Too Late, My Mafia Heir Ex

a

s Ethan. His voice is laced with a pr

an... accident. She fell, hit her head.

ss. A message sent to a rival that grazed an

a perfect imitation of concern.

"Please." The plea is part of the show. The worried fi

xamined. He's putting on a show for the nurses, for his Soldiers lurking by the doors, talking about what a dear "frie

s a routine appointment for any high-ranking family member, a check on h

pression soft. "Ethan, you have y

"Cancel it. I can't leave

ily, to your role, to the future. By choosing his affair over his duties as an heir, he was spitting on that commandmen

unknown number. Photos. Ethan and Chloe kissing in his car. Ethan and Chloe in a club, her hands all over him. They

dically delete each photo and block the number. It fee

lothes, a memory surfaces. Ethan, two years ago, when I had the flu. He stayed wit

ct, too? Was

the man he is now, but for the stupid, trusting girl I used t

le tear rolls down my cheek. It's hot with rage. It's no

n and Chloe, attached at the hip, his laughter echoing through the sterile white roo

. "Red wine for you?" he asks, a reflex, bef

detail buried under seven years of memories he supposedly doesn't

g her the glass, his face once agai

ngue changes nothing. His manipulat