The Don's Obsession

The Cracks

"You asked what happened to my wife, Livia. Tonight, I'll show you."

I couldn't sleep.

The images from the basement haunted me—the blood, the pleading, the sound. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the traitor's face. Every time I breathed, I smelled the metallic tang of death.

I climbed out of bed and walked to the window.

The mansion was silent. The gardens were bathed in moonlight, beautiful and peaceful. A stark contrast to the darkness I had witnessed hours earlier.

I needed air.

I needed to think.

I slipped out of my room and into the hallway.

The mansion was different at night.

The shadows were deeper, the silence more complete. My footsteps echoed against the marble, too loud in the stillness. I kept to the edges of the hallways, avoiding the pools of moonlight that streamed through the windows.

I didn't know where I was going.

I just knew I couldn't stay in my room.

I wandered through the maze of corridors, past portraits of Russos past, past suits of armor and vases that cost more than my family's estate. The house was a labyrinth, designed to confuse and intimidate.

But somehow, I found my way to his study.

The door was slightly ajar.

A sliver of golden light spilled into the hallway, warm and inviting. I should have walked away. I should have gone back to my room and pretended I hadn't seen anything.

But curiosity got the better of me.

I pushed the door open and looked inside.

He was standing by the fireplace.

His back was to me, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed. In his hands, he held a photograph—a small, silver-framed portrait of a woman.

His wife. Sofia.

He didn't know I was watching.

He traced the outline of her face with his thumb, a gesture so tender it made my chest ache. His shoulders shook, just slightly, as if he were holding back tears.

A sob escaped his lips. Quiet. Broken.

And in that moment, I saw him.

Not the Don. Not the monster. Just a man. A broken, grieving man who had lost the woman he loved.

I stepped back, my heart pounding.

The floor creaked beneath my foot.

Alessandro spun around, his eyes snapping to mine. The mask slammed down in an instant—cold, hard, unreadable.

"Livia."

His voice was flat. Emotionless.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Leave."

"Please, I just—"

"Leave." His voice was ice. "Now."

I turned and fled.

I ran through the hallways, my heart pounding, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I didn't stop until I reached my room. I slammed the door behind me and pressed my back against it, trying to slow my racing heart.

I had seen him.

The real him.

The man beneath the myth.

And he had seen me see him.

I didn't sleep that night.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the image over and over. His shoulders shaking. His thumb tracing her face. The sob that had escaped his lips.

He had loved her.

He still loved her.

And I had witnessed something I wasn't meant to see.

I thought of the way he had looked at me in the basement—cold, merciless, a predator in his element. And then I thought of the way he had looked at that photograph—broken, grieving, utterly human.

Which one was real?

Which one was the mask?

Or were they both real? Two sides of the same man, impossible to separate?

I didn't have answers. I only had questions. And the terrible, nagging feeling that I was in over my head.

The next morning, I avoided him.

I ate breakfast in my room. I stayed in the gardens, far from the house. I didn't go anywhere near his study.

But I couldn't avoid him forever.

He found me in the library.

I was sitting by the window, a book open in my lap, though I hadn't read a word. He walked in without knocking, his face unreadable.

"Livia."

I looked up, my heart pounding.

"Alessandro."

"You saw something last night."

"I didn't—"

"You saw." His voice was soft but insistent. "Don't lie to me."

I set down the book and met his gaze. "Yes. I saw."

He walked toward me, his movements slow and deliberate. When he reached my chair, he stopped, towering over me.

"What did you see?"

"I saw a man." I paused. "A man who was grieving."

His jaw tightened. "I don't grieve."

"Everyone grieves."

"Not me." His voice was flat. "I killed those emotions a long time ago."

"Then why were you crying?"

The question hung between us, sharp and painful.

Alessandro was silent for a long moment.

"Because I loved her," he said finally. "I loved her, and I couldn't save her. And I will never forgive myself for that."

He turned and walked away.

I sat there, my heart aching for a man I should hate.

And I didn't know what to do with that.