The cold Sicilian breeze blew against the glass windows of the imposing Santori mansion, but the sharper ice was inside Fiorella's chest.

The dining table, set for two, was a solitary work of art. Fiorella had spent the afternoon coordinating every detail: the risotto ai frutti di mare he loved, the special vintage wine, and the candles that had now melted into pools of wax on the linen tablecloth.

She looked at the gold watch on her wrist. 4:00 AM. Fiorella smoothed the silk fabric of her dress; underneath it, the daring lace lingerie now seemed like a bad joke against her skin. She was turning twenty-seven today, eight of them dedicated to being the perfect wife to a man who seemed to forget her existence the moment he walked out the door.

The sound of the powerful engine echoed in the courtyard, followed by the heavy slam of the front door. Minutes later, Donato Santori entered the dining room, his suit slightly disheveled and the smell of alcohol and smoke preceding him.

Fiorella stood up, her voice sounding more hoarse than she intended.

"Where were you, Donato?"

The Don of Cosa Nostra barely glanced at her, impatiently loosening his tie, his dark, tired eyes scanning the room.

"I was at the new nightclub," he replied, his voice hoarse. "I needed to see how things are going, the profits. It's my job, Fiorella."

"And why didn't you call me?" She took a step forward, her trembling hands hidden in the folds of her dress. "I waited all night."

Donato let out a dry, scornful laugh.

"For what? For you to complain about the loud music, the drinks being too strong, or the smell of cigarettes? I wasn't going to waste my time calling you. You're boring, Fiorella, always acting like you're in a convent."

A physical blow would have hurt less. Fiorella felt her throat close up.

"I went with Alessa and Lucas," he continued, indifferent to his wife's paleness. "They know how to have fun without turning everything into a funeral."

The sister's name burned in Fiorella's ears like acid. Alessa, always her, planting poison, distorting her image before her husband, and her own brother, Lucas, being complicit in that humiliation.

"Today is my birthday, Donato," she whispered, tears struggling to escape. "And our eight-year wedding anniversary. I thought... I made dinner, everything you like."

Donato stopped and let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes with an arrogance that shattered Fiorella's heart.

"Really? Is the drama starting already? Your sister did warn me you were going to play the victim today. I was working, damn it!"

He walked up to her, but not for a hug. He only stopped inches from her face, exuding power and dismissiveness.

"The world doesn't revolve around you, Fiorella. Tomorrow, go to Via Condotti and buy an expensive bag, or any other frivolous thing you like. Use my card and stop bothering me about a date. Next year, we'll travel, satisfied?"

He didn't even wait for an answer.

"Let's go to sleep, I'm tired."

The journey to the master bedroom was made in a sepulchral silence. Fiorella entered the marble closet and, with trembling hands, ripped off the dress and lingerie she had chosen with such hope. She put on simple cotton pajamas, feeling small, invisible.

When she entered the room, Donato was already undressed, lying under the Egyptian cotton sheets. As soon as Fiorella lay down, he stretched out his arm and pulled her close, embracing her waist with the possessiveness of someone grabbing an object that belongs to them.

In other times, that contact would have made Fiorella smile. She had always lived on scraps, contenting herself with the warmth of his body at night to compensate for the cold of his disdain during the day.

But today was different.

While Donato quickly fell asleep, his breathing becoming heavy against her neck, Fiorella stared into the darkness of the room, the tears finally rolled, silent and hot, soaking the pillow.

For the first time in eight years, the Don's touch brought no comfort, only the certainty that she was dying inside, little by little, in a golden cage where her only crime was loving a man who saw her as a burden.

The decision began to take shape in the midst of her silent crying: she couldn't take another single year.

Monday morning dawned with the pale sky of Palermo. Fiorella woke up before the sun. The weight in her chest from the previous night was still there, but the habit of eight years was a difficult chain to break.

With mechanical movements, she set out Donato's suit, matching the silk tie with the tone of his own secretary dress. In the kitchen, the aroma of fresh espresso and the smell of warm croissants filled the air.

She went up and woke him up as she always did: with gentle caresses and words of affection that he barely seemed to register.

