After Five Years of PTSD, The Don Heir Begged Me Back

Five years passed in a blink.

We never became husband and wife in any real sense, but we got along, in our way.

When he needed to be alone, I retreated to another room without a word. When he glared at me, I told him it was alright, that I'd always be there.

Slowly, Dario began to tolerate me.

He'd let me carry milk into his room and drink it in front of me. When he played with his guns in the garden, he let me sit nearby. When I was sick, he'd say — stiffly, looking at the wall — that I should go rest.

But he was still so far away.

So there was one more thing I wanted to do.

The Vellari Famiglia held a family dinner that night. The timing was right — every member of the family at the table, the mood easy, Dario calm. No outburst all evening.

I gripped the box. My palms were already damp.

I had been working on this gift for a long time. It was something Dario had wanted. He would love it. I was sure.

"Dario," I said, my eyes bright with nerves and excitement, "I have something for you."

A few people at the table looked curious. Others traded glances I couldn't read.

Dario glanced at me, his eyes skimming the surface of the box, and reached out.

Then his whole body went still.

In front of more than twenty people, he picked up the pocket watch from inside the box, walked to the fireplace, threw it in — and turned back toward me.

"Who do you think — you are. The real Donna. Of our — Vellari Famiglia?"

Each word came out through clenched teeth.

"A stand-in. That's all. Don't do — things that aren't yours to do. It's disgusting."

His hand shot out. Fingers closed around my throat.

"Get out." His voice rasped. "Gift. Trash. Beneath me — like you. I don't want it. Not — ever."

The pressure built. I didn't fight him. I just looked at him, holding the tears back.

A second later, arms came in from behind us, prying him off me by force.

Dario was held back, but his eyes never left mine. He was looking at me like I was the person he hated most in the world.

I curved my mouth into something like a smile. "Understood, Don."

It was the first time I had ever called him that.

Maybe that was what we had always been to each other.

The five years felt like a dream now.

He shot me one last look, kicked a chair hard enough to topple it, and walked out, his face like stone.

I bent down, set the chair upright, turned, and made myself smile.

"My husband has a temper." My voice was a little hoarse, but level. "I'm sorry he frightened everyone. Please — go on with dinner."

No one picked up a fork.

Someone broke the silence with a sneer. "What a useless Donna. Five years and she still can't hold her own husband's heart."

Then Dario walked back in with a woman beside him.

She wore a pale yellow dress. Her hair was longer now, swept loose at the nape, exposing a stretch of luminous white throat. She was beautiful. Refined.

Every eye in the room went to her.

She gave a bright smile. "Everyone — I'm Bianca Salvatore. I'm here on behalf of the Salvatore Famiglia. Forgive me for arriving so late."