#bellastella

Frank Patérno

Espagueti Poblano

What is it?

Boiled Spaguetti served along creamy spicy green sauce, it is made out of chile poblano, a type of spicy pepper, imagine a green pepper but with a spicy and smokey twist.

The sauce is creamy made with sour cream (many mexican sour creams are not that sour! in fact the most popular made in my own state is slightly sweet since is usually eaten with bread) cream cheese, milk, chicken boillon and of course, previously smoked/toasted chiles poblanos.

It is also served with corn - Unlike other countrie's corn, Mexican corn is not exclusively sweet (or yellow! We have naturally purple, blue, pink and even black corn, since tortillas are made out of corn there are also naturally black, green or even pink tortillas!) so it tastes salty and adds a delicious moist juicy flavour.

Why Frank?

I would serve it to Frank because so far he is the most patriotic character played by Sergio, going as far to correct a literal judge's pronunciation on his cousin's last name - during a deeply serious trial agains thim with solid evidence.

So I would love to see his face as I serve him one of hi "tipical" foods with my own twist (he would shoot me).

Professore Salvatore (Toti) Bellastella

Chilaquiles

What is it?

Food inside a corn based tortilla? Tacos.

Food inside a corn based tortilla that is then deep-fried? Flautas.

Food inside a flour basedd tortilla? Burritos.

Food inside a flour based tortilla that is then deep fried? Chimichangas (depending on the prep).

Corn based tortilla that then is baked until crunchy, then added food on top as a plate that you can eat along with the food as a topping? Tostadas, mistakenly baptized as "taco bowls"

All of the above can have sauce inside and it does not really alter their meaning.

But if a corn based tortilla with food inside is then FOLDED and the sauce goes on top of it all they are called enchiladas (some fry the tacos, some just barely pass the tortilla through oil, and others leave the tortilla be).

Corn based tortillas cut in triangle shape and fried? Totopos (mistakenly called "tortilla chips" by americans)

Tortillas cut in triangle or other shape to be aded yellow cheese? Nachos.

Tortillas cut in triangle shape, then added roasted smokey salsa on top, served with sour cream, cheese, and depending on taste eggs or onions? Chilaquiles.

Why Bellastella?

Chilaquiles are Mexico's hangover food by excellence, spicy, crunchy and filling.

I believe it is pretty self-explanatory why I would feed Bellastella hangover food.

Of course "aguachile" (roughly translated to spicychili-water) is much better but that is because it is MUCH MORE spicy to the point that it makes trained lifelong Mexican's cry, so chilaquiles it is for this Italian boi.

Timoteo

Tacos de ojo

Eye tacos, are literally what their name say, tacos made out of cow's or other animal's eye. Squishy and disgusting to my personal taste, because Timoteo does not deserve love or tasty meals, let alone even food.

As an additional fact "Echarte un taco de ojo." - "Shoving down/eating some eye taco." is a Mexican expression to looking towards someone with desire/lust, so it fits this disgrace of a creature perfectly.

Dr. Giovanni Mari

(@lobefinnedfishes pspspspsps)

Café de olla con pan dulce

Café de olla is a delicious mexican coffee, its preparation can vary a lot depending on how your grandma made it, these are the most frequent ingredients:

Cinnamon - most cafés de olla start by making cinnamon tea and then using it as water to make coffee

Piloncillo (also called "panela" in some parts of latin america) natural sweetner, I would describe it to a stronger honey and sugary at the same time

Aniseed

Orange zest - a bit more unpopular

Chocolate de mesa - The rough chocolate bars that are basically compressed chocolate that mexican hot chocolate it is based on

Personally I would give him my mom's version which was a base of cinnamon tea, when the tea boils she adds chocolate de mesa which disolves, then adds some coffee.

My mom singlehandedly solved the tea vs coffee vs hot chocolate dilema.

Pan dulce can vary a lot so I would let him choose betwen conchas, cuernitos, semitas and cochinitos.

My poor baby deserves to relax and I love him so much, I want nothing bad to happen to my previous, emotionally detached pretty princess.

But as a bonus - bad joke:

Huevitos divorciados

Mexican food has a green version and red version of pretty much EVERYTHING (enchiladas, chilaquiles, pozole, tamales), most popular in the salsas, there is this debate of which is better, usually green wins.

Two corn based tortillas are laid in the plate, then two fried eggs on top of each, as shown in the picture some people and restaurants lay down some beans in the middle to separate them, then each egg is served one with green and another with red sauce, in some occasions the egg is cooked alongside the salsa so the flavours mix.

I chose this for Dr. Giovanni as a bad joke since "huevitos divorciados" means "divorced eggs". Yeah, I know.