"Honey, I'm already going to the construction company," she said, handing the porcelain cup into his hands.

"Okay," was Donato's only answer, without even looking her in the eyes.

Fiorella left the house in silence. Donato believed that she worked at the company on a whim, to "keep an eye on him." He called her frivolous and said that she spent fortunes, but the reality was a bitter secret: Fiorella had no access to bank accounts, nor to the credit cards that he thought she used. To have the basics, to buy medicine or a pair of socks, she needed her secretary salary.

She entered the company punctually at 08:00.

Two and a half hours later, the reception door burst open. Donato entered like a hurricane, his face obscured by fury.

"Where the hell did you put the spare key to my car, Fiorella?" he yelled, slamming his hand on her desk. "I wasted almost an hour looking for it! Are you incapable of leaving things where I can find them?"

"It was in the same place as always, Donato... on the silver hook," she replied quietly, feeling the gazes of the other employees.

He snorted and headed for the meeting room, where Lucas, Fiorella's brother and the Don's right-hand man, was already waiting for him to analyze the plans for the new hotel.

The main door of the office was opened with a strident joy. Alessa entered the meeting room as if she were the owner of the place.

"Donato!" Alessa exclaimed, gliding close to him and completely ignoring her sister. "Look at this limited edition Birkin bag, it's wonderful! It costs 50 thousand euros, give it to me as an early birthday present?"

Donato, who minutes before was shouting at Fiorella about a key, gave a sidelong smile.

"Of course, Alessa, I'll buy it and have it delivered to your house today."

Fiorella, who entered the room at that exact moment carrying a tray with hot espressos for the partners, felt her stomach churn, fifty thousand euros without a blink of an eye for his sister-in-law, while she herself had to count the pennies of her salary to pay her personal expenses.

As she passed Alessa, the "hurricane" moved too fast, with a calculated movement, Alessa bumped forcefully into Fiorella's shoulder.

Fiorella's heel broke, her balance disappeared, the tray turned over and the scalding coffee poured directly onto Fiorella's arm and chest.

"Ah!" Fiorella let out a muffled scream at the burning pain.

Donato and Lucas continued looking at the hotel plans, none of them stood up, none of them asked if she was okay.

"Oh, Fiorella! How clumsy!" Alessa laughed, making a fake pout. "You dirtied my new shoe."

Biting her lip to not cry from pain and humiliation, Fiorella left the room, picked up papers and a cloth to clean up the mess on the floor. She knelt down, trying to dry the coffee, with the skin on her arm already turning red and raw.

That was when it happened.

Alessa, pretending she was going to leave the room, took a heavy step, the stiletto heel descended with all its weight on Fiorella's hand, which was resting on the floor for support.

A dry cracking sound echoed in the silent room.

"Ah! My God!" Fiorella gasped, the stabbing pain shooting up her arm. "Alessa, my finger! You stepped on my finger!"

"Stop being so dramatic, Fiorella!" Donato snapped from the head of the table, without even bothering to look at his wife's hand. "It was an accident, stop trying to draw attention with your hysterical drama."

"Donato, it broke... I heard..." Fiorella whispered, holding the hand that was already beginning to swell and throb.

"It wasn't a big deal," Lucas corroborated, his voice as cold as ice, without any empathy for his own sister. "Clean it up quickly and get back to work, we have business to discuss."

Fiorella looked at the two men, her husband and her brother, and then at the victorious smile on Alessa's face. At that moment, the crack of her bone breaking was the sound of the last chain breaking.

She got up slowly, the injured hand hidden against her body, and left the room. They didn't see, but for the first time, Fiorella's tears were not of sadness, they were of hatred.

Fiorella did not cry. With an icy calm that would have startled anyone who knew her, she walked to the trash can, threw the pair of expensive heels away, and grabbed her purse. Barefoot, with her arm red from the burn and her left hand hanging unnaturally, she crossed the company lobby.

"Where do you think you're going?" Donato's voice echoed, authoritative, as he came out of the meeting room.

Fiorella stopped, but did not turn around.

