When morning breaks, I don’t want to leave her. She looks so peaceful, and for just a moment, I want to get lost in her softness. Her softness is a contrast to everything I am. My hands don’t deserve her. And yet, if I ever tried to let her go, I think I’d rip myself apart. I fought these feelings from the very first day I saw her. She had me, but she didn’t belong to me—until now.
She is my wife.
But the guilt of what I did never leaves me. It lingers in the back of my mind, somehow always reminding me of the penance I still owe. After a few minutes of watching my sleeping wife, I find the strength to leave the bed. But unlike last time, I make sure to leave her a little note.
Left for work. Make sure you eat and stay safe. —M
I still cannot promise her my heart, but I can at least meet her in the middle. She deserves that much from me, at the very least.
By the time I am leaving, Emily is coming in for the day.
“Good morning, Mr. Davacalli,” Emily greets me with her usual warmth, her smile never faltering despite the early hour. “Is there anything you need before you head out?”
I shake my head, my mind still lingering on Maria upstairs. “No, thank you, Emily. Just… keep an eye on her today, will you? I’ve noticed she has been looking a little pale. Is she sick?”
Emily shakes her head. “Not that I know of, but I’ll make sure she’s well taken care of.”
I leave the penthouse without another word. I force myself to leave her warmth behind. There’s no room for softness where I’m going. Giacomo’s growing bolder, and if I don’t act now, he’ll think he can get away with it. The war is coming, we can all feel it in the air. With Daniele now a free radical, I need to get a lid on things—fast.
By the time I get to my office, several of my men are already gathered around the conference table, Valerio at my right side. They all know what we are up against and want to avenge the soldiers we lost just as much as I do.
“War is coming.” I settle into my seat and look at everyone’s face individually. “We are under siege.”
The realization settles over the room like a thick fog, suffocating and inescapable. The air is heavy with the scent of cigars and espresso, the usual vices of men who know their days are numbered.
Valerio leans forward, arms braced on the table, his sharp gaze scanning the faces of our gathered soldiers. “Giacomo’s making his move,” he says, his voice steady but edged with warning. “The ambush on our warehouse wasn’t just an attack—it was a statement. He’s testing us, waiting to see if we’ll strike back or sit on our hands like the other families.”
I exhale slowly, fingers drumming against the table’s polished surface. Giacomo is growing bolder, but he’s still underestimating me. A mistake he won’t live long enough to make twice. But when I am to strike, I need to make sure that the hit is hard and it goes for the kill.
“The other families?” I ask, my tone even, though my patience is running thin.
Valerio’s jaw tightens. “They’re hesitant. Some are waiting to see which way the wind blows before they pledge their loyalty. As you know, boss, many of our allies are simply that because they fear retaliation from you.”
Cowards. Just like when we attended that gala. They were all nothing but a bunch of serpents and sheep. They have no real backbone of their own.
I lean back in my chair, my gaze sweeping the room. These men have killed for me, bled for me, sworn their allegiance in the kind of oath that can only be broken by death. And yet, even among my own, I see flickers of unease.
“Send a message,” I say finally, my voice quiet but firm. “One he won’t ignore. I am not the kind of man who does not return a punch when it’s launched at his face. Blood for blood—that is our way.”
Valerio nods, but before he can press further, Dario, one of my captains, clears his throat. “There’s another issue, boss. The Chinese want to discuss an arms deal out on the West Coast. It could secure a steady supply line for us, but they want to meet face-to-face.”
I rub my temples, weighing my options. The Chinese syndicates don’t trust easily. If they’re extending a hand, it’s because they think there’s an opportunity to be had. And in the midst of a war, I need every advantage I can get.
“Set it up,” I say. “We leave tonight.”
Valerio nods, but I can see the unspoken question in his eyes. He doesn’t need to say it—I already know what he’s thinking: Are you sure you should be leaving now?
The man knows me too well and it annoys the fuck out of me.
I should be focused on war, on strategy, on the crumbling balance of power in my world. But instead, my mind keeps drifting—to her.
Maria.
Something shifted between us. There is a softness in my chest now when I think of her. Before, all I saw was my obligation. But now, I see her differently. And for the first time, she didn’t look at me with this mixture of intrigue and fear. Instead, she looked at me with… warmth. The same kind of warmth I have seen her exude so easily to others but rarely to me.
I can’t afford to want her. I still need to tread lightly when it comes to her. Besides, if she ever finds out the truth of why this marriage even happened in the first place, she will likely never forgive me.
