The Don’s Fallen Queen Chapter 05

The Don’s Fallen Queen Chapter 05

Another firework shot straight toward the balloon.

Flames instantly tore through the silk.

The dancing figure swayed once—then fell straight through the center of the burning basket and crashed violently into the water below.

“Sierra!”

Dante’s scream ripped his throat raw.

Without even thinking, he dove in after her.

Underwater, everything was black and silent.

His lungs burned for air, but he kept reaching blindly through the darkness, searching for her again and again.

Twenty minutes later, his men finally dragged him back onto the dock.

“She’s dead,” Roxanne said quietly. “No one survives a fall from that height.”

Dante shoved her away violently.

“She’s alive,” he said hoarsely. “She wouldn’t do this.”

His breathing was uneven.

“She’s hiding from me. That’s all.”

Elena dropped to her knees beside him, crying hard enough to shake.

“Dante… I’m sorry. If I hadn’t gone to you for help, none of this would’ve happened.”

He stared silently at the dark river.

“You saved us,” he finally said. “This isn’t your fault.”

Elena moved closer, fingers tightening around his sleeve.

“Dante,” she whispered softly, “the Moretti family can’t go without a woman beside you.”

Under the law, a Don couldn’t remarry without his wife’s consent.

As long as Sierra was alive—or refused to sign the papers—Elena would remain nothing more than a mistress.

“Maybe…” she whispered carefully, “we should have the wedding first. Once she sees it, maybe she’ll stop running from you.”

Something in Dante’s expression dimmed.

He’d meant to say not now.

Instead, he said—

“Fine.”

His eyes stayed fixed on the water.

“I’ll keep looking for her,” he said quietly.

His jaw tightened slowly.

“But if she wants to disappear so badly…”

A long pause.

“Then she can hear about the wedding with everyone else.”

Without him, Sierra had no family. No name. No future.

Where else could she possibly go?

The river remained silent beneath the night sky.

Above Atlantic City, the last burning sparks from the lantern drifted slowly into darkness.

From that night on, Dante never went home again.

He stayed at the club instead, sleeping in the same room Sierra used to sleep in.

He remembered how much she loved quiet things.

Books. Ink. Silence.

Back then, her room always carried the faint scent of sandalwood and paper—clean and crisp, like everything about her.

But this place smelled different. Too sweet.

Perfume layered over sweat, lust, and desperation.

Dante refused to let anyone clean the room. He wouldn’t even allow them to change the sheets.

Because buried beneath that cheap floral blanket, traces of her still remained.

A trace of her skin.

A strand of her hair.

Proof that Sierra had once existed here.

But even those traces were fading.

And the more they disappeared, the more something inside him seemed to come apart with them.

He tore through the closet desperately, searching for anything that still belonged to her.

In the end, he found an old leather notebook hidden at the very bottom of a drawer.

The moment he opened it, elegant handwriting filled the page.

[Christmas is coming soon. I wonder if he’s warm enough in prison. I wonder if they’re feeding him properly. Made five thousand dollars this month. Need to work harder. Soon, I’ll be able to see him again.]

His fingers tightened clumsily around the page as he turned to the next entry.

[Mrs. Roxanne forced us to go shopping today—new dresses, new jewelry. I didn’t want any of it. But I saw a suit. Navy blue. Tailored. He’d look perfect in it.]

[Tonight I’ll work twice as hard. I want to buy him something decent.]

Dante’s hands started shaking violently.

He forced himself to turn another page.

[Old Vance came in today. Everyone avoided him. They said he was a pervert. I took his booking, though.]

[The girls asked why I work so hard. I didn’t know how to answer. Maybe because of hope. Maybe because of him.]

The next line was messier, as though written with trembling hands.

[I’m not the same anymore.]

But he still loves me.

And men like Dante don’t throw away the women they love.]

Hot tears splashed onto the paper, blurring the ink instantly.

The harder Dante tried to wipe them away, the more the words smeared.

Then suddenly—

The door slammed open.

A young soldier rushed inside, breathless, too panicked to remember knocking.

“Don Moretti—something happened.”

His face had gone pale.

“Donna—she—”