"I'm going to the hospital, can't you see that my finger is clearly broken?" Her voice was devoid of any emotion.

She kept walking. On the sidewalk in Milan, Fiorella waved for a taxi. Before she could get in, a hand closed on her arm, pulling her back. Donato sent the taxi driver away with a scathing look.

"Are you crazy? Taking a taxi without an escort?" he growled, his jaw locked. "It's dangerous, Fiorella! Is all this to get my attention? Congratulations, you got it. Now get in the car."

Fiorella let out a dry, helpless laugh.

"I don't have a car, Donato, I don't have a driver. I've always taken taxis or buses. I've never had soldiers at my disposal."

"Liar!" Donato snapped, disbelief stamped on his face. "You are my wife."

"You are the Don," she retorted, her eyes burning into his. "With three calls, you'll find out that I'm telling the truth."

Annoyed and certain that he would unmask his wife's "drama," Donato pushed her into his armored car and dialed the family's head of security.

"Who is on duty for Fiorella's security now? Which soldier is her driver?" he asked, his voice overflowing with impatience.

There was silence on the other end of the line, followed by a hesitant voice:

"Don... Mrs. Fiorella has never had an escort, driver, or soldiers. You yourself made it clear, years ago, that she didn't need resources from the organization."

"I never gave that order!" Donato shouted, banging on the steering wheel.

But the seed of doubt had been planted. The silence that followed in the car was suffocating. Donato didn't say another word until they arrived at the elite private hospital.

At the reception, when filling out the form, he demanded:

"The health insurance card, Fiorella."

Fiorella handed over a blue and gold card. Donato frowned as he read the name printed on it.

"What the hell is this? Why are you using the Florentino family's plan?"

The Florentinos were powerful bankers. Bruno Florentino was Donato's advisor, his third in command, and friend.

"It's the only one I have," Fiorella said, sitting in a waiting chair. "Paolo and Marcela treat me like the daughter they lost. They knew I didn't have health insurance, so they put me as a dependent."

"How not? You are my wife! Our family has an international plan."

"You put Alessa as the beneficiary, Donato, not me."

"I never did that! Stop creating intrigues and give me the card that I pay for you!"

"You're a terrible Don, Donato Santori," she said, looking at the ceiling to not falter. "If you don't believe me, call the insurance company now and ask for the list of beneficiaries."

Donato called every second on the phone, his expression changing from fury to stunned confusion. Fiorella was not on the plan. In the place that should be hers, was Alessa's name. He hung up the phone after ordering the immediate cancellation of his sister-in-law and the inclusion of his wife.

The consultation was a nightmare for the Don's ego. The doctor, an experienced man who was not intimidated by Santori's power, examined the second-degree burns on Fiorella's arm and the x-ray that confirmed the bone fracture in her finger.

"You are negligent," the doctor said to Donato, without mincing words. "These injuries are serious. The finger didn't have an open fracture by luck, but the burn will need daily dressings."

Donato tried to retort, but the doctor ignored him. Fiorella's blood pressure was dangerously high, and the blood tests revealed something worse: profound anemia and very low glucose.

"I want a complete battery of tests now," ordered the doctor.

Two hours later, the doctor returned to the room where Fiorella was under observation. He looked at the papers and then at the couple.

"Well, this explains part of the malaise. The high blood pressure and weakness are not just from the pain."

Donato stepped forward, anxious.

"What does she have?"

"Mrs. Santori is five weeks pregnant," the doctor announced, the world seemed to stop for Donato. "But her nutritional state is worrying, anemia, low cholesterol... if we don't take care of this now, she won't have the strength to maintain this pregnancy."

Fiorella felt the air disappear from her lungs, pregnant again. Terror struck her before joy. She looked at Donato and saw the shock on his face. He didn't know about the others, he didn't know that she had already lost his future several times, alone, in the dark.

The hospital room, previously immersed in a tense silence, was filled with an electric energy. Donato seemed to have grown a few inches in pride—an heir, finally, the Santori blood would continue.

He approached Fiorella's bed, his hand hesitating in the air before touching her shoulder, but the door was flung open. Alessa entered, breathless, her eyes flashing.

