Donato stormed into the bedroom, irritation boiling over. He stopped in the middle of the closet while Fiorella struggled to remove her dress, hampered by the brace on her hand.
"What was that whole show downstairs, Fiorella?" he snapped. "Paolo said he paid for your education? We got married when you were in your third semester — I paid for your degree and your postgraduate. I signed the invoices personally!"
Fiorella stopped what she was doing and looked at him with a glacial calm.
"You didn't pay. Just like I never had soldiers assigned to me, or a driver, or health insurance in your name. You may have signed paperwork, but the money never reached its destination. It was the Florentinos who made sure I graduated."
Donato opened his mouth, but she stepped forward and cut him off.
"You know why you didn't notice? Because you don't know anything about me. Absolutely nothing. Want to test that?" She held his gaze. "What's my favorite food?"
Donato crossed his arms, confident.
"Well, that's obvious — it's that risotto ai frutti di mare you always make with such care."
"Wrong. I hate seafood. The smell makes me nauseous. I make it because it's your favorite dish, and you never once asked if I wanted something else. My favorite food is pasta alla norma."
Donato's frown deepened, his discomfort growing.
"All right, then — what's my favorite book?" she pressed.
"You like poetry," he answered quickly. "Those hardcover books on the coffee table."
"That's decoration. I've never read a single one of them. My favorite books are Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings. I love fantasy."
Donato let out a nervous laugh.
"Fantasy? That's kids' stuff. And movies? You're always watching those romance series on television —"
"I watch them because they're what you allow on. If I could choose, I'd watch horror. And what's my favorite video game?"
Donato sighed, bored.
"Video games? Fiorella, you don't like video games. You always say it's a waste of time and that grown men shouldn't sit in front of a screen."
Fiorella felt a tightening in her chest.
"That's Alessa. That's what she tells you — and you believe her."
She walked to the dresser, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out a special-edition Nintendo Switch. She powered it on, and the light from the screen washed over her face.
"I play in secret every time you go out for your nights on the town. My favorites are Resident Evil and Call of Duty. I like shooting zombies. I like adrenaline — something I've never been allowed to have in this life with you."
Donato went still. He also loved video games; he spent hours at the shooting simulator in his office — but he'd never invited his wife, convinced by Alessa's words that Fiorella would find it "childishly barbaric." Seeing the console in her hands felt like a punch of reality landing square in his jaw. He didn't know the woman he slept beside.
Not knowing what to say, he started to undress. He stripped completely and lay down on the bed, pulling Fiorella toward him with his usual possessiveness.
"Don't hold me so tight," she murmured, her body rigid. "My arm hurts."
"But Fiorella... we always sleep like this," he muttered, his voice muffled. "I can't sleep any other way."
"I just asked you not to hold me so tight," she repeated, her voice drained.
Donato loosened his arm but didn't let her go. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, breathing in the vanilla scent he loved so much but had never once thought to tell her. In the silence of the bedroom, he realized he knew the scent intimately — but was a stranger to the woman it belonged to.
Sunday started strangely. Donato didn't go to the office. He stayed in the room, watching Fiorella play her Nintendo Switch. The silence was uncomfortable, until he couldn't hold out any longer.
"Give me a controller," he grumbled, settling beside her. "I bet you're not as good as you say."
They put on Mario Kart. Donato assumed it would be easy. Within ten minutes he'd been hit by three green shells and a blue one. Fiorella, even with her finger braced and her arm bandaged, drove with surgical precision.
"Damn it, Donato! You're so slow," she laughed, sliding through a perfect corner.
Donato clenched his jaw — but the defeat wasn't what bothered him most.
"What did you just call me?" he asked, dropping the controller when the screen announced her victory.
"Donato. That's your name, isn't it?"
He felt it like a pressure in his chest. He missed "my love." He missed "my Don." He missed that devotion he'd always dismissed as suffocating but now understood was his oxygen. Without a word, he reached around her waist, lifted her, and set her down in his lap, facing him.
"What are you doing?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady even as his touch sent her heart into a sprint.
"You used to call me 'my love' up until yesterday," he said, his voice low, his large hands settling firm on her hips. "Now it's just 'Donato'? I don't like that."
