Episode 3

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.

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