"Pregnant?" Alessa let out a snorting laugh, walking to the foot of the bed with a sneering smile. "What a convenient miracle, don't you think, Donato?"

Donato frowned, the momentary happiness being obscured by his sister-in-law's presence.

"What are you doing here, Alessa?"

"I came to see how my 'dear' sister is," Alessa hissed, ignoring Fiorella's bandaged hand. "But I couldn't help but hear the news, I just find it strange... Could this child really be yours, Donato?"

Fiorella felt her heart skip a beat. She looked at Donato, hoping he would defend her with the fury of a husband betrayed in his honor.

"What are you talking about?" Donato growled.

"Oh, let's be realistic, you've been together for eight years and she's never gotten pregnant, not once!" Alessa circled the bed, like a predator. "Now, with only a few months left until the marriage contract ends for lack of heirs, Fiorella shows up pregnant? At the exact moment she would be discarded? What a delicious coincidence for someone who doesn't want to lose the good life, right?"

Fiorella gripped the sheets. Alessa's words were like knives. She wanted to scream that she had been pregnant before, that she had cried blood in solitary miscarriages while Donato was at the nightclub with Alessa, but the voice wouldn't come out.

"This child is mine!" Donato snapped, his voice echoing through the walls. "Go home, Alessa. Now!"

"But Donato..." Alessa tried, pouting.

"Get out!" He pointed to the door.

Alessa shrugged, casting one last look of contempt at Fiorella before leaving.

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. Donato sat in the armchair next to the bed. He knew that Fiorella was faithful. In eight years, they had never spent a single night apart, even after the worst arguments, he would return to her bed. On every business trip, she was there, like his silent shadow, there was no room for another man.

But Alessa's poison was potent.

Donato looked at Fiorella's womb. Eight years of nothing and now, just now? The seed of doubt, planted so skillfully by Fiorella's sister, began to germinate in the fertile ground of a Mafia Don's paranoia.

"Love..." Fiorella's voice was weak, almost a whisper. "Do you believe her?"

He didn't answer immediately. He got up, walked to the window, and watched the city lights. Doubt was a betrayal in itself.

"I know we never sleep apart, Fiorella," he said, without turning around. "But I admit the timing is... curious."

Fiorella felt the last drop of hope evaporate. He didn't believe her, not even with the proof of a broken bone and a life growing inside her. He was capable of seeing her.

"Curious?" she repeated, her voice gaining a bitter strength. "What's curious is that you prefer to believe a convenient lie than the fact that your wife has been neglected by you for almost a decade."

Donato turned around, his eyes cold.

"We'll see what the DNA test says when he's born. Until then, you'll be watched 24 hours a day. If this child is mine, Fiorella, you'll have everything, if not..."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. The threat of death hung in the air, dense and lethal. Fiorella closed her eyes. At that moment, she didn't feel fear. She felt the freedom of someone who had nothing left to lose.

The Santori mansion was lit up, but the atmosphere was heavy. In the dining room, the elite of Cosa Nostra awaited: Lucia and Alessandro, Donato's parents, and the patriarch Massimo, whose sharp eyes didn't miss a detail of the tension between the couple.

As soon as Fiorella entered, pale and with her broken finger duly immobilized, Massimo stood up. He ignored his grandson and walked to her, kissing her forehead with an affection that Donato hadn't shown for years.

"Welcome back, little one. A great-grandchild..." The old man smiled, but soon glared at his grandson. Donato's cell phone was vibrating, seeming more interested in business than in his injured wife.

"One day you'll regret it, Donato," Massimo hissed to his grandson. "And pray it's not too late."

Donato didn't answer. The cell phone rang and he withdrew to the office. It was Oliver Underwood, the Don of the American Mafia and his former brother-in-law. Oliver was married to Melissa, Donato's sister, who had already passed away.

When Donato returned to the table, his face was livid, burdened with a confusion he couldn't hide.

"What happened, my son?" Alessandro asked.

"It was Underwood, he called to warn that he's going to marry Mila Sokolov."

Massimo slammed his fist on the table, making the crystals vibrate.

