trickling from my hairline, staining the white marble crimson. He saw the unnatural angle of my arm.

Then, he looked up.

He saw Mia clutching the banister, sobbing, her chest heaving in a perfect performance of terror.

Dante moved.

But he didn't move toward me.

He took the stairs two at a time, rushing past my crumpled body without casting a single downward glance.

The draft from his urgent stride chilled the sweat on my skin.

"Mia," he breathed as he reached the top.

He didn't ask what had happened. He didn't stop to check for a pulse on his wife.

He gathered the nineteen-year-old girl into his arms, shielding her from a threat that didn't exist.

"I'm so scared, Dante," Mia wailed into his chest. "She's crazy. She wants me dead."

"Shh," Dante soothed her, his hand stroking her hair. "I've got you. You're safe."

I managed to lift my head.

"Dante," I whispered.

It came out as a broken croak.

He turned his head. His eyes were black pits of disgust.

"You would hurt the girl saving your father over a piece of jewelry?" he spat.

The venom in his voice paralyzed me more than the fall.

"She pushed me," I rasped.

"Liar," Mia sobbed louder, burrowing deeper into his coat. "Don't be mad at her, Dante. She's just jealous. Please don't hurt her."

She was playing him like a master violin.

And he was listening to every note.

"She can get up herself," Dante said, his voice cold enough to freeze the blood on my face. "If she has the strength to attack a donor, she has the strength to walk."

He scooped Mia up into his arms, cradling her against his chest.

He began to descend the stairs.

I watched his polished shoes come closer.

Step. Step. Step.

He reached the bottom landing.

He had to step over my legs to get to the exit.

He didn't hesitate.

He stepped over me as if I were nothing more than debris cluttering the sidewalk.

"Call the car," he barked at a security guard who was staring in horror. "Get Mia to the hospital. She's in shock."

"Sir," the guard stammered, pointing helplessly at me. "Mrs. Vitiello... she is bleeding."

"She'll survive," Dante said without looking back. "She always does."

The doors swung shut behind them.

Silence rushed back into the foyer.

I stared at the ceiling. The crystal chandelier blurred into a halo of light.

He didn't care.

It wasn't just that he loved her. It was that he despised me.

I was the inconvenience. The old obligation. The withered branch.

A waiter finally ran over, dropping to his knees beside me.

"Ma'am? Can you hear me?"

I closed my eyes.

The pain in my arm was blinding, but the hollow space in my chest was worse.

My husband had just left me bleeding on the floor to comfort the woman who put me there.

The vows were dead.

I wasn't his wife anymore.

I was just an obstacle he hadn't figured out how to remove yet.