Maria

Maria

I had just entered the dimly lit corridor leading to my husband’s chambers in Rossi Towers when I heard his voice.

Donatello Rossi. Low, contemptuous, with a mocking growl that made me stop dead.

He had said my name.

“Maria?” he drawled. “My wife?”

The derision in his voice was unmistakable. A humourless chuckle followed.

“You want to know why I married Maria?”

I stood frozen outside his inner office, the sanctuary from which my husband ruled Chicago’s underworld like a king.

Construction, trucking, restaurants, nightclubs, security firms, real estate, logistics—the Rossi family had its fingers in all of them.

The familiar scent of cigars, expensive liquor, and Donatello’s woodsy, spicy cologne drifted through the doorway.

“She’s a debt my father owed Lorenzo,” Donatello said. “I married her because a Rossi repays his debts.”

My youngest son, Roman, suddenly felt heavier on my shoulder.

“Her father died protecting mine. When my father asked me to marry her, I obeyed. End of story.”

There was a pause, the clink of glass against glass.

His voice was slightly slurred. He had probably had one drink too many.

I stood motionless, the words sinking into me with the slow, numbing force of a blade.

That was all I was to him. A debt repaid.

Three years of marriage, two sons, and not once had I imagined that my husband might see me as anything more than an obligation.

Donatello Rossi. Second son of Vittorio Rossi, the Mafia Godfather, and the man everyone expected to inherit his father’s throne.

My husband.

Twelve years older than me, brooding and devastatingly handsome, he was the man I worshipped in silence.

At night, he claimed my body with a fierce possessiveness that left me breathless. By morning, I was little more than a junior member of his staff, rewarded with a cool glance if I dared to speak.

I was the unloved wife.

His face was all hard angles and beautiful severity. By evening, dark stubble shadowed his square, dimpled chin. His powerful jaw, which I kissed when he held me in his arms, was usually set in a hard line. Tattoos wound down his heavily muscled right arm and across the right side of his back. Heavy black brows framed cold eyes, and his wide, fine-lipped mouth rarely softened. His unruly black hair fell over his forehead, refusing to be tamed.

God, how I worshipped him.

Not that he knew. Or cared.

There was never tenderness in those black eyes when he looked at me. No affection in the way he rolled away after taking me fiercely, leaving me to lie beside him in the darkness.

“Come here,” he would command.

And when he was satisfied, another clipped order.

“Roll over.”

That was Donatello Rossi. The Mafia king. My husband.

And I loved him with all my heart.

---

Earlier that evening, I had impulsively decided to visit my husband at his city offices.

Donatello had been away from home for two weeks, though I knew he had returned from Sicily three days ago. He hadn’t called me. Of course, he hadn’t.

I had overheard our housekeeper, Carmen—Donatello’s maternal aunt—talking to one of the maids.

“The young Don is in the city.”

I had paused in the doorway, my heart lifting before I could stop it.

He’s back.

Then reality intruded. Donatello rarely called me. His personal assistant, Belinda, was the one who kept me informed of his schedule.

Donatello will be late tonight. He has the gala at the Moretti mansion.

Or:

Donatello has a meeting and won’t be coming home.

Belinda delivered these messages with the smug assurance of a woman who knew more about my husband’s life than his wife did.

The first year of our marriage, Donatello had forgotten our anniversary. I had been seventeen, with little Matteo already in the nursery, and had timidly reminded him over breakfast.

He hadn’t even looked up from his phone.

A grunt was all I got.

That evening, Belinda sent me lilies and a small diamond bracelet.

No note. No message from my husband.

The next morning, I wore the bracelet, hoping he would notice. When he didn’t, I finally pointed it out, my heart hammering with pathetic anticipation.

He glanced at it.

“Hmm.”

As though I had merely commented on the weather.

I had learned to be grateful for crumbs. Now, listening to Carmen’s triumphant chatter in the kitchen, I felt an unfamiliar surge of anger.

Steeling myself, I walked in.

Carmen’s expression settled into its usual mask of indifference, concealing the contempt she never quite managed to hide.

“Is Donatello back?” I asked before I could reconsider.

Her tall, austere figure stiffened. She turned to me with a frosty smile.

“Yes, Donna.”

The title sounded like an insult in her mouth.

“Why do you ask, Donna?” she continued sweetly. “Didn’t he call you?”

I flinched.

Matteo, standing beside me, caught the change in my expression and clung to me. Around us, the three maids exchanged mocking looks.

They never let me forget who I was: the daughter of the Godfather’s Capo, a man who had died saving Vittorio Rossi’s life. My marriage to Donatello might have elevated my position, but in their eyes, I remained an unwanted obligation.

I was only nineteen, having turned a week ago, but I refused to let them see how deeply their taunts stung.

I lifted my chin.

“Actually,” I said, more boldly than I felt, “I was on my way to see him. I thought I’d surprise him.”

Carmen’s eyebrows shot up.

“Donna!” she exclaimed, scandalised.

I turned away before she could say more, summoning what little dignity I possessed. With Roman perched on my shoulder, I swept out of the kitchen, Rosa, my faithful old maid, hurrying after me.

For once, I would not wait at home for my husband to remember I existed.

I would go to him.