When I was hungry, he cooked for me himself, making the oatmeal I loved, the kind that was easy on my stomach. The Don of the Rossetti Family, sleeves rolled to the elbow, standing over a stove in the estate kitchen while his underboss waited in the hall.
Every time we went out, he held my hand and never let go. His men walked three paces behind, and he kept me on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street, the way old-world men protect what belongs to them.
Every anniversary, every birthday, he showed up on time with a gift and a smile.
Then Catarina moved in, and everything changed.
She was his blood-sworn brother's widow. That was the reason. Fausto Volpe had taken a bullet for Tomasso during the Calabrese turf war, and the old code was clear: a Don protects his fallen brother's family. Catarina had no one else, no family name to shelter her, no territory, no protection. So he brought her into our home under the sacred code of hospitality.
At first it was just small courtesies. Checking in on her. Making sure she was comfortable. Then came the late-night calls. Her legs were swollen. Her feet were numb. She needed him. Again and again, she pulled him out of our bed in the middle of the night, and each time I heard his footsteps recede down the corridor of the estate, the silence he left behind grew heavier.
On our wedding anniversary, he left me sitting alone at the restaurant and rushed to the hospital to sit with her through a prenatal checkup. I sat there for forty minutes. The candles burned down to nothing. The waiter stopped asking if I wanted to order.
I got jealous. Of course I did. But every time, Tomasso would take my hands and say with absolute conviction: "Her husband saved my life once. His wife and child, how can I just abandon them? Giovanna, you're the kindest person I know. You understand, don't you?"
And when he said it, his right palm would press against mine, and I could feel the raised scar there, the blood-oath mark from the rite of fratellanza he'd sworn with Fausto. He invoked that scar like scripture. Like it made everything holy.
Because I loved him, I trusted him. I trusted us. I trusted what we'd built.
Until I saw him in bed with her.
Then I knew exactly how wrong I'd been.
If he wanted to warm another woman's body, he could have her. I was done.
When morning came, I wiped the dried tears from my face and made two phone calls.