The Mafia Don's Vain Regret

My husband, the terrifying Mafia Don, dropped fifteen million dollars on a luxury yacht just to throw a lavish, high-profile birthday celebration for his precious first love.

And today marks exactly seven days since I died of an infection in a Detroit slum, simply because I couldn't scrape together a few cents for antibiotics.

At the banquet, an oblivious guest tactlessly brought up my name.

Alessandro dialed my number for the first time in five years.

"Genevieve, if you've suffered enough, crawl back here and beg Elena for forgiveness."

That is, until the estate doors were violently shoved open.

A scavenger walked in, leading a little boy whose face was an eighty-percent match to Alessandro's.

...

Right now, my soul is floating above that very estate on the shores of Lake Como.

Clad in an impeccably tailored custom suit, holding a flute of the finest champagne, Alessandro looks down with eyes full of tenderness at the woman by his side.

Elena.

The daughter of the former Don, and the very woman who shoved me straight into hell five years ago.

Today is Elena's birthday.

Alessandro blew fifteen million dollars on a luxury yacht named in her honor.

"Alessandro, thank you. This is the most wonderful gift I've ever received," Elena coos. Her eyes gleam with a victor's pride.

Alessandro dips his head to kiss her forehead, his tone dripping with indulgence. "As long as you like it, I'd buy the entirety of Lake Como for you."

Floating in mid-air, I watch the scene unfold.

My heart stopped beating exactly seven days ago. Why, then, does my chest still ache so hollowly when I look at them?

Five years ago, Elena framed me, accusing me of leaking family secrets to a rival cartel.

Alessandro didn't even allow me a single word of explanation. He just pulled his gun and shattered my right kneecap.

"Genevieve, you betrayed the Family, and you betrayed me. Rot in Detroit. Never let me see your face again."

And just like that, I was tossed into a smuggler's truck and dumped like a dead dog in the slums of Detroit.

At the time, I was two months pregnant.

For the past five years, dragging a crippled leg, I scavenged for scraps in dumpsters and sold my blood on the black market—all just to keep my son, Nero, alive.

Meanwhile, my husband was throwing millions at another woman.

Suddenly, the estate doors are shoved open.

Frowning slightly, Alessandro shields Elena behind him and stares at the door.

Standing there is Marcus, a scavenger from the Detroit slums whose sole job is disposing of nameless corpses off the streets.

And tightly held in Marcus's hand is a painfully skinny boy.

Nero.

My son.

He's only four years old, drowned in a tattered, oversized jacket. The torn tips of his shoes reveal toes purpled from the freezing cold.

The moment I see Nero, my soul violently shudders.

I try to lunge forward to hold him, but my hands pass right through his fragile frame.

"Where did these beggars come from? Throw them out." Alessandro's voice is completely devoid of warmth, looking at them as if they were cockroaches crashing his party.

Marcus nudges Nero forward.

"Don Alessandro," Marcus says nervously. "I was just paid to drop this kid off."

Alessandro's gaze falls on Nero's face, and his expression shifts ever so slightly.

Nero's eyes are practically carved from the exact same mold as Alessandro's.

Whispers immediately ripple through the crowd.

The blood drains from Elena's face.

Alessandro takes a step forward, looming over Nero, his eyes steeped in blatant disgust.

"Who put you up to this? Genevieve? Does that bitch honestly think she can crawl back into this family by parading around some stray bastard who happens to share my features?"

Nero lifts his head. His eyes—wide and skittish as a frightened fawn's—lock onto Alessandro.

"Are you my daddy?"

Alessandro's chest tightens for a fraction of a second.

The kid's eyes, even the stubborn curve of his jaw—it's an eerie, almost mirrored reflection of his own bloodline.

But cold logic instantly crushes that fleeting moment of vulnerability.

He knows his own heavily traumatized body better than anyone.

Years ago, that near-fatal accident not only put him in the ICU for two solid months but also resulted in a brutal medical diagnosis.

The severe damage to his abdomen and nerves meant his chances of ever fathering a child naturally were practically nonexistent.

At that thought, Alessandro lets out a mocking scoff. "I'm not. Go back and tell Genevieve who coached you that trying to scam me with a bastard who doesn't even know who his real father is won't work."

Floating in the air, I watch Nero flinch.

Marcus clears his throat. "I'm just running an errand for Genevieve. She begged me on her deathbed to drop the kid off at your estate."

Dead?

Alessandro's pupils contract sharply, but the flash of shock is swiftly swallowed by thick mockery.

"Dead? Genevieve is harder to kill than a cockroach. How could she possibly be dead?"

"Now she's faking her own death for sympathy? This little stunt is beyond pathetic."

In his eyes, I will always be a ruthless liar.

Five years ago, it was Elena who leaked the Family's trade routes, triggering that lethal ambush.

Yet, during the crossfire, she used her self-inflicted wounds to mask herself as a victim, pinning the treason entirely on me.

She made me carry the blood debt for the old Don's death.

Yes, in Alessandro's heart, Elena is the flawless angel who took a bullet for him, and I am nothing but a selfish, venomous, manipulative fraud.

Even though I am truly dead, he still thinks I'm just acting.

Suddenly, Nero's eyes turn red, and he yells at Alessandro, "Mommy isn't lying! Mommy really went to sleep, and no matter how much I shook her, she wouldn't wake up!"

As he shouts, Nero clings tightly to the filthy plastic bag in his hand.

Inside the bag is a half-empty bottle of cheap, leftover painkillers and a small chunk of moldy, rock-hard bread.

Those were our very last rations in Detroit.

Alessandro stares at what looks like absolute trash, the disgust in his eyes deepening.

Elena steps forward, covering her nose with a handkerchief and feigning a look of pity.

"Alessandro, Genevieve is so cruel. Even if she's desperate to return to the estate, she shouldn't use such despicable methods. Torturing a child like this just to put on a show..."

Her words are the spark to a powder keg, instantly igniting Alessandro's fury.

"Throw this bastard out!"