The Donna’s Stolen Christmas Was For Her Don’s First Love Chapter 01

The Donna’s Stolen Christmas Was For Her Don’s First Love Chapter 01

Fabrizio Santapaola once told me he hated Christmas more than anything.

He said Christmas in Sicily was nothing but endless family gatherings, and he would rather stay at the Catania estate where it was quiet.

So for the five years I was married to him, every Christmas was the same: the two of us sitting across from each other at a cold, empty table, eating a simple dinner for two.

I never complained. Not once.

Until this year, when his mother called and told me to come back to the Noto Valley estate. She said every member of the Santapaola family was expected to attend.

I spent three days preparing gifts. I even remembered the preferences of his father, the former Don of the Santapaola family, down to the last detail.

But when I arrived at the gates of the Noto Valley estate, Fabrizio stopped me.

“Marcella just went through a divorce. She’s not doing well. Don’t go inside tonight.”

I froze. “I’m your wife.”

He looked at me, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “You’re also the Donna of the Santapaola family. You should respect my wishes.”

Later, a servant came out through the side door carrying a trash bin.

I saw the dining room. Right next to the head of the table, there was the dinnerware set I had personally picked out.

The person sitting in that seat was Marcella.

She had posted something on Instagram: [Some families always find their way back together.]

In the photo, Fabrizio was leaning over, cutting her steak.

I set the gift box down at the front door. I didn’t knock again.

He had given his Christmas Eve to the girl he had always protected.

So I gave myself back to me.

When I returned to Catania, the box of Panettone on the dining table was still sealed.

Fabrizio hated anything too sweet. Every year, I would slice the cake into small pieces, brew a pot of Earl Grey, and sit with him until the midnight bells rang.

Not this year.

My phone buzzed in my hand. A message from Fabrizio.

[Go home first. Don’t overthink it. Marcella isn’t doing well tonight.]

I stared at that message for a long time. Then I typed back: [Okay.]

Half a minute later, another message came through.

[Don’t let my mother know you came by. She’s softhearted. She’ll read too much into it.]

I suddenly remembered standing at the jewelry counter three days ago, spending two hours choosing a gift.

Fabrizio had glanced at the photo I sent and replied, “Whatever you decide is fine. My mom isn’t picky.”

That necklace, in his eyes, had probably already found a more fitting wearer.

He came home close to eleven.

His collar carried the faint scent of red wine, and he was holding a paper bag from a pastry shop.

He saw me sitting at the dining table and his brow creased slightly. “Why are you still up?”

I looked at the bag. “Is that for me?”

His hands paused mid-step as he was changing his shoes.

“The chef at Noto Valley made some Cannoli. Marcella didn’t finish them, so I grabbed what was left.”

I nodded. “You’re giving me her leftovers?”

“Camilla! Do you really have to be this petty tonight? Don’t test the patience of a mafia Don.”

His anger didn’t scare me.

I stood up and walked to the kitchen to pour myself some water. With my back to him, I said, “I left the gift box for your mother at the front gate of the Noto Valley estate. Have someone bring it inside tomorrow.”

“You went there?” His voice dropped a shade darker.

“Yes.”

“Then you should understand. I wasn’t deliberately shutting you out. Marcella’s family has close ties withours. She’s a valued guest.”

I turned to face him. “But the dinnerware set she was using was the one I picked out.”

“You’re being too sensitive. You will always be the Donna of the Santapaola family.”

I set the glass down and opened a drawer.

I pulled out a Christmas concert ticket, yellowed with age, and placed it in the center of the dining table.

Fabrizio looked down at it, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

“You still have this?”

“Yes. For five years.”

He walked over, his fingertip brushing the faded ticket.

“Camilla, there’s no need to keep bringing up the past.”

Then his phone screen lit up.

It was a voice message from Marcella. She sounded like she had just been crying.

“Don, does the Donna have the wrong idea about me? Maybe I should go apologize to her in person tomorrow.”

Fabrizio grabbed his phone immediately and headed for the balcony.

“No need. She’ll understand. Get some rest.”

Through the glass doors, I watched him lower his head and smile.

I couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled at me like that.

I picked up the concert ticket, tore it in half, and dropped it in the trash.

Fabrizio walked back in just in time to see what I had done.

He frowned. “Camilla, don’t you think you’re being childish?”

I didn’t answer. I just took the guest bedroom key out of the drawer.

He stared at the key in my hand. “You want to sleep in separate rooms tonight?”

I didn’t answer that question either.

“Fabrizio, are you free tomorrow morning?”

His brow furrowed. “What do you want?”

I closed my fist around the key. “Call the family lawyer. I want a divorce.”