She Whispered Her Regrets at His Grave — Not Knowing the Mafia Boss Heard Every Word

The Mercedes tore through the industrial outer limits of the city, passing abandoned brick factories and rain-drenched shipping yards.

I sat on the far side of the leather seat, wrapping my arms around myself, shivering violently from both the cold and the adrenaline crashing in my bloodstream.

Aleandro pulled a thermos from a compartment in the door, poured steaming black coffee into a metal cup, and handed it to me.

"Drink," he commanded softly.

"I don't want your coffee," I snapped, my voice shaking.

"Emma." His tone lowered into that velvet warning I remembered so well. "Drink the coffee. Your lips are blue."

I took the cup with trembling hands and took a small sip. The bitter, hot liquid burned my tongue, grounding me slightly.

"Explain," I demanded, looking at him through the gloom of the tinted windows. "Every word. Starting with why there is a body buried beneath that headstone."

Aleandro leaned back against the seat, resting his head against the headrest. In the passing yellow light of the streetlamps, the new scar on his face looked raw and dangerous.

"Six months ago, my uncle Marco made a move for the syndicate," Aleandro said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "He brought in mercenaries from Russia. They compromised three of my captains. They knew my schedule, my routes, and my home."

He looked at me, his dark eyes darkening further.

"They planted three hundred pounds of military-grade C4 beneath the floorboards of the Pier 14 warehouse," he continued. "I was supposed to be inside alone with Frank. But twenty minutes before the meeting, my informants told me Marco’s men were already moving toward your brownstone."

My heart did a terrifying flip. "My house?"

"They were going to take you, Emma," Aleandro said softly, reaching out to gently touch a wet strand of hair clinging to my cheek. "They knew you were my only weakness. If they held you, I would have surrendered the entire city without firing a shot. And once I surrendered... they would have killed us both."

"So you blew up the warehouse yourself?" I whispered, realization dawning on me like a cold wave.

"I let them blow it up," Aleandro corrected smoothly. "We put the body of one of Marco’s dead mercenaries inside, dressed him in my suit, and put my watch on his wrist. Frank released the story to the press before the smoke even cleared. The city believed Don Duca was dead."

"And Marco?"

"Marco took over my territory," Aleandro said, a slow, terrifying smile touching his lips—a smile that held no warmth whatsoever. "He spent the last six months celebrating his victory. Spending my money. Lowering his guard. Thinking the crown was his."

"And you let me suffer!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "You let me think the man I loved was dead! You let me live in that silent house alone!"

Aleandro moved across the seat so quickly I didn't have time to shrink back. He grabbed my face in both hands, his eyes blazing with a desperate, obsessive fire.

"Do you think it was easy for me?!" he roared softly, his breath hot against my mouth. "Every single night for one hundred and eighty days, I sat in a dark room ten miles away watching you through security feeds! I watched you cry at night! I watched you sleep with my shirt pressed against your face! I had to hold Frank back three times a week from coming to comfort you!"

My breath hitched. "You... you watched me?"

"I had to keep you alive!" he rasped, his thumbs stroking my cheekbones with wild tenderness. "If I had told you I was alive, you would have looked at the cameras differently. You would have walked through the city with hope in your eyes. Marco’s men were watching you, Emma! They watched your grief to confirm my death! Your tears were the only thing that kept them from looking closer!"

I stared at him, horror and profound, tragic love tearing my soul in two.