I push back from the table abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll be back before the week is out,” I say, already moving toward the door. “With Giacomo’s next move unknown, I need to gather as many friends as possible. Bolster security and make sure every major area is watched with hawk-like precision. We do not give him another chance to hit us again. Dismissed.” I stand to my feet. “Valerio, get the jet ready for me. I need to be out within the hour. I just need to go home first.”
By the time I get home, the weight of the meeting still presses heavily on my shoulders. The war brewing with Giacomo, the uncertainty among the families, the deal waiting for me on the West Coast—it should all be my focus.
But as I step inside the house, my thoughts drift elsewhere.
To her.
The house is quiet, save for the faint murmur of a voice coming from down the hall. I don’t need to listen closely to recognize it: Maria. I follow the sound, my steps slow and deliberate. The door to her room is slightly ajar, and I pause just outside, unseen.
She’s on the phone, speaking in low, measured tones. There’s a softness in her voice I don’t often hear. A longing of sorts.
“I miss home,” she murmurs, barely above a whisper. “I miss everything about it. The warmth, the familiarity… the way things used to be. America—New York, specifically—is a huge adjustment for me. The food, the people, the culture.”
I lean against the wall, my eyes closed, listening to the longing in Maria’s voice. It’s a side of her I rarely see, this vulnerability that she keeps hidden behind a mask of quiet dignity. The pang in my chest deepens, mingling with an unfamiliar sense of guilt.
“No, Mamá, I’m fine. Really,” she says, her voice wavering slightly. “Matteo is… he’s been kind. In his own way.”
I flinch at the hesitation in her words. Kind. Is that what she sees when she looks at me? A man who’s merely kind? Or is she simply trying to reassure her mother, to paint a picture of a life less complicated than the reality she faces every day?
“The gala went well,” she continues, a forced brightness in her tone. “Everyone was very welcoming.”
More lies.
“My role here, it’s… complex.”
Complex. What a delicate way to describe the web of violence, power, and deceit she’s found herself entangled in. I want to push open the door, to tell her she doesn’t have to pretend. But I remain still, listening.
She’s homesick. I hear it in the way her voice falters, the way she softens just at the mention of home. It should’ve been obvious, but I was too absorbed in my own world to see it. Now, the realization sits heavy in my chest, like a stone I can’t swallow. I’ve taken her away from everything she’s ever known, dropped her into my world of blood and shadows, and expected her to adapt.
I should have known. Should have seen it sooner. She packed her bags in a matter of weeks and moved halfway across the world to a place she didn’t even remember calling home. She’s been isolated from the outside world, and she has no real contact with people aside from Tony and Emily.
“But I make do with what I have. I’ve seen a few restaurants I want to try soon.” She lightens her previous words.
I shouldn’t be listening. I should turn away and leave her to her call, but I don’t. Instead, I remain in the shadows, unmoving, listening to a conversation that isn’t meant for me.
Then, her voice changes—bright, forced, like a mask slipping into place. “Yes, Mamá. Matteo is good to me. The marriage is good.”
Her voice is steady, her lie effortless. The marriage is good. But the words sink into me like a blade, slow and twisting. How many times has she told this lie? How many times has she forced herself to believe it? The truth? Our marriage is nothing but a cage made of gold, and she’s still learning how to survive in it. I wonder how much of our life together Maria has sanitized for her family’s sake. How much of the truth she’s hidden behind reassurances and half-truths?
“I should go,” Maria says softly. “I love you, Mamá. Give Papá my love.”
There’s a moment of silence, and I know the call has ended. I should leave, retreat to my study, and prepare for my trip before she discovers me eavesdropping. But my feet remain rooted to the spot, my hand hovering near the door.
I hear a soft sniffle from inside the room, and something in my chest constricts. Before I can stop myself, I’m pushing the door open, stepping into Maria’s sanctuary.
She’s curled up on the chaise lounge, her phone clutched to her chest, eyes glistening with unshed tears. For a moment, she doesn’t notice me, lost in her own world of homesickness and longing. Then her gaze snaps to mine, and I watch as she straightens, composing herself with practiced ease.
“Matteo,” she says, her voice steady despite the moisture in her eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
I stand there, feeling like an intruder in this intimate moment. The silence stretches between us, heavy with all the things we never say.
“How much did you hear?” she finally asks a hint of resignation in her tone.
I consider lying, but something in her vulnerable posture makes me pause. “Enough,” I admit, my voice low.
“I see.” She nods in understanding.
“Come with me,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
Her brows furrow. “Where?”