"Viktor's bastard?" the old man growled. "I don't know how my daughter Elena is able to endure this. Viktor betrayed her and now this girl is going to join the Americans?"

"Nono... that's where things get complicated," Donato sat down, running his hand over his face. "Oliver found out that Mila isn't a bastard, she's the legitimate daughter of Viktor and Aunt Elena, the babies were switched at the maternity ward. The supposed mistress wanted to destroy the Sokolovs. Viktor was telling the truth all along: he never betrayed Aunt Elena."

Silence paralyzed the table. Lucia brought her hand to her mouth, feeling the weight of the injustice committed against her own niece.

"The girl suffered hell," Donato continued. "Mila lived locked in a basement for ten years by the woman who stole her, then she was thrown into an orphanage. She is a survivor and the blood heir of Elena."

"How is Oliver so sure?" Alessandro questioned.

"She's red-haired like all the Santoris, she has thrombophilia, just like grandma and Aunt Elena, and her blood is Rh Null, the rare blood of our lineage. Besides, she has our birthmark on her rib... the heart."

"Thrombophilia and rare blood..." Massimo murmured, looking at Donato sternly. "It's our mark. It requires extreme care. If Mila survived all this, she is a warrior."

Donato finally looked at Fiorella. The cruel doubt that Alessa planted about her pregnancy still echoed, but the story of Mila—a legitimate heir who was denied and mistreated because of lies—left him uneasy. He looked at Fiorella's bandaged hand and at the tired face of the woman he had ignored for eight years.

Fiorella stood up slowly, feeling the dizziness of anemia and the pain of her broken finger.

"I need to rest," she said, her voice cold, without looking at anyone. "Excuse me."

As she climbed the stairs, Massimo's voice echoed in the hall, like a prophetic warning for Donato:

"Mila's fate shows what happens when the blood of a Don is left in the hands of those who hate him. Be careful not to discover the truth about your own heir when it's too late to ask for forgiveness, Donato."

Later, in the bedroom, Fiorella tried to get into the shower stall, her fingers throbbed under the bandage and the coffee burns still stung.

The door opened and Donato entered, already loosening the knot of his tie.

"Get out," Fiorella said, her voice tired.

"I'll help you," Donato retorted, approaching with the arrogance of someone who commands everything. "We're married, I know every curve of your body. I've licked, sucked, and fucked you so many times that I've lost count. No need for modesty now."

Fiorella felt a lump in her throat.

"Shower is different, Donato."

"Don't be ridiculous. We always take showers together after making love."

Fiorella stopped and stared at him, her eyes filled with deep sorrow.

"We never take showers together after sex, you must be confusing me with someone else."

Donato frowned.

"What are you talking about?"

"When you finish, you go to the bathroom alone, clean yourself, and leave, only then do I enter. It's always been like that."

Donato turned her to face him, holding her arms firmly, but without hurting her.

"I never betrayed you, Fiorella, understand? You are the only one in my life and in my bed, I'm not confusing you with anyone!"

He took the liquid soap she used to start lathering her, but stopped when he read the label. It was a cheap brand, from a common supermarket.

"Why are you using this?" he questioned, his voice filled with strangeness. "Where are the expensive French soaps and oils that I have bought for you every month?"

Fiorella let out a short, lifeless laugh, a solitary tear running down her face.

"Donato... I never got anything from you, everything I have, from my soap to my work clothes, I bought with my effort, with the salary that you think is 'nonsense'. I don't have your cards, I don't have access to your account."

Donato stepped back, as if he had been punched.

"What? I sign the invoices for personal expenses of the house every month... Alessa said that you spent fortunes with trivialities..."

"Then ask Alessa where that money is," Fiorella said, picking up the sponge with her injured hand and groaning in pain. "Because in my account, not a penny of yours has ever entered."

Tuesday morning dawned heavy in Sicily. The sun crossed the velvet curtains, but there was no warmth inside the main room of the Santori mansion. The silence that Donato appreciated so much was broken by a sound that made him wake up in a terrible mood: the muffled sound of Fiorella in the bathroom, fighting against the nausea of pregnancy.

