Too Late For Regret: The Don's Queen

My mother was raising her crystal glass to celebrate my long-deferred marriage to Marco when he slammed his hand on the table.

He announced to our powerful Mafia families that he had already claimed another woman.

That woman was Isabella, a fragile, low-level associate. For years, Marco had used me as a forced chaperone, a convenient shield to hide their illicit affair from the Syndicate elders. He had stolen my meticulous ledger work to cover her mistakes, leaving me to endure brutal reprimands from the Underboss. He had even abandoned me in hostile, rival-controlled territory in the dead of night just to escort her safely home.

Now, he was publicly shattering our generation-long alliance.

"What man of consequence would seek out a wife with a spirit as unbending and a heart as cold as yours?" he sneered in front of everyone.

I stared at the man I had grown up alongside. When we were thirteen, I shattered the bones in my own hand pulling him to safety from rival soldiers. He swore a blood oath under Omertà that day to protect me for life.

Yet here he was, treating me like a disposable pawn, discarding our shared history for a pathetic, manipulative girl.

But I didn't cry, and I didn't beg him to stay.

As he turned his back on me to answer a frantic call from his fragile lover, I simply pulled out my phone.

I texted Don Alessandro Moretti, the most feared boss in the city, and allied myself with him instead.

Chapter 1

Sophia POV

My mother was in the midst of her toast, her crystal glass raised to celebrate my long-deferred marriage to Marco Rossi, when he brought his palm down upon the table and announced he had already claimed another woman.

The low hum of the ventilation fan suddenly became the room's only occupant, a dull drone against which the sound of a man's swallowing was a distinct, percussive event. A span of five heartbeats was all the time I possessed to erect a defense against the ruin of my house, before the Valenti and Rossi bloodlines commenced their own grim arithmetic of vengeance.

I stared at the man I had grown up alongside.

Marco's gaze was fixed upon a point on the far wall, a studied avoidance that drew his jaw into a rigid line of obstinacy.

Beside me, my father's fork descended to his plate with a deliberate lack of haste. The tap of silver against porcelain was a sharp, singular report in a room that had grown unnervingly still.

The faces of my parents darkened with a terrifying, quiet fury. In the circle to which we belonged, a slight of this nature was answered not with words, but with steel.

A short, strangled gasp escaped the lips of Marco's mother. But a moment before, she had been jesting about an heir for the Family; now, the blood had receded from her face, leaving it the color of old parchment.

Before my father could reach for the weapon concealed beneath his tailored suit jacket, I opened my mouth.

My voice, when it came, was a thing of perfect composure, betraying nothing of the maelstrom within. I addressed my gaze to the Rossi elders and informed them that my affections had already been pledged to another.

My mother's head turned toward me with a sharp, incredulous motion, her eyes widening as she demanded the meaning of my declaration.

I kept my shoulders from tightening and explained that I had held the matter in confidence out of respect for my duties, and that the arrangement had but recently been made formal.

It was not a lie born of desperation. For months, I had been quietly building an alliance with a man whose name would make every capo in this room reach for their holsters. I had simply chosen this moment to reveal the card I had been holding in reserve.

Marco let out a harsh, ugly sneer.

He leaned his weight across the table, the polished mahogany groaning under his hands, and his eyes held a dark, insolent mirth. "And what man of consequence," he asked, his voice pitched for all to hear, "would seek out a wife with a spirit as unbending and a heart as cold as yours?"

I did not defend myself. I allowed his insult to hang in the heavy air, a foul and lingering vapor.

The celebratory dinner ended in an absolute, freezing tension.

The compact that had bound our two houses for a generation, a thing once thought inviolable, now lay shattered on the floor between us, as irreparable as the crystal goblet he had overturned. Its contents, a deep red wine, seeped slowly into the fibers of the carpet. I felt a strange quietude settle over me as I mentally affirmed the secret bond I had recently forged with my new protector.

I walked out of the restaurant and into the crisp, biting air of the night. The street was preternaturally quiet, lined with dark, hulking motorcars and their heavily armed attendants.

The heavy report of footfalls on the pavement sounded behind me. It was Marco; he reached me before I could gain the sanctuary of my waiting motorcar.

He grabbed my elbow. I wrenched my arm from his grasp with a force that surprised us both.

He accused me of throwing a childish tantrum in there just to save face.

I regarded him as I would a stranger who had mistaken me for another.

He ran a hand through his hair, his tone shifting to something defensive. He professed that Isabella was struggling with her associate duties. He professed that Isabella was a fragile creature, one who required his solace this very night.

My eyes fell to the dark, wet flagstones at my feet. In a voice devoid of inflection, I summoned a memory from our youth.

I spoke of a certain back alley, and of the rival soldiers who had cornered him there when he was but thirteen. I spoke of his blood on the cobblestones, and of the splintered bones in my own hand from the labor of pulling him to safety.

I spoke, too, of the oath he had sworn under Omertà that day—a vow to be my protector for all his life.

A wave of impatience washed over his features, and he made a sharp, dismissive gesture with his hand, silencing my next word before it could form.

He acknowledged the oath, but his voice was thick with irritation. He stressed again that Isabella was delicate. She needed him right now.

He lowered his voice and promised he would still marry me and take care of me, but only after Isabella was properly settled and safe.

I looked into his dark eyes and felt absolutely nothing.

I told him that would not be necessary. I stated clearly that I had a man now.

I told Marco that the debt of the past was void. The blood oath was broken. We were entirely even.

Marco fell silent.

Then he laughed. It was a cold, dismissive sound.

He doubted my mysterious man even existed. He mocked the idea, saying I never had the time or the charm to meet anyone outside our immediate crew.

As if summoned by his words, his burner phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

He pulled it out. The screen lit up with Isabella's name.

The rigid set of his shoulders dissolved. The hard, metallic quality in his eyes was replaced by a sudden, unguarded warmth.

Without another word, he turned his back on me and walked away into the darkness. He never looked back.

I watched him disappear, the man who had sworn a blood oath to protect me, now running to answer a call from the woman he had publicly claimed over our shattered engagement. My fingers found my phone, and I typed a single message to the one man who had never once broken his word to me.