Episode 4

The garden was immersed in shadows when Donato finally crossed the veranda. His grandfather's words had left a trail of discomfort in his chest, a strange sensation that he couldn't identify as guilt, but which impelled him to seek out his wife.

He found her huddled on the stone bench, her shoulders still trembling slightly. The Don of the Cosa Nostra stopped a few steps away, observing the fragility of the woman who, even hurt and exhausted, was still trying to feed him.

"Fiorella," he called, his voice less harsh than usual.

She wiped her face hastily, trying to hide her crying.

"I'm going inside, Donato, I just needed some air."

"My mother said you haven't eaten anything," he said, sitting down next to her, keeping a safe distance. "You need to eat for the sake of my son."

Fiorella let out a tired sigh.

"The smell of the food makes me nauseous, I just..." She hesitated, feeling a sudden, childish craving, a desire that seemed to be the only thing capable of calming her stomach. "I really want to eat a pistachio cannolo. From that small pastry shop near the port, but I know it's closed now."

Donato looked at her, her face was haggard, the deep dark circles under her eyes betraying sleepless nights. For a brief moment, something in him softened.

"I am the Don, Fiorella, nothing closes for me," he stated, standing up and extending his hand to her, in a rare gesture of chivalry. "Go to the room and rest. I'll get your sweets, I promise I'll bring them."

"Thank you, my true love."

Donato was already in the car, with the key in the ignition, when the cell phone on the console began to vibrate. Alessa's name flashed on the screen.

"Not now, Alessa," he muttered, answering the phone.

"Donato!" Her voice came in a sharp scream, muffled by dramatic sobs. "Donato, please come here! My kitten... Cesare... he died! He was the only thing I had, my companion... I'm feeling sick, I think I'm going to faint!"

Donato frowned, his hand tightening on the steering wheel.

"Alessa, I'm going out to take care of something for Fiorella..."

"She has a full house, Donato! I'm alone!" Alessa sobbed louder, her voice laden with calculated despair. "Please, I have no one else. If you don't come, I don't know what I'll do to myself, it's just a cat to you, but it was my life!"

Donato looked at the bedroom window, where Fiorella's light was still on, waiting for him. Then, he looked at the cell phone. The sense of duty to protect that Alessa had built in him over years of manipulation spoke louder.

"Calm down, Alessa, I'm coming, don't do anything foolish."

He put the car in reverse and accelerated, leaving the mansion gates at high speed. The promise of cannolo, Fiorella's hunger, and the effort she had made that night were buried under the urgency of a fabricated drama.

Two hours later, Fiorella was still sitting on the edge of the bed. Her stomach ached with emptiness and the hope that had shone in the garden had turned into cold ashes. The sound of Donato's car returning made her get up, but he didn't come up with a box of sweets.

Through the shared family car's GPS—the only access she had to know where he was in case of emergency—she saw the final location before he turned off the engine: Alessa's condominium.

Donato entered the room shortly after, without looking at her, taking off his jacket with weariness.

"Where are the sweets?" she asked, her voice lifeless.

Donato stopped, running his hand over his face as if he had completely forgotten what he had said.

"Alessa had a serious emergency, her cat died, she was in shock, I had to support her."

"Her cat?" Fiorella laughed, a bitter laugh that bordered on hysteria. "You left me hungry, pregnant, and hurt, to go comfort Alessa because of a cat?"

"Don't start, Fiorella!" he retorted, annoyed. "She was alone and unstable, you are safe. Tomorrow I'll ask someone to buy ten boxes of that sweet for you, now let me sleep."

Fiorella lay down with her back to him, shrinking to hide the rumbling of her stomach and the sound of her heart finishing breaking. That night, she understood: for Donato, even Alessa's pet was worth more than his wife's well-being.

It was a stuffy Saturday in Sicily. Since she opened her eyes, Fiorella couldn't think of anything other than the sweet that Donato had promised and, cruelly, forgotten the night before. The craving for that pistachio cannolo wasn't just a pregnant woman's whim; it was the only thread of connection she was still trying to maintain with her husband.

Throughout the day, Lucia and Massimo tried to feed her. Fiorella, feeling guilty about their concern, forced herself to eat some soup and some fruit. But her body, shattered by stress and dehydration, rejected everything. The cycle was merciless: she ate, her stomach churned, and she ended up on her knees in the bathroom, trembling with exhaustion.

