He Chose His Mistress Over My Dying Call—Now The Mafia King Is Begging On His Knees

The sight of Vincent Caruso—a man before whom senators, federal judges, and ruthless mafia capos trembled—dropping to his knees on a greasy diner floor was surreal.

He lowered his head, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs, his proud shoulders shaking violently.

""I know,"" Vincent choked out, hot tears spilling down his pale face, cutting tracks through the rain on his cheeks. ""I know what I did. I was blind. Madison... she fed my vanity. She made me believe that showing weakness to you, showing that I needed you, would make me soft. I thought my empire was keeping you safe. But I was building a cage.""

Emma stood three feet away from him, watching him weep. A year ago, this display would have shattered her heart and made her rush to hold him. But now, it only felt like an overdue reckoning.

""Madison didn't make you turn your phone face down, Vincent,"" Emma said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. ""Madison didn't tell you to say 'Not now' when your wife told you she had collapsed in an emergency room. That was you. You decided that your dinner with your mistress was more important than whether I was breathing.""

""She wasn't my mistress!"" Vincent yelled in raw agony, looking up at her with red-rimmed eyes. ""I never touched her, Emma! I swear on my mother’s grave, on my own soul, I never touched Madison Vale! But I let her whisper in my ear. I let her make me feel powerful while you made me feel human. And I hated being human because humans can get hurt!""

He crawled forward on his knees until his trembling hands hovered just inches above the hem of her simple cotton dress, not daring to touch her without permission.

""I ruined them, Emma,"" Vincent sobbed, his voice breaking into pieces. ""The Vales are bankrupt. Madison is disgraced, banned from every club and society circle from New York to Palm Beach. I stepped down from the family commission. I handed the shipping lines to my cousins. I liquidated my assets. I have nothing left except the money in my accounts, and I will burn every single dollar if you just tell me how to earn one second of your forgiveness.""

""Money?"" Emma gave a bitter, humorless laugh that echoed off the empty diner walls. ""You still think this is about money, Vincent? Look around you! I wash dishes. I serve clam chowder to fishermen. I live in a drafty garage room with a single space heater. And I am a thousand times richer here than I ever was sitting in your forty-million-dollar penthouse!""

""I know,"" Vincent whispered, pressing his forehead against the cold linoleum floor in complete, utter submission. ""I don't want you to come back to my world, Emma. If you want to stay in Maine, I will buy a shack on the rocks. I will sweep the floors of this diner. I will sleep on the porch in the rain. Just don't look at me like I am a stranger. Please... I am dying without you.""

Emma looked down at the broken titan at her feet. She felt no triumph. Only a deep, hollow ache for what could have been.

""You need to leave, Vincent,"" she said quietly. ""Get off the floor. You're embarrassing yourself.""