"Respect is earned, Donato — you said so yourself in your office, remember?" She held his gaze, the frost still present in her eyes. "'My love' is for someone who takes care of you. 'Donato' is for the man who lets me go hungry while he comforts someone else."
He lowered his head and hid his face in the curve of her shoulder.
"I'm an idiot, I know. But you play that damn game better than I do even when you're half broken. That should earn me some points for letting you win."
"Letting me?" She let out a real laugh. "I beat you fair and square."
For a brief moment, the room didn't feel like a gilded prison. There was a trace of lightness in the air — a glimpse of what their marriage could have been if Alessa's lies hadn't taken up residence in the middle of it. Donato began trailing kisses along her neck, moving up to her jaw, seeking the lips he'd so long neglected.
But the moment was brutally cut short. The bedroom door swung open without a knock.
Lucas and Bruno Florentino walked in, both wearing dark expressions and visible holsters. Fiorella tried to climb off Donato's lap quickly, but he held her in place for one deliberate extra second, marking his territory in front of her brother and his councilor.
"What the hell? Does nobody knock anymore?" Donato snarled, fury flooding back instantly.
"The port at Catania was hit, Donato," Lucas said, ignoring the state of his sister. "The Russians' arms shipment was intercepted by the police. We have three soldiers dead and half the cargo seized."
Bruno stepped forward, his eyes flicking to Fiorella with concern before settling on Donato.
"It wasn't an accident, Don. Someone gave the exact coordinates — the time, the dock, everything. We have a rat inside the organization, and the loss is in the millions."
Donato felt his blood boil. The fragile bubble of peace with Fiorella shattered. He set her aside on the bed and rose, pulling on his shirt with sharp, violent movements.
"Get the cars ready," Donato ordered, the Don's voice taking full command. "If there's a rat, I'll find it — and I'll skin it while it's still breathing."
He paused in the doorway and looked back at Fiorella over his shoulder. The "husband" had vanished. In his place stood the cold, granite-eyed leader of the Cosa Nostra.
"Stay home. Don't go out for any reason."
When the door slammed, Fiorella looked at the Nintendo Switch lying forgotten in the sheets. The game was over — and real life, bloody and merciless, was back.
The port of Catania was wrapped in thick fog. The air smelled of defeat: half of Viktor Sokolov's shipment had already been seized or stolen, and Donato was there to find out how the rat had managed to feed the police the exact coordinates.
"Half my uncle's weapons are gone, Lucas! How did nobody see the activity?" Donato roared, cutting between the remaining containers.
But the silence of the port was broken by a metallic crack. From the top of the cranes, mercenaries opened fire. The target was no longer the cargo — already stripped — but the elimination of whoever remained.
Bruno Florentino reacted on instinct, drawing his weapon and pulling Donato behind a heavy forklift. In the middle of the firefight, Bruno froze. He was watching Lucas. Fiorella's brother wasn't running for cover. He was walking calmly through the ricocheting bullets.
"Lucas, get down, goddamn it!" Bruno shouted.
Lucas didn't draw his weapon. Bruno felt a cold hatred climb his spine as the realization struck: the mercenaries were moving past Lucas as if he were one of them. They weren't targeting him. Lucas stood in the center of hell — just watching.
"Donato! Lucas is the rat!" Bruno screamed. "The gunmen are leaving him alone!"
Before Donato could turn, two shots slammed into Bruno's chest. The impact was violent, throwing him back onto the asphalt.
"BRUNO!" Donato bellowed, watching his friend go down.
Bruno gasped, the excruciating pain in his ribs stealing his breath — but there was no blood. He wrenched open his jacket, revealing the polymer weave of the Florentinos' specialized body armor.
"I'm okay... the suit held... but they're not after the weapons, Donato!" Bruno shouted, his voice cutting through the gunfire. "They're after us! The theft was just the bait to get us here!"
Back at the mansion, Fiorella felt the floor drop out from under her as she read the encrypted message on her phone:
"I know the truth you and the Florentinos hide from the world. Blood speaks louder than a surname, Fiorella. Today, your real brother dies at the port. The Florentino line ends in ashes."
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