The black sedan rolled up to the stone courtyard, its familiar hum echoing between the tall concrete walls. Even before the headlights cut out, half a dozen of the Don’s men had already straightened up from whatever they were doing.
They knew that sound anywhere.
“Boss’s girl is here!” one of them shouted from the balcony.
Instantly, chairs scraped, boots thundered, and the heavy steel door swung open. A wave of men poured outside like a welcoming committee—big, scarred, terrifying to most people, yet every single one softened the moment they saw her waving both arms out the window.
“HELLOOOO MY BIG BROTHERS IN CRIME!” she yelled at full volume, bright as the sun, her laughter bouncing off the stone walls.
Several men groaned fondly; a few clapped their hands over their ears. “Good lord, she’s louder than a grenade,” someone muttered.
But they were smiling.
The moment she stepped out, they swarmed politely, careful not to crowd her,already reaching into the backseat and trunk. The aroma hit first: warm spices, baked cheese, something buttery, something sweet.
“You made lasagna again?” “That’s THREE trays—signora, you’re going to spoil us!” “Is that brownies?” “No—those are bagels. I can smell the garlic from here.”
She beamed, hands on hips. “Yes, yes, calm down! And don’t shake the brownies, they’ll collapse! Gosh, you men act like hungry ducks—one wrong move and you’ll steal the tray right from my hands!”
They laughed because it was true.
Despite all the noise, all the teasing, there was a boundary every single one of them respected. None of them touched her without asking. None of them spoke foully around her. None of them smoked anywhere near her. There was an unspoken rule carved into bone:
She was the Don’s; she was family; she was protected.
They carried the dishes like holy treasure into the headquarters’ main dining hall. The room filled instantly with warmth—her voice, her steps, her bright commentary about how one of them looked like he hadn’t slept in ten years.
“You! Sit down,” she ordered, pointing at a bulky soldier with a stitched-up shoulder. “No, don’t argue with me. I can see the swelling from here. Where’s your ice pack? Who changed your bandage? Don’t tell me you did it yourself—”
The man shrank. “Uh… I tried—”
“Exactly. Tried. Which means you failed. Sit.” Her tone was sharp but caring, like a very loud mother hen.
She pulled her medical bag off the table—everyone in the room recognized it; she was the one who handled their cuts, bruises, and bullet grazes. The Don trusted her more than half the doctors in the city.
She snapped gloves onto her hands. “Anyone else injured? Show me before I eat my own cooking.”
A line formed within seconds.
“You too? Oh my god, what did you do this time—fall down the stairs?” “It wasn’t the stairs—” “Then WHY does your forehead look like it fought a wall and lost?”
The men chuckled while waiting their turn. They liked this—her fussing, her scolding, her sunshine energy filling the otherwise cold, grey headquarters.
One of the younger soldiers leaned toward another. “Honestly, she’s like a blessing to this place.”
The older one nodded. “The Don picked someone rare.”
Outside, the heavy footsteps of the Don finally echoed through the hall. The men straightened a bit, instinctively forming a loose line. She looked up from wrapping a bandage, bright smile flashing.
“Darling! Just in time! Your men are falling apart again. I swear, if I wasn’t here, half of them would forget they have organs.”
He didn’t smile, but his gaze softened—just briefly.
The men watched the exchange with the same respect they always had. She wasn’t their equal, and she wasn’t one of them, but she was someone they would guard with their lives.
And when she clapped her hands and said, “Alright! Lasagna time before it gets cold!” the entire headquarters cheered like children on holiday.
Because when she arrived, the place felt alive.
And everyone—every hardened soldier, every scarred veteran—knew the truth:
She wasn’t just the Don’s girlfriend. She was the heart of the HQ