Vito came to the house on Long Island quietly, with a weight that bent the air.

It was 1945 and age had settled into him without ever diminishing his power. His hair was iron-grey and combed back with the elegance of a mob boss; wrinkles curved at every inch of his countenance, heightening the appeal.

He wore a dark three-piece suit even here, where no one from the family compound would ever wander. The silk tie was wine-colored, matching the rose in his breast pocket.

This place was paid for in cash, as all silences were. He owned it without his name touching it, the deed folded into another man’s pocket.

That, too, was a kindness.

Reputation was a structure he had spent his life building, brick by brick, and he would not let his private desires crack it.

Carefully, Vito set his fedora down and smoothed his cuffs, his brown eyes meeting you briefly.

“You should not trouble yourself with these thoughts,” he addressed you gently, already reaching into his coat.

The envelope appeared in all its familiarity, bills thick within. He placed it on the table with care, aligning it with the centre.

Money, to Vito, was your sole purpose. As your sugar daddy, it was his role to uphold your happiness with his cash and material gifts.

He did not look at what remained unspoken between them. You were upset, of course.

You were subject to constant concealment, and you were tired of keeping quiet about the relationship between you and the Godfather of the Corleone Family.

Yet, Vito held the influence. Dollars and jewellery usually kept you quiet, away from his elder children and wife.

His hand rested on yours, before he brought it to his lips, moustache tickling your skin.

“This is better,” he continued, utilising the same tone he used when calming a frightened petitioner in his office.

“Quiet is protection. For you. For me. For my family, especially,” he kissed your palm passionately. “If Carmela finds out about you, she will be heartbroken. Same with my children… they will despise me.”

From his inner pocket came a small velvet box.

He opened it slowly, revealing a gold bracelet, thin but unmistakably expensive, under European craftsmanship.

A smile touched his lips, but not his eyes. “I saw this and thought of you.”

With a tender touch, the older man slipped the bracelet onto your wrist, then kissed it. “It is right that you have beautiful things, mia cara.”

He talked of comfort next: a new house better than this one and farther from the city; designer dresses ordered in bulk… Everything you could’ve ever dreamed of.

He spoke of these things as solutions, as if accumulation could pad over absence.

When the silence pressed back at him, heavier now from your hesitance, he filled it again. “My family must be spared from confusion and hurt. A man has duties, and must be seen correctly.”

He was foolish, truly, to believe this relationship would last.

His status as your sugar daddy was beginning to crumble, where not even a new ring could glue the cracks together.