Donato, who spent the day in the mansion's office dealing with shipments at the port, seemed to ignore his wife's condition. Every time he passed through the hallway and heard the sound of her being sick, he just closed the door of his office, convinced by the poison that Alessa continued to send by messages that Fiorella was "forcing the drama to punish him."

The limit came at four in the afternoon.

Fiorella tried to go down the stairs to get a glass of water. Halfway down, her vision darkened. She felt the world spinning and, before she could scream, her body gave way.

"Fiorella!" Lucia's scream echoed through the house when she saw her daughter-in-law faint, falling on the last steps.

The noise made everyone run to the hall. Alessandro and Massimo arrived first, followed by a Donato who sported an expression of confusion that quickly turned into pale shock.

Alessandro knelt down, holding his daughter's head while Massimo checked her pulse.

"She's burning with fever and her pulse is very weak!" exclaimed Alessandro, his eyes flashing with anger as he looked at his son. "Donato, what have you done?"

"I didn't do anything!" Donato tried to approach, but his father pushed him in the chest with a force that made him recoil.

"You didn't do anything, exactly!" Alessandro roared. "She spent the whole day talking about that sweet, trying to eat anything only to vomit soon after. She's wasting away in front of you and you acted as if she were a piece of furniture bothering the house!"

Donato swallowed hard.

"I was going to get it... but there was a problem with Alessa and..."

"Alessa! Always Alessa!" Alessandro stood up, the fury of the old Don emanating from every pore. "Your wife is passed out from emotional exhaustion while you take care of the whims of a woman who only wants to destroy this marriage."

Alessandro grabbed the car keys from the top of the entrance table.

"If you are incapable of being a man to your wife, I will be the father she never had," Alessandro sentenced. "I'm going to get the sweet she wants, and pray, Donato, pray that when she wakes up, she still wants to look at your face."

Alessandro left, slamming the door so hard that the paintings on the walls trembled. Massimo, who was still holding Fiorella's hand, looked at his grandson with deep contempt.

"You have the blood of the Santori, Donato, but you don't have the honor. Let Lucia and I take care of her. You've caused enough damage for today."

Donato stood in the center of the hall, his hands trembling and his chest suddenly tight. He looked at Fiorella, pale and unconscious in his mother's arms, and for the first time, the image of the "dramatic wife" created by Alessa began to crumble, giving way to a terrifying reality: he was killing, little by little, the only person who truly loved him.

When Fiorella opened her eyes, the ceiling of the room seemed to spin slowly. The smell of alcohol and medicine surrounded her, but there was something else in the air: a sweet aroma of sugar and pistachio.

Sitting in an armchair next to the bed was Alessandro. Upon seeing his daughter-in-law awaken, the father-in-law leaned forward with a paternal look that she had never received from her own father.

"Take it easy, carina," said Alessandro softly. "I brought what you wanted."

He opened the cardboard box, revealing the perfectly filled cannoli. With still trembling hands, Fiorella picked one up. As she took the first bite, she felt immediate relief. The sweet went down smoothly, filling the void that exhaustion had left. For the first time in days, her stomach didn't protest. She ate two, tears streaming silently down her face, while Alessandro watched in silence, sharing in her pain.

Donato, who was watching from the door, entered the room with hesitant steps. He saw the scene and, although he felt relieved to see her conscious, confusion clouded his face.

"Why isn't she vomiting?" asked Donato, crossing his arms. "She spent the whole day throwing up everything she ate, how doesn't this sweet hurt her?"

Lucia, who was adjusting Fiorella's IV, turned to her son with a look laden with sarcasm.

"It's a pregnant woman's craving, Donato, she wanted this sweet, her body was asking for it, and her mind needed a gesture that you promised and didn't fulfill."

Donato frowned, finding the explanation too mystical.

"But the body doesn't work like that, if she has an infection or discomfort..."

"It's not an infection, Donato," Lucia interrupted him, firmly. "I already called the obstetrician, he came while you were out there feeling like the center of the world. He prescribed a strong medicine for the nausea, but made it clear that Fiorella's condition is the result of extreme stress and dehydration."

Fiorella, who until then had ignored her husband's presence, finished the sweet and looked at Alessandro.

