Page 59 of The Don's Prima Donna

A deep breath fills my lungs, and I finally turn my gaze towards him. His piercing blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see nothing but deep blue—the ocean. I imagine drowning in an ocean, the water choking the breath out of me.

The thought brings me satisfaction.

"Mi dispiace,"– I'm sorry – I whisper instead, breaking the silence that has settled between us. "I didn't mean to worry you." Knowing my thoughts would scare him.

"Not important," he replies gently, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

"I don't know if I'll ever be okay again," I admit, my voice cracking under the weight of my pain. It's a raw, vulnerable confession, but one that I need to make.

"Lo so, Tesoro." – I know, my darling. Philippe’s hand moves to squeeze mine in a comforting gesture. "But you will learn to live with it."

"How?" I almost shriek, anger raging through me. "How?"

"By learning to live again," he frowns. "You need to do what you do every day. Live."

I shake my head violently, over and over again, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. My throat hurts a lump forms, and tears fall.

Living makes me feel guilty. "I can't," I choke out. "I don't know how –"

Philippe stands up with a finality that commands my attention. "You need to eat something,cara mia," he says gently. "Let me make you a drink first, and then we'll have dinner together."

He's not offering. He's ordering. Telling me that this is the hour people eat and drink, and that is why I must eat and drink.

I watch as he moves gracefully across the room to the small bar in the corner, his black hair falling perfectly over his forehead. His sleeve rises a little as he lifts his arm to reach for the bottle.

The Moirai tattoo on his arm seems to come alive. The threads of life spun by Clotho, coming together on her spindle. He pours a glass of wine for me and hands it over, his blue eyes meeting mine.

"Thank you," I say softly, taking the glass from him.

Alcohol. Little did I expect this to be the relief I'd need. The deep red liquid swirls around the glass, and I take a sip, feeling it warm me from within.

"Vieni," – Come. – He beckons, extending his hand out to me. "Let's go to the kitchen."

"I'm not hungry," I mutter.

"The kitchen, Tatiana," he insists. "Just do this one little thing for me, please. Just walk with me."

It is a simple request, but it seems he considers it a great gift that I can give him. And so, I find no other choice but to do what he asks, even if it is the last thing I wish to do.

I nod my reluctant agreement, placing my hand in his as I step out of bed. He passes me my slippers and helps me put them on. We make our way out of the room and down the stairs and the hall.

He has men everywhere. They're all looking at me like I'm going to break. I hold my head up higher. I wasn't the victim here. They shouldn't be looking at me. They should be looking for the people who killed my parents. I feel angry at their uselessness. Why are they here? They need to be out there.

But I'm too tired to say anything. Too tired to fight.

As we enter the kitchen, the scent of gingerbread fills the air, bringing back memories of my mom’s home-cooked meals. Someone must have just baked something in here. My heart aches at the thought of how much my mom loved baking, but I push the pain aside and focus on the present moment.

"Sit," Philippe instructs, pulling out a chair for me. I take a seat, sipping my wine and watching as he begins to prepare our meal. His movements are confident and efficient, an Italian at heart.

"What are you making?" I ask, curious at last.

"Spaghetti alla carbonara," he replies, cracking an egg into a bowl. "I promise it will be delicious."

A small smile forms on my lips at his words. "I'm sure it will be perfect," I say, meaning every word.

Philippe ties an apron around his waist, his dark floppy hair now looking more like a chef in a romantic comedy than the mysterious alpha mobster he does in a suit. The transition is eclectic, piquing my imagination. Distracting. It's just what I needed.

He starts chopping onions and garlic with a clumsy enthusiasm that is both endearing and slightly terrifying. I watch as his fingers narrowly avoid the sharp blade of the knife.

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