Maria

Maria

At sixteen, I had become engaged to Donatello Rossi, the son of the man my father had died saving. The Rossi family controlled Chicago, and no one dared challenge their decisions—not even when the bride was a minor.

My father, Lorenzo Orsini, had been Vittorio Rossi’s Capo and closest friend. He died during a surprise attack by a rival Mafia family, shielding the old Don when survival seemed impossible.

Overnight, my mother and I were left alone.

At my father’s funeral, Vittorio held my mother’s hand, his deep-set eyes red-rimmed.

“Don't worry, Lucia. We will look after you. Maria will become my son Donatello’s bride.”

A promise made in grief became a marriage arranged in duty.

At our engagement ceremony, I gazed at Donatello with undisguised wonder. Twelve years older than me, he was already a formidable man, his handsome face dark and unreadable.

He barely looked at me as he slipped the ring onto my finger.

Later, when we stepped outside, he finally addressed me.

“Remember, girl. This marriage is an arrangement. Don't expect anything more.”

I swallowed my hurt. I was young, idealistic, and foolish enough to believe I could change his mind.

“I understand, my lord,” I whispered.

I had imagined that, with time, I could win his heart.

Three years later, I knew better.

Donatello had never truly seen me. We had two sons together, yet I remained a stranger to him.

He travelled for months on family business, and whenever he returned, I tried desperately to make him comfortable. I learnt to prepare his favourite dishes, took charge of the kitchen despite Carmen’s objections, and made sure his coffee was waiting when he woke. His suits were pressed and ready each morning.

He never knew how much thought went into those small rituals.

I had hoped that one day he would notice.

The one person who made me feel genuinely loved was his father. Vittorio had no daughters of his own and treated me as one in every way that mattered. I managed his medications, arranged his medical appointments, and brought him home-cooked meals, especially his favourites. My boys were far more at ease with their grandfather than with their distant, taciturn father.

At home, I had learnt to make myself small. Donatello disliked unnecessary conversation, and my friends were rarely welcome at the estate. Even my mother had been made to feel unwelcome by Carmen. Only Mandy, my old school friend, stubbornly refused to abandon me.

When Matteo was born, Donatello came to the hospital in his black trench coat, his expression as grim as ever. He stood over the baby without smiling, then turned towards me.

I reached for his hand.

“Donatello, are you happy?”

He ignored my outstretched fingers.

“What sort of question is that?”

His phone chimed. He checked it and walked out without a kiss or even a touch.

My eyes stung, but I smiled at my mother.

“I know he's happy, Mamma.”

When I returned to the estate, a diamond necklace awaited me. My delight evaporated when I learnt Belinda had chosen it on his instructions.

Donatello sent expensive gifts. Words of affection were beyond him.

In bed, he was just as commanding as he was in business. We barely spoke. Even with our sons, his face rarely softened.

---

Now, sitting in his spacious office at Rossi Towers, I wished I had never come.

Matteo had taken one look at his father's forbidding expression and shrunk against me. Roman sat on my lap, his warm little body nestled against mine.

Donatello watched us from beneath his heavy brows.

Bruce snorted. “Fuck, those kids look exactly like you, man.”

Donatello shot him a dangerous look.

“Who else would they look like?”

Belinda leaned against my husband's arm, displaying her cleavage as she opened a spreadsheet on his desk.

“Donatello, the shipping contract for today.” She tapped his jacket and glanced at me with a taunting smile. “And we need to coordinate our outfits for the gala.”

Bruce's gaze shifted to me.

“Are you wearing that custom-made green gown Donatello ordered last week?”

Heat rushed to my face.

He had ordered a colourful designer gown for his secretary. My wardrobe consisted of black and white dresses chosen to make me look like a frump. All chosen by Zia Carmen.

I rose abruptly and nodded to Rosa.

“I'm not disturbing you any longer, Donatello. We'll leave. Goodnight.”

I fought to keep my voice steady.

To my astonishment, my husband stood.

“Wait here.”

I turned, Roman's curls brushing my nose.

“You're busy,” I replied tightly. “I'm sorry I disturbed you. It's a long drive home. We might as well leave now.”

I had barely turned away when he caught my arm.

“Maria.” His grip tightened. “You will stay at the city house tonight. You and the boys.”

I met his gaze, refusing to hide my defiance.

So now we were fit to stay at the precious city house he had never allowed me to visit.

Something flickered across his face.

Before he could speak, Belinda laid a possessive hand on his arm.

“But Donatello, I thought we...” She pouted, stumbling over the words. “I was going to use the guest bedroom tonight.”

He looked at her, then back at me.

“My wife and sons will stay at the house.”

I turned away.

His casual concession hurt more than it should have. It felt like scraps thrown to a stray dog, and I hated myself for being grateful.

I closed my eyes briefly and buried my face in Roman's hair.

“I'll carry the boy,” Donatello growled.

Before I could protest, he lifted a startled, stiff Matteo into his arms.

Bruce sniggered.

“What a doting husband and father.”

I turned on him, my patience exhausted.

“That's what husbands and fathers usually do, Bruce,” I said sweetly. “Didn't yours?”

I swept out before he could answer.

A surprised laugh followed me.

“Damn, your wife has some spunk. I thought you said she was a mouse.”

Gritting my teeth, I strode down the corridor, Rosa hurrying behind me. Donatello's heavy footsteps followed close behind.

At the elevator, his voice cut through the silence.

“Maria. Stop.”

I halted, breathing hard, but refused to look at him.