The Donna’s Stolen Christmas Was For Her Don’s First Love Chapter 05

The Donna’s Stolen Christmas Was For Her Don’s First Love Chapter 05

The living room went so quiet that the only sound was a coffee cup settling gently against its saucer.

Fabrizio’s mother was the first to react. “Camilla, have you lost your mind? Pulling out divorce papers in front of the Mazzei elders? You’re humiliating the entire Santapaola family!”

I looked at her. “The Santapaola family’s reputation shouldn’t depend on an outsider like me to hold it together.”

Fabrizio stared at me, his voice pressed low.

“Take the agreement back. I’m willing to chalk this up to you being emotional tonight.”

“I’m perfectly clear-headed.”

He stepped forward and reached for the papers.

“Pushing this to a scene like this won’t end well for you.”

I pressed my hand flat against the pages. “Fabrizio, didn’t you say no one could take the Donna’s seat from me? Well, now I’m the one who doesn’t want it.”

His fingers went rigid.

Marcella spoke softly from the side. “Donna, please don’t do this. The Don just takes his commitments too seriously. He’s been responsible to you.”

—

I turned to her. “If Miss Mazzei wants it, she can have it all.”

Marcella’s face drained of color. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” I pushed the old tin box toward her.

“You brought this out tonight for one reason: to make sure I knew that the person in his heart was always you.”

Fabrizio finally lost his patience. “Camilla, enough!”

He looked at me like he was seeing a stranger.

I took out my phone, set it on the table, and pressed play on a recording.

His mother’s voice came through, crisp and unmistakable.

“Marcella had married and moved to America that year. The former Don pressured Fabrizio to stabilize the family’s position. Your family had a clean background. You were a suitable choice for the Santapaola Donna.”

The faces of the Mazzei elders changed instantly.

Fabrizio’s mother shot to her feet. “You had the nerve to record that?”

I calmly turned off the phone. “You were very clear just now, but I was afraid I might forget later.”

Fabrizio seized my wrist, his grip tight.

“Delete it.”

—

I winced from the pain but didn’t struggle.

“What are you afraid of? That the Mazzei family will find out I never mistreated Marcella? Or that the entire underworld in Catania will learn that the Don of the Santapaola family only married his wife as a stand-in?”

A flash of panic crossed his eyes, quickly buried under ice.

“Camilla, don’t push me any further.”

I slid the pen toward him. “Sign.”

His mother was shaking with rage. “He can’t sign! She’ll spread the Santapaola family’s business across all of Sicily by tomorrow.”

Marcella shook her head through tears. “I’ll leave. Please don’t divorce the Don.”

Fabrizio didn’t look at her.

He only looked at me, his voice raw and hoarse. “You think I don’t have the guts to sign?”

He picked up the pen. The tip hovered over the paper.

In that moment, I suddenly remembered five years ago, when he had leaned over a marriage certificate the same way.

That day he had asked me, “Camilla, are you scared?”

I told him no.

—

I wasn’t scared now either.

Fabrizio had just written the first letter of his name when his phone rang.

The caller ID showed the hospital.

He answered, and the color drained from his face one shade at a time.

“What did you say?”

The voice on the other end was frantic. I could only catch fragments.

The Donna’s mother.

Emergency.

Heart.

Fabrizio’s eyes snapped to me. The pen slipped from his hand and landed on the divorce agreement.

I grabbed my bag and headed for the door. I had barely reached it when Fabrizio caught up and seized my hand.

“Let me drive you.”

I wrenched free.

“That won’t be necessary, Don Santapaola.”

—

I walked out into the night, my heels clicking against the stone courtyard.

Behind me, I heard Fabrizio’s mother shouting, Marcella crying, and the low murmur of the Mazzei elders.

None of it mattered anymore.

I had spent five years being the perfect Donna, the perfect wife, the perfect placeholder.

And all it had gotten me was a tin box full of letters to another woman.

My phone buzzed. A cab was already on its way.

I climbed into the back seat and gave the driver the address of the hospital.

My mother was all I had left. And I wasn’t going to let Fabrizio Santapaola take that from me too.

As the car pulled away, I watched the Santapaola estate shrink in the rearview mirror.

Five years of my life, disappearing into the dark.

And I didn’t feel a single ounce of regret.