Too Late For Regret: The Exiled Mafia Princess

But the day he took the throne, his first official decree was my absolute ruin.

He stripped me of my name and threw me barefoot into a brutal winter storm.

The men who used to bow to me ripped my coat from my shoulders. My own aunt rolled up her car window as I dragged my bleeding feet through the slush.

His ambitious new queen smiled down at me as the heavy iron gates slammed shut.

"If she doesn't survive the night, it will save the syndicate a great deal of trouble."

Hunted by my own bloodline, I was forced into hiding, washing dishes in a greasy diner just to survive.

For years, I told myself he did it to protect me from the traitors who massacred my father's crew. I thought he was playing a long game.

But the truth was far more monstrous.

He knew my father was still alive, chained and tortured in a flooded subterranean cell. He heard his screams and chose his gilded crown over my father's life.

When his elite enforcers finally kicked down the diner doors to silence me for good, I didn't run.

I wiped the grease from my hands, grabbed a blade, and prepared to tear their entire empire to the ground.

Chapter 1

Gianna POV

The slush of melting snow soaked through my torn silk stockings.

From the penthouse balcony, the man who once swore on his life to protect me looked down. He wasn't the Don yet—not officially. The ceremony was still hours away. But the Commission had already made their choice, and Angelo Moretti was no longer my shadow. He was the heir.

I had spent the morning in the estate chapel, lighting a candle for my father's soul. When I returned, the guards were waiting.

"The Consigliere requests your presence at the east gate," one of them said. His eyes couldn't meet mine.

I followed them barefoot, still in my silk dressing gown. I thought it was a formality. Some ritual before the ceremony. Angelo would be there. Angelo would explain.

He was there. On the balcony. Watching.

The Consigliere stood on the steps below, breath pluming in the frigid air as he read from a thick, leather-bound folder. Treason. Violation of Omertà. Association with my father's disgraced crew.

I looked up at Angelo, waiting for him to stop this. Waiting for him to descend those stairs and tell them all it was a mistake.

He didn't move.

An enforcer grabbed the back of my neck and shoved me downward. My face slammed into the icy pavement. The rough stone cut into my cheek, and the taste of copper filled my mouth.

"I accept the Don's judgment," I whispered, because what else could I say? There was no Don yet. There was only Angelo, and Angelo was letting this happen.

The enforcer kicked me in the ribs, sending me sprawling toward the massive iron gates.

Footsteps crunched in the snow in front of my face. I looked up. Red-bottomed stilettos. Valeria smiled down at me, wrapped in Angelo's old leather jacket—the one he wore when he drove me to the harbor on summer nights.

"The Commission needed a gesture," she said, crouching down. "A sacrifice to prove Angelo has no lingering loyalties to Enzo's bloodline. You understand, don't you? It was you or the throne."

I spat blood onto the snow, inches from her expensive shoes.

"Call him down here," I said. "Let him tell me himself."

Valeria's smile didn't waver. "He already did. This was his proposal."

She stood, signaled to the guards. The massive iron gates groaned shut behind me.

I dragged myself backward over the threshold just before they slammed together. The lock clicked with terrible finality.

I pushed myself up against the rough brick wall, cold seeping into my bones.

On the balcony, Angelo turned his back and walked inside. He never looked down.