Donato opened his eyes and groped for the empty side of the bed. The sheet was cold, there was no awakening with kisses on the face, there was no whisper of "good morning, my love," nor the words of affection that he, although he would never admit it, he was addicted to.

He sat on the bed, his hair messy and his expression obscured by irritation. For him, the world should stop when he opened his eyes.

"Fiorella!" he called, his voice thick with sleep and impatience. "What's all that noise?"

She didn't answer immediately. The sound of retching continued for a few more seconds before Fiorella appeared in the bathroom door. She was pale, holding her belly with one hand and the door frame with the other. Cold sweat shone on her forehead.

"Sorry, Donato..." she whispered, her voice trembling. "The nausea is very strong today, I can barely stand."

Donato got out of bed, ignoring his wife's condition. He walked to her, stopping a few inches away, exuding an aura of wounded authority.

"I woke up alone, Fiorella. Where's my coffee? Where are my clothes set aside?" He pointed to the closed closet. "You know I hate starting the day without your care."

Fiorella felt a new wave of nausea, but took a deep breath, trying to stand firm.

"Love, I'm so sorry... I promise I'll reward you later, really, but now I'm feeling very bad, I just need a moment."

Donato let out a dry laugh, loaded with mockery. He stared at her coldly, crossing his arms.

"Reward?" He raised an eyebrow. "That's an excuse not to fulfill your obligations, Fiorella. Just because you finally got pregnant, you think you can retire from your duties as a wife?"

"It's not that, Donato... it's a reaction of my body. I'm really not well."

"Funny," he interrupted her, with disdain. "Alessa always told me that you would use any pretext to play the victim and gain attention. A pregnancy is not a disease. My mother had me and Melissa, and she never stopped serving my father perfectly because of nausea."

Fiorella felt a lump in her throat. Comparing her to her mother-in-law, Lucia, in a moment of fragility, was his favorite low blow.

"But I'm trying..." she tried to say.

"Well, try harder. This is pure nonsense." Donato turned his back on her. "I'm going to take a shower in the other room so I don't have to hear you moaning. When I come out, I hope you've returned to normal and are ready to work. I don't tolerate laziness, not even from you."

He slammed the door shut, leaving Fiorella alone with her pain and her exhaustion. Donato was so accustomed to her absolute devotion that any moment in which Fiorella prioritized her own health was seen by him as a personal offense, a break in the protocol of "perfection" that he demanded of his wife.

While he dressed alone, puffing with anger for having to choose his own tie, Fiorella only cried in silence on the bathroom floor, wondering how long she would be able to hide that this child was the only thing that kept her alive.

Donato descended the stairs with a closed face, his tie crooked and heavy steps that made the marble floor echo his irritation. He entered the dining room expecting to find Fiorella setting the table, but came across his mother, finishing arranging the porcelain cups.

"Where is she?" Donato asked bluntly, sitting down abruptly.

Lucia stopped what she was doing and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, her experienced eyes immediately noticing her son's somber mood.

"If you're talking about your wife, she's upstairs, trying to survive the morning, and if you're talking about your coffee, I made it myself. Sit down and eat in silence."

Donato huffed, pouring himself coffee with impatient movements.

"She's making a scene, Mom. Woke up being fussy, vomiting and complaining. I had to dress myself! She knows I value order early in the morning, now she's decided to use the pregnancy as an excuse to neglect her husband."

The sound of the silver spoon hitting Lucia's saucer cut through the air like a whip. She walked over to her son and stood in front of him, her elegant posture hiding the fury she felt.

"Neglect her husband?" Lucia repeated, her voice dangerously low. "Donato, I raised you to be a leader of the Cosa Nostra, not a blind and selfish man. Fiorella has spent eight years treating you like a king, while you treated her like a convenient accessory."

"Alessa says she's hysterical, that she likes to play the victim..."

"Alessa!" Lucia interrupted him, slamming her hand on the table. "If I hear that snake's name come out of your mouth to justify your contempt for your wife one more time, I myself will make a point of giving you the correction your father didn't give you. Can't you see? Fiorella is pale, with a broken hand and a burned body because her sister attacked her before your very eyes, and your only concern is who will knot your tie?"

