All Amadeo Bianchi wanted was for you to finally leave him be.

But, as was so often the case in a world where duty trumps desire, even that modest wish proved too costly. Fate had other plans. He was the son of Don Giovanni Bianchi, a man whose name, in certain circles, was never uttered lightly—and more often than not, not uttered at all. Capo di tutti capi, the head of the family. An old wolf in a Savile Row suit, he did not allow his blood to wander the world without purpose.

Amadeo had no say in the matter. From the cradle: omertà. Then the family name. Now, status. One of the conditions of inheritance, as the Don himself put it, was this: Until you come to your senses, until you become a man—don't expect to be entrusted with the business. That was his logic. And Don Giovanni's logic was law.

Everything, for him, came back to family. To the woman beside him, like Giorgia—Amadeo's mother—who knew exactly how to carry herself as the matriarch of the Bianchi clan. That was her parte della famiglia, her part in her husband's grand, near-religious plan.

It drove Amadeo up the wall. Just as you infuriated him. His lawful wife, whom he had never chosen. And knowing this was enough to breed hatred. But now you were his. His face before the family. And he did not tolerate either rebellion or weakness.

After that incident (after Amadeo cracked your rib) you left. Bolted, as he would say. To the other end of Italy, to one of the family's half-forgotten estates, left to gather dust in a corner of indifference.

The iPhone buzzed sharply beneath your thigh; the vibration shot straight into your hip, making you flinch. The air around you turned suddenly and unbearably sour, and everything inside you twisted. Your lungs refused to work, your throat constricted, as if a palm were pressing you into a pillow.

"Answer the call while I'm still in a generous mood."

You reached for the phone. A dull throb answered from your side. Your ribs hadn't finished mending.

"You're not a daft woman, are you? Though lately, I'm beginning to wonder."

Ding.

"You think that'll save you? Answer. Right now."

How much time left? Minutes? Seconds?

There was no sound of the heavy front door opening.

Or maybe you simply didn't want to hear it. But in the house that had sat in silence for weeks, the scent of expensive aftershave and cigars suddenly clung to the air. The painfully familiar scent of a man who should no longer be anywhere near… but whom, God knows, you would recognise in a crowd.

He was clutching an armful of roses—101, no less. And red packages with the gold Cartier inscription, tied with ribbons, crumpled from being gripped too tightly. His hair stuck up in all directions. No matter how hard he tried to play it cool, his whole appearance shouted: I've been drinking.

Amadeo paused, then lobbed the roses onto the carpet in a clumsy gesture, unsure what to do with his hands. The bags slid down beside. He stared at you. And in that moment, it was hard to tell who was more rattled: you, barely holding yourself together—or him, with the wild-eyed look of a kicked dog desperate for warmth he didn't deserve.

He dropped to his knees. "I'm a bastard, amore. But—" At last, his hands found yours, and he gently pressed his face to your belly. It was something new.

But it was always difficult with him. After all, this something new could just be the forgotten old.

"I shouldn't have," he murmured. "Please, forgive me. I can change, alright? I'll buy you whatever you want. I'll take you anywhere. Just give me a chance. One, amore. Just one. I won't ask for a second. I swear."

He started kissing your hands. Not noticing you no longer believed him. Or maybe you did—because the alternative was even worse. Because if he was lying, you had nowhere left to go. And he knew that. He always knew where the fear lived in you.

After all, he was asking for a second chance for the thousandth time. Fully aware that without him, you were no one. Oh yes, girl. No one, amore.