Too Late: The Don's Queen Is Not Me

ian

ondescending curve of her lips flat

could escape, her telephone began to shr

at the illum

was

ummons without a m

ookie's voice as it b

critical shipment at

ur, promising him she would be t

ack at me, her brief astonishme

ittle laugh

f pathetic, her vo

ss took precedence, and that my ma

she forced the heavy door open

y without a ba

d, deadening silence

nights I had kept vigil in th

ust abandoned the Underboss of the city to

ached the SUV and opened

t his sister had depar

of contempt in his thr

tually rushing off to play the

is thumb moved across the scr

the devi

screen, and a muscle

o's publi

na and Leo, their faces bright under t

nt the entirety of the previous week in that same city

imestamp, and I registere

y of our fift

penthouse, a velvet box in my po

oned to say she was si

s, making a public spectacle

vestige of mercy in me w

ne back to Enzo, my

to get out

und garage as I took the driver's seat, a

red chassis a battering ram against the night

ing halt on the curb and strode

he lobby, their bodies recoiling from the c

e frosted glass door of

hed for the han

s eager voice fro

her on a romanti

a genuine, unguarded sound sh

thing of great importance

ifted my boot and drove it into

he heavy glass panel crashed inward, landi

d into t

emed to consum

et, a choked gasp of te

ood draining from his face un

with a profound, ch

so be held in May, my voice a quiet,

the first installment of a deb