The Mafia Don Who Loved Me Too Late

My name is Evelyn. I grew up in the slums. Now, I'm the wife of Victor De Luca, head of New York's most feared mafia family.

Outsiders say I left him for money when he had nothing, then shamelessly came crawling back once he rose to power.

Only Victor and I know the truth. He paid five million dollars to drag me back, chain me here like a dog, and lock me away.

He married me, trapped me in this estate, and found new ways to break me every day.

He brought his mistress into our bed. He used his power to grind what was left of my dignity into dust.

But there's one thing he doesn't know.

I'm dying.

I have an inherited bone marrow failure disorder. The same disease that drained my mother dry. Now it's my turn.

Five years ago, I took the money and walked away. I let everyone call me every name they wanted because I couldn't make him watch me waste away.

I'm not afraid of death. I'm afraid of pain.

But it doesn't matter anymore.

This long, slow torture is almost over.

The ache started again, deep in my bones. Like a rusted awl grinding down my spine, one vertebra at a time.

I sat at the chipped vanity in my basement room, staring at the ghost in the mirror. Paper-white skin. Dark purple bruises along my collarbone that wouldn't fade.

Heat bloomed in my sinuses. That familiar taste of rust.

I grabbed a tissue and pressed it to my nose. Blood soaked through in seconds, dripping onto my hand—vivid, obscene red.

No panic. Fourth time this week.

I pulled open the drawer, shook out two unmarked painkillers, and swallowed them dry. The tablets scraped down my throat like gravel.

I'm not afraid of dying. Just the pain. These pills would buy me a shred of composure.

"Evelyn. Upstairs. Now."

Victor's voice cut through the intercom. Low. Cold. No room for disobedience.

I threw the bloody tissue away, wiped my mouth, and stepped into the hall.

The main floor reeked of cigar smoke. I climbed the stairs and stopped in the shadows at the landing.

A few steps away, Victor draped his coat over Lilia's shoulders. Gentle. Careful. The exact tenderness I used to know.

"Victor, your wife is watching us." Lilia leaned into his chest, crimson nails toying with the gold crest pinned to his collar. Her voice dripped honey. The look she shot me could have drawn blood.

Victor didn't turn. He took a drag of his cigar, exhaled pale smoke, and laughed coldly.

"Wife?" He scoffed. "She's a dog I bought for five million dollars. Lilia, don't waste your time on a servant's stare."

A servant.

I looked down at my fingers—nearly translucent from chronic anemia.

​"Come down." Victor sat back on the sofa, long legs crossed, watching me like trash he hadn't bothered to throw out. "Lilia's shoes are dirty. On your knees. Clean them."

The armed guards exchanged glances, then lowered their heads.

Everyone knew what Victor De Luca had become: New York's most brutal crime boss. And I, the woman who had "sold him out for money" when he had nothing, was the person he hated most.

Lilia held out her foot with a satisfied smile. Her stilettos were spotless.

I said nothing. I crossed the room, stopped three steps away, and slowly sank to my knees on the cold marble.

Pain shot through my joints. The disease had weakened me from the inside, leaving every movement stiff and slow.

Jaw clenched, I took out my handkerchief and wiped the toe of her shoe.

"So obedient." Lilia giggled.

Then she lifted the freshly brewed tea from the side table and tipped it over my shoulder and the back of my neck.

"Oh no. How clumsy of me." She covered her mouth, her eyes devoid of apology.

The tea soaked through my sweater, scorching my skin. My muscles seized, but I paused only a second before wiping away the last speck of imaginary dirt and standing.

"They're clean, sir." My voice didn't shake.

Victor's brows drew together.

His eyes moved to the blistering skin at my neck. Something flickered there, brief and unreadable, before rage swallowed it whole.

My calm infuriated him.

He lunged, closed a hand around my throat, and slammed me against the wall.

"Evelyn." His jaw clenched, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

Cigar smoke filled my lungs. "Cut the dead-eyed bullshit. You were all smiles when you took my five million and disappeared. What happened? Now that you're back in my hands, you've forgotten how to beg?"

The pressure around my throat clouded my mind. Blood pooled hot at the back of it.

I stared at the face inches from mine—so familiar, yet twisted by rage—and felt only a strange, hollow calm.

It didn't matter anymore.

I wondered what his face would look like if he ever learned the truth: that the five million I took had bought his life from a rival family, and that I was already dying.

But I would never tell him.

You can't take explanations to the grave. Or dignity.

I swallowed the blood rising behind my teeth. My voice was faint, but cold enough to cut.

"If you want to kill me, sir, pull the trigger."

Victor recoiled as if he'd touched a live wire and released my throat.

Chest heaving, he stared into my eyes. Then he drew his gun and fired. The antique vase beside me shattered.

"Get out."

I turned, walked down the stairs, and returned to my dark room.

The moment the lock clicked behind me, I clamped both hands over my mouth. A violent cough tore through my chest, blood spilling between my fingers and splattering the tile.

I lifted my head and stared at the calendar on the wall.

Eighty-nine days left.