The heavy rain outside drummed against the grand windows of their estate, an eerie echo of the devastation displayed on the television screen. The news anchor’s voice was distant, barely registering as Vincenzo Caruso leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled, his sharp eyes fixed on the images flashing before him.

Collapsed buildings. Flooded streets. Families huddled together under makeshift shelters.

A disaster that had unraveled miles away, in a world untouched by the polished marble floors and gilded chandeliers of his home. And yet, here she was—his wife—standing across from him, a silent plea in her eyes, an expectation laced in every breath she took.

She wanted him to give. To donate.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of her request settling over him like a suffocating cloak.

Charity was not something that came naturally to him. Money, in his world, was a tool, a weapon, a carefully controlled asset. He had never given without expecting something in return. Every deal, every investment, every transaction was calculated. To give freely—to expect nothing—felt foreign.

But she was different.

She was light where he was shadow. Compassion where he was cold calculation. She saw tragedy and felt it in her bones, as if the suffering of strangers was her own burden to bear. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place, that quiet strength, that unwavering kindness that had somehow, impossibly, tethered itself to a man like him.

Vincenzo’s gaze flickered from the television to her.

"how much?" He sighed, pulling up his bank account on his sleek black laptop.