Once Upon A Promise

After that day, our relationship cooled, little by little, like a radio losing signal.

One day, at a company mixer where they were planning a move into medical services, Mario and I sat side by side at the head table. The room hummed with polite conversation until a young man suddenly lunged at Mario, raising a gun.

"You fuckin' asshole," he shouted. "You don't deserve Carmilla's love. How dare you hurt her?"

People froze. No one moved.

I looked at the man and, without thinking, remembered: he had obsessed over Carmilla back in college.

"You remember when you and Enzo Romano fought? Carmilla took a bullet for you. Her wound still aches whenever it rains." The man's voice shook with fury. Carmilla wore a look of pain; she clutched at her shoulder like it hurt.

A flash of guilt crossed Mario's face.

"You think you stand where you stand as Don by yourself?" the man continued. "It's Carmilla—she drank and drank until her stomach bled to win you support. She pleaded and begged to keep you in business.

"Even after you lost the shipment worth millions on that international deal with Lorenzo, he still worked with you because of Carmilla. She knelt and banged her head bloody to get you another chance. You should thank her."

The conference room fell silent; eyes flicked between Mario and Carmilla.

"She did all of that of her own free will," I said, looking straight at the man.

"That's right. She did those things willingly. I didn't ask her to do them for me. My wife is Alessia. No matter what Carmilla did, the woman I love is Alessia." Mario's voice trembled as he spoke; he avoided Carmilla's eyes.

"I'll kill you," the man rasped. "How dare you trample on Carmilla's love?"

He seemed on the verge of madness.

Carmilla threw herself in front of Mario to shield him. She sobbed and begged, "Please, don't—everything Mario says is true. I did it willingly."

While the man hesitated, a bodyguard behind Mario squeezed a trigger.

The man's arm was shredded; he screamed like a wounded animal. The guards dragged him away and shielded Mario.

Don Marco Abano from the Abano family, who sat nearby, rose and leveled a gun at Carmilla.

"Don Brasco," Marco said, "if you can't handle women, how can you run the syndicate? Want me to take care of this trouble?" He pointed the gun at her.

"Mario, I'm carrying your child! Please, save me." Carmilla pleaded.

Mario's face tightened; he trembled.

After a long moment, he said, "Joke's over. Put the gun down. Don't scare Carmilla."

Marco lunged and grabbed me instead, turning the barrel toward me, laughing. "A wife can only be one woman. If you can't give Carmilla up, then what about her?"

The gun went off. Pain flared across my shoulder like fire. The world smeared and folded; darkness crept in at the edges. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Mario hugging Carmilla, his face a map of fear.

When I opened my eyes again, it was to a white ceiling and the slow, clinical beeping of a hospital room. For a long time, I couldn't gather myself.

Around me came some excited gossip.

"Did you see? Don Brasco was holding Carmilla the whole time. He called every gynecologist in the hospital. He looked terrified; that's true love, isn't it?"

"And the other patient in that room—she was in the ICU for days. They almost couldn't save her. Don Brasco didn't visit her once."

The chatter stopped as the ward door opened. Mario came in carrying half a bowl of rice porridge and an apple, already bitten—half for him, half for Carmilla. He moved to feed me.

Instinct rose like ice. I tipped the bowl; the scalding porridge spilled over his hands and down his shirt. He jerked back, soaked and humiliated. He only furrowed his brows and sighed, a trace of guilt in his voice.

"Alessia, I'm sorry. But this is what I owe Carmilla."

Each word was earnest, but the heat in my chest didn't thaw. I only wanted to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness.