The Don's Rebel Pet

The safe house was in an old building in lower Manhattan.

My fingerprint opened the lock.

Damon was sitting on the sofa.

Unexpectedly, he was really injured.

His left shoulder wrapped in a makeshift bandage. Blood was already soaking through the white gauze.

"Who was it this time?" I asked, pulling out the medical kit.

"Some punk from the Kozlov family," he grunted. "Thought he could make a move on my turf."

I cut away his shirt.

The bullet had grazed his shoulder blade. Not deep, but it needed stitches.

Damon's muscles tensed as the needle pierced his skin.

Pain always made him more dangerous, like a wounded animal.

Twelve stitches later, I was about to wrap the wound when he yanked me into his lap, crushing my mouth with his. Every thrust was a claim. Mine. Mine. Mine.

But all I felt was tired.

When he was finished, he held me, his chin resting on my shoulder.

His fingers toyed with the Heart of Sicily on my ring finger.

It was an ancient, blood-red garnet ring, the symbol of the Vitale family matriarch.

Two years ago, after I took a bullet aimed at his heart, he got down on one knee and put it on my finger himself.

"Nora, you protected my heart," he'd said. "Now, let it protect you."

I thought it meant he was accepting me. That I could finally be by his side for good.

"Bianca showing up today was her own idea, but you handled it well," he finally said. "Tomorrow night, at the dinner, she'll be sitting next to me."

"I know." I closed my eyes.

He paused. His fingers slid off the ring, and his tone turned to ice. "And take that ring off. Put it back in my study."

My heart stopped. "Why?"

"Bianca won't like seeing it on you."

He let me go and stood up, looking down at me. "That ring represents the Vitale family. It belongs to the future queen of this family. Not you."

The next night, the Vitale estate was lit up like a palace.

I didn't take it off.

The Heart of Sicily was still on my ring finger. A final, silent act of defiance.

Dressed in a simple black evening gown, I stood in the corner of the dining hall.

I used to sit at Damon's right hand, respected by the family's old guard.

Tonight, that seat belonged to Bianca.

"To the future Mrs. Vitale!" old Marcello raised his glass.

Bianca smiled elegantly.

"Thank you all for your blessings," she cooed. "I will do my best to live up to the Vitale name."

"But the shipping business after the wedding is the real prize," Antonio, one of the capos, said around his cigar. "The Torrino family controls forty percent of the East Coast ports."

"Exactly. This deal will double our power."

"You can keep the girl," old Salvatore said, glancing at me with contempt. "She's useful. A pretty little thing to handle the dirty work."

A low chuckle rippled through the room.

My cheeks burned, but my face remained a mask.

All eyes turned to Damon, waiting for his response.

"You're too kind," he chuckled. "She's just a pet. She won't get in Bianca's way."

That's when the old men's eyes darted to the ring on my finger.

Bianca moved closer to Damon.

She stroked his hand and purred, "Darling, I've heard the Vitale family has an heirloom, passed down for a hundred years. The 'Heart of Sicily.' They say only the true queen can wear it. Will I have the honor of seeing it tonight?"

Damon’s gaze flickered between me and Bianca.

Then, he stood up and walked over to me.

He didn't say a word. He just held out his hand, his eyes telling me to take it off myself.

My hand was shaking. The ring felt like it had grown into my flesh. It wouldn't budge.

I looked at him, one last silent plea in my eyes.

Damon's patience ran out.

He grabbed my hand and ripped the ring from my finger.

It was a tight fit. It tore the skin from my knuckle, leaving an angry, bleeding line.

He didn't even look at the wound. He just took the ring, walked back to his seat, and wiped my blood off it with his napkin. Like I was dirt.

Then he solemnly placed the Heart of Sicily on Bianca's finger.

"Now, it belongs to its true owner."

Bianca held up her hand, shooting me a look of pure triumph.

I clutched my bleeding finger, watching the ring sparkle on another woman's hand.

My five years of faith, the medal I'd earned with my life, had become a complete joke.

I didn't cry. I didn't break down.

Amid the celebration, I picked up a glass of champagne and walked slowly toward Damon.

As everyone watched in stunned silence, I raised my glass and smiled. My voice was calm.

"Congratulations, Godfather. And to you, Miss Bianca. Congratulations on your… meaningful hand-me-down."

I downed the champagne in one gulp, set the empty glass gently on the table, and turned to leave.

As I reached the door, Marco, Damon's actual assistant, stopped me. "Miss Nora," he said quietly. "The Godfather wants you to drive him and Miss Bianca back to the Torrino estate after the dinner."

I looked up at Marco, my face blank.

"Which car?"

"Your red Maserati."

I nodded.

A good pet knows when it's being punished.

You won't even remember this tomorrow, Damon. But I will. And after I deliver your final gift, I'll be gone forever.