I don’t answer. I just turn and start walking, knowing she’ll follow.
Maria follows me in silence as I lead her down the hall, through the grand corridors of our home. I don’t say a word as I push open a set of heavy double doors and step inside. This is something I had commissioned when we first made our way back to the States.
She hesitates on the threshold, her eyes flickering with curiosity before she finally steps in.
Her breath catches—sharp and audible, like she’s been struck. The room is bathed in golden light, and for the first time, I see something in her eyes I rarely do: wonder. Her fingers graze the art supplies with the kind of reverence that belongs to something sacred. She turns to me, her lips parting slightly as if trying to find the words. But she doesn’t need to. I see it in her eyes.
Canvases lean against the walls, some blank, some filled with soft brushstrokes of unfinished work. A massive easel stands in the center of the room, flanked by shelves of art supplies—paints, brushes, charcoals—all untouched, waiting for her.
Her fingers trail over the edge of the wooden table, tracing the outlines of the tools before turning to me, eyes wide with something I can’t quite name.
“Wha—what is this?” She gestures to the room.
“This is your new studio. I figured, since I have a study, you would want your own creative space here.”
“You… you did this?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper.
I shift my weight, suddenly feeling out of place. “You’re always drawing and your father mentioned your love for arts.”
She blinks as if trying to process my words. Then, cautiously, she steps further into the room, walking slowly as if afraid she’ll wake from a dream.
I watch her, something unfamiliar twisting in my chest.
“I thought maybe if you had something of your own here,” I say, watching her fingers brush against the smooth wood of the easel, “it wouldn’t feel so much like a prison.”
Maria’s eyes widen at my words, her hand stilling on the easel. She turns to face me, her expression a mix of surprise and something else I can’t quite decipher. For a moment, we stand in silence, the weight of my admission hanging between us.
“Matteo,” she begins, her voice soft and uncertain. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
I shift uncomfortably, unused to this vulnerability. “You don’t have to say anything,” I mutter, averting my gaze. “I just thought…”
But before I can finish, Maria closes the distance between us. Her hand reaches out, hesitating for a moment before gently touching my arm. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I find myself looking into her eyes.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. “This is… it’s more than I ever expected.”
I stand there, frozen by her touch and the raw gratitude in her eyes. This isn’t how things usually go between us. Our interactions are typically stilted, and formal—a carefully choreographed dance of polite distance. But now, with her hand on my arm and her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, I feel something shift.
“You’re welcome,” I manage, my voice gruffer than I intend. I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “I know it’s not Italy, but—”
“It’s perfect,” Maria interrupts, her voice soft but firm. She looks around the room again, wonder etched on her delicate features. “I can’t believe you remembered my art.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with her praise. “Your father mentioned it. I thought it might help you feel more… at home.”
Maria’s eyes soften at my words, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It does,” she says quietly. “More than you know.”
We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with a familiar tension. I’m acutely aware of her hand still resting on my arm, the warmth of her touch seeping through my suit jacket.
Not wanting to think too much of it, I grab her hips and pull her toward me. I lean in, slowly, giving her the chance to move away. She doesn’t. Instead, her breath hitches, her lips parting just slightly.
I close the distance between us, brushing my mouth against hers, soft at first—testing. But the moment she exhales, surrendering, I’m lost.
I kiss her deeply, my hand sliding up to cup the side of her neck, my thumb grazing her jaw. She melts into me, her fingers gripping the front of my shirt as if she doesn’t want me to pull away.
When I finally break the kiss, her eyes are dazed, her breathing unsteady.
“I have to leave for business tonight,” I tell her, my voice low. “But when I come back… we can talk.”
Maria nods slowly, her fingers still curled into my shirt.
I step back, letting my hand drop. But before I turn to leave, I notice something—her face is paler than usual, and there’s a slight fatigue in her eyes.
I pause, studying Maria’s face more closely. The color of her skin and the faint shadows under her eyes concern me. It’s subtle, but noticeable to someone who has been observing her as intently as I have these past weeks.
“Are you feeling all right?” I ask, my tone softer than I intended.
Maria blinks, seemingly surprised by my question. She forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine,” she says quickly. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”
“Get some rest,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles against her cheek. I press my lips to her forehead and leave her with one lasting kiss.
This is the first time I’m tender with her without thinking too much of it. The actions are like second nature.
“I will text you when I land.” And with those words, I leave her and head to my room to pack.
She watches me go, and something stirs in my chest—a flicker of something I thought was long dead. I wait for the panic to set in. It never does. And that terrifies me.
