Too Late For Regret: The Mafia King's Runaway

I watched my husband, the most feared Capo in New York, sign away our marriage with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for ordering a hit.

The nib of his Montblanc pen scratched against the paper, drowning out the rain hitting the coffee shop window.

He didn't bother to read a single word.

He thought he was signing routine shipping manifests for the family business.

In reality, he was signing the "Dissolution of Union" papers I had hidden beneath the cover sheet.

He was too distracted to check. His eyes were glued to his encrypted phone, frantically texting Sofia—the widow, the tragic beauty, the woman who had haunted our marriage for three years.

"Done," he grunted, tossing the stack into his armored SUV without even glancing at me.

"Business is concluded, Elena. We leave."

Moments later, his phone rang with her special emergency tone.

His demeanor shifted from cold boss to frantic protector instantly.

"Driver, divert. She needs me," he roared.

He looked at me with zero affection and ordered, "Get out, Elena. Luca will take you home."

He kicked me out of the car into the pouring rain to rush to his mistress, completely unaware he had just legally granted me my freedom.

I stood on the curb, shivering but smiling for the first time in years.

By the time the Don realizes he just signed his own divorce, I will be a ghost in San Francisco.

And he will have nothing left but his shipping logs and his regret.