"Thank you, Alessandro, you can't imagine what this meant to me."

"You don't need to thank me, my daughter, you are part of this family," he replied, giving a warning look to Donato before retiring with Lucia, leaving the couple alone.

The silence in the room became suffocating. Donato approached the bed, trying to find the right words, but pride was still an obstacle.

"You scared me, Fiorella, did you need all this drama?" He tried to use his usual tone, but his voice faltered slightly.

Fiorella looked at him, but there was no usual sparkle of adoration in her eyes, there was only a tired coldness.

"I didn't make a drama, Donato. I fainted because my body gave up and I didn't vomit the sweet because, for the first time in a long time, someone in this house—other than myself—cared enough to give me what I needed."

"I was going to get it! I told you that Alessa had a problem..."

"The cat, I know," she cut him off, her voice icy. "Now, please, leave, I need to rest. The medicine the doctor gave me makes me sleepy, and I don't want to spend my last conscious hours today arguing about why your sister-in-law's pet is more important than the mother of your heir."

Donato opened his mouth to retort, but seeing her paleness and the way she turned to the opposite side, he realized that he had no arguments. He left the room feeling like a stranger in his own house, while Fiorella, under the effect of the medicine and the comfort of the sweet, finally fell into a deep sleep, but without peace.

A week had passed, and the Santori mansion seemed to breathe more easily. The nausea medicine and the silent care of Lucia and Alessandro worked miracles. Fiorella was recovering her bloom; her cheeks had a healthy color and she no longer looked like the ghost that haunted the corridors.

Donato, trying to reestablish the "order" of the family, arranged an official dinner. Present were the D'Angelo family, Fiorella's father, Renzo, and the siblings Lucas and Alessa, as well as the powerful Florentino family. The Florentinos were bankers, as rich and influential as the Santori, and Bruno Florentino, the heir to the lineage, held the post of third most important man in the Cosa Nostra hierarchy.

The atmosphere at the table was tense. Renzo D'Angelo, a bitter man who never forgave his daughter for his wife's death in childbirth, barely looked at Fiorella. Alessa, feeling that she was losing control over Donato, decided to unleash her most lethal poison.

"It's impressive how Fiorella recovered her glow so quickly," Alessa commented, swirling her wine glass with a cynical smile. "And it's curious how she and Bruno are sitting so close together... You know, Donato, I've always found their friendship... too intimate."

Silence fell over the table. Donato tightened his grip on the cutlery, his gaze fixed on Alessa.

"Where are you going with this, Alessa?" Donato asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Oh, I'm just saying what everyone thinks. Fiorella ran away to the Florentino's house as a child, spent months living there as a teenager... Who guarantees that this baby isn't a 'gift' from Bruno to the Santori? Who knows what those two haven't done together in all these years of 'friendship'."

A dry crack echoed through the hall.

Before Donato could react, Marcela Florentino, the matriarch, stood up and delivered a resounding slap to Alessa's face. The impact threw Alessa's head to the side, leaving the mark of Marcela's fingers on her fair skin.

"Wash your mouth before speaking of my family or Fiorella," Marcela shouted, her eyes shining with a noble fury.

Paolo Florentino, the patriarch, stood up soon after, his presence emanating an authority that even Renzo D'Angelo respected.

"You don't know anything, girl," Paolo said, looking at Alessa with disdain. "Marcela and I practically raised Fiorella, we were the ones who paid for her studies, her college, her clothes, she is our daughter. The Santori family didn't notice the slight tremor of Renzo, but he knew that Paolo knew the truth about Fiorella.

Bruno, who until then had been watching with an icy gaze, stood up slowly, he was an imposing man, and his loyalty to Fiorella was legendary.

"You screwed up big time now, Alessa," Bruno said, his voice calm, but laden with threat. He looked at Donato, then at Alessa. "I love Fiorella, yes. I love her with every fiber of my being, but she is my sister. She grew up in my house, shared bread with me as blood of my blood. To insinuate anything else is not only an insult to her honor, but a direct attack on the name of the Florentino."

Alessa raised her hand to her face, tears of humiliation beginning to surface, while seeking Donato's support with her eyes. But, this time, Donato did not defend her. He looked at the Florentinos and then at his wife, realizing that outsiders—foreigners to his own house—had done for Fiorella what he, as a husband, had never bothered to do.

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