Too Late For Regret, Mafia Capo

Valentina's POV

The bulletproof car idled quietly in the shadows of an old apartment building, three blocks away from the cathedral where I was supposed to have my wedding.

At that moment, my fiancé's burner phone let out a low, urgent vibration.

It was a text message from his ex-wife: "Dante, Leo is coughing up blood again. Come quickly, or your son will die before you say your vows."

I stared at the faintly glowing screen. The hum of the engine transmitted through the floorboards into my bones, feeling like a heavy tremor.

Sitting beside me was Dante Salvatore, the head of a New York Mafia family, a man who commanded a ruthless empire.

His daily routine consisted of nothing more than fighting for street turf and brutal expansion.

Yet, inside this cramped cabin, the air was thick with the scent of his cologne. Beneath the heavy aroma of sandalwood, there was a faint trace of whiskey and gunpowder, adding an atmosphere of mystery and danger.

His gaze was heavy, as if it could press down the surrounding air, possessing a power that could make even the toughest men bend their knees.

Dante stared at the text message, all the color draining from his face until his bronze skin looked like wax-covered bone.

His large, scarred hands tightly gripped the leather armrest, forming a sharp contrast against the dark material.

I looked at him, then looked down at my custom-tailored wedding dress. I had been looking forward to this wedding so much.

Even though this was already the third time.

Three times we had been ready to take our vows before the priest, and three times his ex-wife Isabella had called due to a sudden critical emergency with their son, Leo.

I had a very strict rule: three strikes, and after the third time, it is over.

I understood that our world was transactional, and I knew the Mafia demanded loyalty, blood, and sacrifice.

But I never expected that I would be the one sacrificed time and time again for the sake of his past.

Dante looked at me, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Valentina..."

I didn't let him finish. Putting on the perfect, considerate posture of a Mafia woman, I forced a stiff smile.

"Go."

Dante let out a shaky breath and reached out to grip my hand tightly.

"I will make it up to you," he promised. I simply nodded and signaled the driver to pull over.

The heavy lock clicked open. I stepped out of the car and stood on the cold, dark curb. A biting, freezing wind blew off the river, hitting my bare shoulders and making me shiver involuntarily.

I stood there, watching the convoy of black SUVs swiftly pull a U-turn. The tires shrieked against the asphalt.

Then, they disappeared in the opposite direction. They had completely abandoned me, leaving me standing alone on this grime-covered sidewalk, wearing a wedding dress.

I raised my hand and hailed a passing yellow cab. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of silent questions.

My phone vibrated in my clutch. I took it out and saw a notification from my offshore bank account, a wire transfer had just cleared.

One hundred million dollars. That was laundered "blood money" from the Salvatore family accounts.

The screen's phosphorescent glow stung my retinas; that long string of zeros looked piercingly cold and white in the darkness of the cab.

I accepted the money without hesitation; as my protector, Dante no longer held any value.

I opened an encrypted underground social network on my phone and found that the Mafia gossip forum had already exploded. Someone had leaked a blurry photo of me hailing a cab in my wedding dress.

The comments flooded in. They called me a pathetic stray dog, mocking how the Mafia boss had abandoned this "gold digger" for the third time, leaving her hanging at her own wedding.

They ridiculed my complete failure to secure the ultimate symbol of Mafia power.

I scrolled through these mocking words expressionlessly, decided not to read any further, and simply turned off my phone.

When I finally returned to my private penthouse, I took off the heavy wedding dress, letting the expensive silk fall carelessly onto the floor, and changed into a simple pair of sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.

Walking into the kitchen, I boiled a pot of water and made a simple bowl of pasta, adding nothing but a little olive oil.

I placed the bowl on the cold marble countertop, took a picture, and posted it to my private feed without any caption.

Within minutes, the women from other Mafia families left a string of sarcastic comments. They mocked my cheap meal and laughed at my miserable life.

My phone vibrated again. It was another bank notification. Dante had transferred another three million dollars, with only a short sentence in the memo: "Take care of yourself."

The corner of my mouth curled into a cold, ruthless smile.

Five years ago, on the night of Dante's first divorce from Isabella, when he showed up at my tiny apartment exhausted and covered in bruises, this simple pasta was exactly what I had cooked for him.

But he had long forgotten its meaning; he only knew how to use money to cover up his guilt.

Suddenly, my private encrypted phone rang. I answered it and heard Camila's voice. She was my longtime mentor and a legend in the underground world, having successfully married the head of a Swiss banking cartel.

"Valentina, are your psychological defenses still holding up?" Her voice was clear and cold, without a trace of pity.

"I am calculating my next move, but I regret getting involved in his power games."

A soft sigh came from the other end of the line.

"Switzerland has a higher level of power and security," Camila said. "I can get you out and give you sanctuary in Zurich. There is no need for you to stay here and be his sacrificial lamb."

I looked down at the simple bowl of pasta, quickly calculating my new wealth and my odds of winning, just like I always did.

"Make the arrangements."