Episode 1

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.

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