Never His Donna

"Catherine, watch your poise."

Luca's voice came from behind me.

I stopped in the dim hallway. I didn't turn around. The cold wind cut through me, stinging every inch of my skin.

He strode up to me, his tall frame blocking the chandelier light, casting me in his shadow.

"Liliana just got back and she's about to take over the family business. She needs to establish her authority tonight. You shouldn't have made a scene in front of everyone. And you definitely shouldn't have killed the mood."

Luca frowned, a flicker of irritation in his tone. "You lived in New York for years. You should have some sense of occasion."

I didn't argue. I just looked at his empty chest.

Last month, to please Luca, I'd flown overnight to Europe and spent three hundred thousand at an auction on a rare vintage pocket watch. Right before the banquet, I'd fastened it onto his chest myself.

But tonight, in that hall, he'd handed it off to Liliana like it was nothing.

"The watch. You gave it to her?"

Luca paused, then tapped the ash off his cigar. "I know you bought it."

He looked at me like I was being unreasonable. "Liliana said it matched her dress perfectly. She really liked it. Consider it a welcome gift. What's the big deal if she plays with it for a few days?"

I stared at the man in front of me.

Three years ago, I was ambushed by a gang on a Montreal street. Luca threw himself in front of me, gun drawn, trading fire with the attackers, pulling me back from death.

For that debt of life, I gave up my position as the youngest executive on Wall Street. I sold my penthouse in downtown New York and brought every penny I had to this freezing city.

To fit into Luca's world, I swallowed my disgust for blood and scrubbed the stains off their suits. I buried every edge I had and groveled before those arrogant mafia elders.

I thought if I was soft enough, humble enough, I could melt this pit of violence from the inside.

Turns out you can't fill a pit. It just swallows you whole.

"Fine."

I heard myself say it, my voice eerily calm.

Luca blinked. Then his jaw relaxed and a smile tugged at his lips. "That's my girl."

He reached out, habitually, to pull me in by the waist.

I stepped aside. His hand grabbed empty air. A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but he didn't dwell on it.

"One more thing. We're throwing Liliana a celebration party. Need a decent space for it."

He glanced down the corridor, his voice flat. "That little crafting room of yours is sitting empty. Clear it out tomorrow. We'll use it for her party."

That room. Three years I'd poured into it. Every corner designed and placed by my own hands. Inside hung the wedding gown I'd been stitching myself, piece by piece, for the future I'd believed in.

"Fine."

I looked at him. No argument. Nothing.

Luca was finally satisfied. He straightened his tie, took a deep drag of his cigar. "I need to get back to the table. A few of the old men are waiting. If you're tired, go ahead and turn in early."

He turned and walked away. Didn't look back. Not once.

The necklace I'd dropped on the hallway carpet lay right at his feet. He stepped on it. The crunch of it breaking sounded like it came from inside my chest.

I looked away and made my way up to that crafting room on the top floor.

I pushed the door open. Quiet. Still.

The half-finished white gown I'd stayed up so many nights working on hung silently on the mannequin.

I walked to the desk and pulled open the drawer.

Inside sat a stack of wedding invitations, already printed, still carrying the fresh smell of ink. Luca's promise to me, in black and white. That he'd announce me as his one and only Donna in Montreal's holiest church, in front of his entire family.

I picked up the pen, uncapped it, and crossed out my name on every single invitation. Heavy strokes. Then I crossed out his.

My phone lit up beside me. A message from my father.

"Sweetheart, the flight route to JFK is back up. Ten a.m. the day after tomorrow. I'm sending someone for you."

I stared at the screen, shoved the invitations back into the drawer, and typed back coldly:

"Fine."