The Don’s 999 Roses Couldn’t Buy My Freedom

Eight years into my blood-bound union, the Don of the Falcone family sent me nine hundred and ninety-nine roses.

I'd just come off the surgeon's table when I called him and, perfectly calm, asked to be released from the bloodline.

On the other end, his young confidante's tearful apology came through:

"Donna Russo, it's all my fault, I went ahead without asking. Please don't take it out on Don Falcone."

Lorenzo Falcone murmured to soothe her for a long while, then said only to me: "As you wish."

By the time I saw him again, half a month had passed.

……

"Make me a bowl of pasta."

Lorenzo came back to the estate in the small hours and, for the first time, didn't find a hot meal waiting at his place at the table.

His handsome brow drew together on reflex. He gave the order the way he gave every order, expecting it carried out, and walked off toward the bathroom.

By the time he came out trailing steam, I was still staring idly at the television. The house was quiet the way only a guarded house can be quiet, the men outside the windows moving and the silence inside thicker for it.

He pulled a designer bag out of his case. "Here. See if you like it."

A pink bag, the kind young girls obviously go for at a glance.

He used to win me over by taking me anywhere I wanted to go, past every guard and every closed door, as if the territory itself bent for me.

Now it was just dull gifts to keep me quiet.

I couldn't be bothered to give it a second look. I changed the channel and asked him:

"When do you have time to bring it before the elders? To sever the union."

Lorenzo was busy. So busy that even an anniversary gift had to be picked out by his personal courier.

When it came to making time, it was always me working around him.

"Stop making a scene. Vittoria Bianchi didn't know you hate roses. It won't happen again."

He poured himself a small glass of whiskey and settled into the single armchair across from me. His thumb traced once around the rim of the glass before he gave me that not-quite-a-smile.

Vittoria had come up alongside Lorenzo since they were children. She'd adored him all that time, and the moment she'd proved herself she came running to become his personal courier, the one who carried his word through the Family.

The two of them were always paired off, even sharing the same suite when business took them across territory lines.

The truth was, I didn't blame Vittoria for chasing Lorenzo so relentlessly.

Flies don't land on an egg without a crack.

If he hadn't given her an opening, no woman could have gotten close.

I let out an exaggerated yawn, and tears pricked at the corners of my eyes without my meaning them to.

Hearing no answer from me for a while, Lorenzo assumed the matter was closed.

He asked how our seven-year-old son had ranked in his last lessons.

I shook my head. "I don't know."

It wasn't to spite Lorenzo, withholding it on purpose.

I genuinely didn't know.

The Falcones believed the heir to the bloodline should be raised hard and raised close. Matteo had been kept at the compound since he was small, his days packed under the watch of his minders, one drill after another.

It was almost funny. I was the one who'd carried him, yet the times I got to see him could be counted on one hand.

I'd cried over it, fought over it, but the Falcones couldn't have cared less.

The way they saw it, an outsider with no Family blood marrying into the bloodline was already a blessing earned by my ancestors.

Anything beyond that was pure wishful thinking.

Lorenzo pinched the high bridge of his nose and told me to put more of my attention on our son:

"Keep this up and Vittoria will be more of a mother to him than you are."

I knew what he meant.

Yesterday was Friday, the one day I was allowed to bring our son back from his lessons.

I'd arrived an hour early. I waited until dark, until the gates were drawn shut and the men changed their watch.

Only then did Vittoria call to tell me the Donna wanted her to bring the boy back to the estate for the Sunday table early.

Through the phone, I heard Lorenzo's voice.

He was asking Vittoria, with a smile in his voice, whether she wanted any soup.

My thoughts came back to the present, and I gave Lorenzo a smile that didn't reach my eyes:

"Then isn't that exactly what you want? I'll leave right now. Let her be your so-called Donna."

Something in those words must have stung Lorenzo. He went quiet for several seconds, then erupted:

"My patience has its limits.

Adriana Russo, stop being impossible."

He stood and had taken only two steps when I said, flat and unhurried:

"Oh, right, I forgot to tell you. I lost the baby."