Too Late For Regret, Mr. Underboss

I caught the white roses at my best friend’s wedding.

Everyone expected Nero, the Mafia Underboss I’d loved for eight years, to drop to one knee and propose.

Instead, he ripped the bouquet from my hands and gave it to his secretary.

“Next time, Siena,” he said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. “Let Valentina have her moment in the spotlight.”

In front of every Capo and soldier in the city, he stripped me of my dignity just to please a girl who played at being a mobster’s muse.

To him, I was merely an entry in a ledger—forever pending, never prioritized.