Donatello

The Mafia Don glanced at his young wife, seated at the far end of the limousine as it glided through the dark streets.

As far away from me as possible, he thought irritably. Yet her fragrance filled the car, that sweet, floral scent that seemed to follow her everywhere. It stirred a familiar, unwelcome hunger.

Three years.

He checked his phone, aware of Maria’s shallow breaths and the movement of Matteo, who was slipping from his lap to huddle against his mother. The boy’s weight had been surprisingly warm against his chest. against his chest. Now Maria held him close, as though protecting him from his own father.

Donatello studied her profile against the window: the delicate nose, rounded cheeks, slender neck. She was beautiful.

The realisation unsettled him. Noticing his wife felt like a betrayal of Sophia.

He swore under his breath.

Maria’s eyes were closed, but her damp lashes betrayed her. Loose strands of dark hair softened the severe bun Carmen insisted she wear. Her full lips trembled faintly as she stroked Roman’s back, soothing the baby.

For one disconcerting moment, Donatello felt a pang of tenderness.

He crushed it.

Maria was the wife his father had imposed upon him, a girl he had never intended to marry. If not for her father’s death—

He turned towards the window.

Sophia Bellini. The woman who should have been his wife.

Her family had once held considerable influence in Chicago’s Mafia circles. She had been his childhood sweetheart, the dazzling beauty he had sworn to marry. Her laughter turned heads; her sparkling blue eyes had captivated him as a teenager. She belonged beside the future Don, moving confidently through the world he would one day command.

Maria, the daughter of a lowly Capo, had never seemed to belong there.

When Lorenzo died saving Vittorio’s life, his father had made a promise to the grieving family. Donatello had been expected to honour it, regardless of his own wishes. He had obeyed, then punished Maria for a decision she had never made.

He remembered their first meeting: a sixteen-year-old girl with soft curves and dimples, smiling at him with an innocence he had found almost irritating. He had soon made it clear that his marriage was an arrangement, not a love match.

Gradually, her smile had disappeared. The cheerful girl had become quiet and withdrawn, her manner more mature than her years. Sometimes, the stillness of her face reminded him of his dead mother.

He had never asked himself what it had cost Maria to become that way.

His gaze dropped to her mouth.

Whatever else he denied himself, he had never managed to deny himself her body. He craved her warmth and softness with an intensity that embarrassed him, then resented her for awakening a desire he could neither explain nor control.

It was easier to blame her than to admit that his own weakness had nothing to do with her.

At least he had one rule he would never break: he would not be unfaithful to his wife.

He had witnessed the devastation his father’s affair had caused. When Vittorio’s wife discovered his mistress, she had taken her own life. His father, shattered by her death, had never looked at another woman again. He buried himself in business, and the mistress was eventually killed on his orders.

Donatello had grown up believing that, for all his ruthlessness, Vittorio had loved only his wife.

Maria sighed softly.

Another memory surfaced: Giovanni confronting him one evening.

“You’re being cruel, Donatello. Unfair to Maria.”

“Mind your own business, Giovanni,” he had snapped.

The words had silenced his brother, but not the uncomfortable truth behind them.

He had allowed Carmen to control the household and keep Maria isolated. Her friends were dismissed as flighty and common; even her mother was made to feel unwelcome. Donatello had never intervened. He had found it convenient to let his aunt decide what was suitable for his wife.

Belinda had merely voiced what he himself had been thinking: Maria was too gauche and unpolished to accompany him to the grand occasions where a Don’s wife was expected to shine.

Yet the hurt in Maria’s eyes had begun to trouble him. Whenever she approached him with his coat or some forgotten accessory, she kept her face carefully blank and her gaze lowered. She had learnt not to ask anything of him.

He had wanted a wife who would never challenge him. He had got one—and discovered that her silence was harder to bear than he had expected.

In bed, he was often selfish, demanding what he wanted without considering what she needed. Afterwards, shame sometimes crept in, only to harden into irritation before he could examine it too closely.

He had no right to resent Maria for the life he had forced upon her.

Still, he had never known how to treat her otherwise.

Matteo coughed, drawing his attention back to the present. Maria immediately murmured to the boy, rubbing his back until he settled, while keeping Roman tucked against her.

Work had consumed Donatello since his return. The rival Irish gang was growing bolder, and he had spent days devising strategies to contain the threat. He had asked Carmen to tell Maria he was back, never imagining that his usually compliant wife would appear at his office with both boys.

Her unexpected arrival had caught him off guard. So had the sight of Matteo shrinking from him.

He looked at his sons now. Then at Maria, who seemed to know instinctively how to comfort them.

She was a devoted mother. He had never doubted that.

What troubled him was the growing awareness that he knew very little about the woman who cared for his children—and had made no effort to learn.

He scowled. Maria’s eyes were still closed.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

She turned towards him. Her brown eyes were wide and luminous, her long lashes damp with tears she had tried to hide.

“You were rude to Bruce,” he added, grasping for a safer subject.

Her floral fragrance drifted towards him again. He shifted in his seat and looked away, annoyed that even now he could not seem to ignore her.

Maria was silent for a moment, her arms tightening around Roman.

Then she asked, so softly he almost missed it, “When will you take me to a gala, Donatello?”

He looked at her.

There was no accusation in her voice, no demand. Only a quiet question from a wife who had never been allowed to stand beside her husband in public.