Donato opened his mouth to retort, but his mother's icy glare silenced him.

"I had you and Melissa," Lucia continued. "And I remember every morning I spent bent over a vase, feeling like my body was being turned inside out while your father held my hair and called the best doctor in Italy. He didn't complain about the 'noise,' he feared for my life and the lives of his children."

"I just want her to be strong..." Donato murmured, beginning to feel a discomfort that wasn't hunger.

"She is the strongest woman I know for still being by your side after so much humiliation," Lucia sentenced. "You call her frivolous, but she works at that construction company like a lioness while you barely notice her existence. Pray, Donato, pray that this baby is the bond that saves you, because if you continue to be this petty man, you will wake up in a cold bed and realize that you have lost the only person who truly loved you for who you are, and not for your title of Don."

Donato finished his coffee in one gulp, the liquid now tasting like ashes in his mouth. He stood up without looking at his mother, but her words remained etched in his mind like thorns.

Before leaving for the car, he looked up, towards the window of their room. For a brief second, he felt the urge to go back and apologize. But the Santori's pride was too heavy an armor. He turned the key, revved the engine, and drove off to the company, unaware that, upstairs, Fiorella was keeping a secret that would change his life forever.

Donato spent the morning in the office with his mother's words echoing like a hammer in his conscience. He tried to focus on the construction company's balance sheets, but his eyes always strayed to Fiorella's empty desk in the anteroom. The clock read almost eleven when the door opened silently.

Fiorella entered, she seemed to float, she was so fragile; her face was still pale, and she wore an elegant scarf to hide the burn, but her immobilized hand was impossible to conceal. In one of her hands, she carried a small thermal bag.

Donato stretched in his chair, preparing a scolding for the delay, but the words died in his throat as she approached.

"I know I'm late, I apologize," she said in a soft voice, placing the bag on his desk. "But I went to the ice cream parlor in the square. I know you like to start tense days with that."

She opened the bag and took out a pot of Sicilian lemon gelato, his favorite, the fresh citrus aroma filled the room. Fiorella went around the table, ignoring her own pain, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders in a tender embrace. She placed a loving kiss on his temple and whispered near his ear:

"I'm sorry for earlier today, I didn't mean to fail you, I love you."

Donato stood still. The contrast was violent: he had treated her like a burden a few hours before, and there she was, taking care of him, bringing his favorite sweet and reaffirming a love that he had done nothing to deserve that day.

For the first time in a long time, he didn't feel irritation, he felt a discomfort in his chest, a pang of guilt that made him hold her hand for a brief second.

"You shouldn't have come if you're still dizzy," he murmured, his voice less harsh than usual.

"I'm fine, really," she lied with a forced smile, although her legs were still trembling. "I'm going to my desk, we have a lot of work."

Fiorella felt the weight of the day on her shoulders, but the need to be loved, or at least accepted, was an addiction she couldn't break free from. Seeing Donato focused on the documents, she approached from behind his chair. With her healthy hand, she began to massage his tense shoulders, leaning down to kiss the top of his head and then his neck.

"You work too hard, mio Don," she whispered, trying to create a bubble of intimacy. "I missed you this morning."

Donato closed his eyes, allowing himself to receive the affection, but the door burst open. Alessa entered, stopping abruptly when she saw the scene. Her sister's face contorted in a mixture of disgust and envy.

"Oh, please!" Alessa exclaimed, throwing her expensive bag on the sofa. "How corny, Fiorella. Save that for the bedroom, no one wants to see this perfect wife act of yours."

Fiorella stepped back, feeling her face flush.

"I was just being affectionate with my husband."

"Affectionate or desperate?" Alessa walked to the table, stopping next to Donato and placing her hand on his arm, a proximity that always bothered Fiorella. "You know, Donato, I understand why she's all over you like this, with a man like you in charge... it must be amazing to be in your bed. I imagine that having sex with you is a unique experience, something that leaves any woman addicted."

