Trapped In A Mafia Marriage

Dante POV: I scrambled back towards the inferno, the heat searing my skin. Luca and my men had to physically restrain me, dragging me away from the flames. “She’s gone, Boss! There’s nothing left!” The words didn’t register. All I could see was her face in my mind, her calm, empty eyes as I promised to come back. A promise I had broken. Nico arrived, his face pale with horror. When he saw my face, saw Seraphina clinging to me, he understood. He let out a wail of such profound grief that it cut through my own shock. “You left her? You left Mamma?” It was then that a figure emerged from the smoke, stumbling, covered in soot and blood, but alive. Alessia. She had done it. She had freed herself. She collapsed on the pavement, and we rushed to her, a wave of disbelief and overwhelming relief washing over me. For the first time in years, the mask of the cold, calculating Don fell away, and raw, unfiltered terror showed on my face. “Alessia,” I breathed, reaching for her. She flinched away from my touch. “Mamma!” Nico sobbed, throwing himself down beside her. She looked at us, at our panicked faces, our genuine, desperate relief. And there was nothing in her eyes. No forgiveness. No recognition. Just the cold, hard emptiness of a star that had burned out. Then, her eyes rolled back, and she lost consciousness. The hospital became our new battlefield. Her injuries were severe. Burns, internal bleeding, a shattered kidney. She was dying. “She needs a kidney transplant, Don Rossi. Immediately,” the doctor said. “And a massive blood transfusion. We need to find a match.” “Take mine,” I said without hesitation. I was a match. Of course I was a match. We were two halves of the same soul, whether she believed it anymore or not. “And I’ll give blood,” Nico insisted, his voice trembling but firm. “I have to save her. She’s my mother.” We would save her. We would piece her back together with parts of ourselves. She couldn’t leave us. I wouldn’t allow it. It was the ultimate act of possession—she would literally carry me inside her for the rest of her life. She would be mine, forever. The surgeries were successful. The doctors called it a miracle. They called us a good family, a devoted husband and son who had made the ultimate sacrifice. They didn’t see the sickness beneath the surface. During her recovery, I couldn’t stay away. I would sneak into her room late at night, when the nurses were gone. I just needed to watch her breathe, to reassure myself she was still there, still mine. I’d touch her hair, whisper her name into the quiet of the room. One night, her eyes opened. She was awake. She had been awake the whole time. “Get out,” she whispered, her voice rough. Panic seized me. She couldn’t reject me. Not now. Not after I had given her a part of myself. I moved towards her, to explain, to make her understand. She flinched, and I saw real fear in her eyes. The sight of it broke something inside me. To silence her, to stop her from pushing me away, I did the only thing I knew how to do. I asserted my control. I pinned her arms, my hand covering her mouth until she stopped struggling, her body going limp beneath mine. It wasn’t love. It was a desperate, brutal claiming. The next day, Nico and I paid an official visit. We were the picture of a caring family. “You look better,” I said, my voice carefully neutral. “You were in my room last night,” she stated, not a question. I felt a flush of heat rise in my neck. “I don’t know what you mean. I was at home with Nico.” Nico looked down at his shoes, his face troubled. He knew I was lying. Alessia looked from my face to my son’s, and a look of profound weariness crossed her features. “You’re the same,” she said, her voice filled with a terrible finality. “Both of you.” She closed her eyes, shutting us out. The fight was gone. It was worse than her anger, worse than her hatred. It was indifference. She had emotionally disconnected from the game, leaving Nico and me to play it alone. And suddenly, it wasn’t fun anymore. It was just empty.