The air left Fiorella's lungs. The comment was low, vulgar, and totally disrespectful to the work environment and to the fact that she was his wife.

"Alessa!" Fiorella shouted, her voice trembling with indignation. "How dare you talk about my husband like that, in front of me? That's absurd! Donato, are you going to let her talk like that?"

Donato, who had been silent until then, let out a heavy sigh of irritation and threw the pen on the table. He looked at his wife with a look full of boredom.

"For God's sake, Fiorella, are you going to start again?" He snarled.

"She just implied... she was vulgar, Donato! She's disrespecting me!"

"She paid you a compliment!" Donato raised his voice, cutting her off. "Alessa is just joking, she has that spontaneous way. You're just too insecure and take everything personally. It wasn't a big deal what she said, stop being hysterical and get some sense."

Alessa gave a victorious smile from behind Donato's shoulder, casting a look of mockery at her sister.

"You see, sister?" Alessa said in a sweet and venomous voice. "That's why he gets tired of you, you turn any silly comment into a world war."

Fiorella felt like she had been slapped. The man she was trying to please, the man for whom she overcame her own pain, had just defended the woman who was openly insulting her.

"I just... I just wanted respect," Fiorella murmured, her eyes watering.

"Respect is earned with maturity, not with jealous scenes in my office," Donato sentenced, returning to read the report as if she were no longer there. "Now get out. Alessa and I have business to discuss."

Fiorella retreated. Each step towards the door was a stab in her soul. She left the room hearing Alessa's muffled laughter and Donato's complicit silence. At that moment, as her hand throbbed and her heart bled, she realized that, for Donato, she was not a companion; she was just the womb that carried his heir.

The Santori mansion's kitchen was permeated with the aroma of fried bacon and pecorino cheese. Donato had been emphatic: he didn't want the chefs' food, he wanted Fiorella's carbonara for him. It was a whim; for her, it was a physical sacrifice.

Fiorella stirred the pasta with difficulty. Her right hand, swollen and throbbing under the cast, protested with every movement. The smell of the grease, which had once pleased her, now rose like a wave of violent nausea, churning her empty stomach. She hadn't been able to eat anything since dawn, but there she was, standing, serving the man who had spent the day humiliating her.

In the dining room, the tension was palpable. Massimo, Lucia, and Alessandro watched Donato with obvious disapproval. He was impatient, huffing every minute, complaining about Fiorella's lateness and "slowness."

"She's pregnant and hurt, Donato. Have a little decency," But he just shrugged, checking his watch.

When Fiorella finally served the dish, her eyes searched for a sign, a thank you, a simple "are you okay?" Instead, Donato tasted the first bite and just muttered:

"It took too long, I hope it hasn't cooled down."

Fiorella said nothing. The lump in her throat was bigger than any hunger. She withdrew silently as they ate, escaping into the darkness of the mansion's garden, away from the family's gaze and her husband's indifference.

The Sicilian night air was fresh, but it wasn't enough to calm Fiorella's chest. She sat on a stone bench hidden among the rose bushes and finally collapsed.

The crying came in silent and painful sobs. She cried for her hand that throbbed in agony, the result of her sister's wickedness. She cried for her stomach that rumbled with hunger, even though the mere thought of food made her want to vomit. But, above all, she cried for not being seen.

"I'm here..." she whispered into the dark, hugging her own belly. "I'm right here, Donato. Why don't you look at me?"

She felt invisible, a ghost who cooked, who cleaned, who worked, and who carried the future of his lineage, but who didn't deserve a minute of his genuine attention. The loneliness in the middle of a full house was the worst torture the mafia had ever imposed on her.

Inside the house, Massimo stood up from the table, leaving dinner half-finished. He walked to the window and saw Fiorella's figure in the garden.

"Look at her, Donato," Massimo said, his voice hoarse with disgust. "You're eating her effort while she wastes away outside. You think you're a Don because you command men, but you're just a spoiled boy who doesn't know how to take care of the treasure you have."

Donato stopped the bite halfway, the silence of the house suddenly weighing on his shoulders. For the first time that night, the taste of the carbonara seemed bitter.