Geoffredo baby Tedesco

Molito con pollo

My baby boi knows what is it to live in hunger so I would lovingly make him the most toe curling Mole he has had in his life.

Mole is a sweet and spicy, rich and a bit smokey mexican thick sauce that accompanies boiled chicken and different kinds of rice.

I would serve that to Tedesco because I want to fill his precious tummy with delicious food but...

Mole is a pre-hispanic, native Mexican dish, it would also be a way to hit his most likely Euro-centric and xenophobic Ideals while simultaneously feeding my precious pillow I mean his belly.

He blinked once. Twice. Then turned his heavy head toward the other side of the bed.

There she was—curled up like a sea creature. Facing away. Blankets stolen. Not in his hold. Not in her place.

Weird.

It was weird.

She was always right there, tucked under his jaw, her forehead on his collarbone, her body radiating annoying but delicious heat. And now she was… over there.

Why?

Had he done something?

Wait—was he snoring?

Yep. Probably.

How does one even snore with a nose that big?

A cathedral of cartilage, echoing like a war horn. Of course she would run. Flee the nasal acoustics.

He should have invested in nose strips. Or yoga.

He stared at her shape in the dim light, her back turned to him like a betrayal. Like a cold shoulder. Like something gone wrong.

Well. No.

No, no.

No, sir.

This was his bed.

That was his girl.

And so, without grace and with the dexterity of a very drunk bear, he reached out. Flopped his arm across the mattress, grabbed a fistful of blanket—

—and dragged her.

Gently.

Gently-ish.

She stirred, a muffled noise in her throat.

"Hush, hush," he mumbled like a child scolding a doll. “Come here. Stupid girl.”

And then she was against him again. Warm. Real. Right.

He wrapped his limbs around her like she was stuffed polyester and he was seven years old and the night was scary.

A plushie.

She was his plushie.

He nuzzled his face into her shoulder with a sigh of absolute satisfaction.

Everything was okay again.

You chose to move away from him.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t meant to be cruel. It wasn’t even a punishment.

He’d fallen asleep after scratching your back—slow, soothing circles with his fingers, a habit learned from someone who once loved him right. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? You’d felt a little too seen. A little too wanted.

And you didn’t want to be wanted by a man like that.

Because it wasn’t just that he loved you—if he did at all. It was the way he needed you. Clung to you. Pulled you into his broken softness like he was offering a place of comfort but asking you to be the comfort itself. He cradled you like a treasure, but sometimes it felt like he was hiding you there.

And that wasn’t love. Not the kind that grew. Not the kind that lasted.

So you waited until his breath slowed. Until his snoring started in earnest—deep, guttural, and ridiculous—and then you slid your body to the far end of the bed. Quiet. Careful.

You just needed some air.

Some room to think.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t sad. You weren’t anything, really—except tired of pretending this wasn’t complicated.

You pulled the blanket up to your chin, faced the wall, and closed your eyes.

This wasn’t about him.

This was about you.

A reminder.

That you were not a safety blanket.

That you were not a mother, or a priest, or a fix-it-all.

You were not the warm light in a broken man’s chest.

You were a person.

And people?

Sometimes they need a little space.

You didn’t tell him.

You just packed a small overnight bag, scribbled a sticky note—“Going home for a bit. Need to be in my own bed.”—and left before he could wake up and ask questions.

Because how do you explain it?

That your body feels like it’s folding in on itself, that every inch of your abdomen aches and groans, that your back hurts and you’re bloated and irritable and bleeding like some gruesome Renaissance painting. That you feel ugly, not in the self-deprecating, poetic way—but in the real, animal way. The mortal way.

On top of the immense emotional pain he has caused you so far, on top of all the offenses and the way he seems to crawl back every time he needs safety just to run away just when you reassure him, you had another problem.

Your period, which came in the worse moment, while you were sleeping at his stupidly expensive bed

At least now you could excuse yourself, him, being the manchild he is would not get close to you with a ten foot pole the second you asked him for a pad.

You crawl into your bed at home, wearing the loose T-shirt with the holes in the sleeves and the sweatpants you wouldn’t dare let him see. You bring the hot water bottle to your belly and turn off all the lights.

He texts you midmorning.

“Did I do something wrong?”

You ignore it.

An hour later:

“Should I bring pasta?”

You ignore that too.

Another hour.

“I cleaned the espresso machine. Not because I’m upset. Just saying.”

You smile at that, but still—no reply.

You don’t want to be taken care of right now. You don’t want to perform, or smile, or be precious. You want to bleed in peace. You want to feel gross and human and alone. You want to live through this cramp-heavy hell without having to make it palatable to a man who still doesn’t understand the difference between a tampon and a pad.

You fall asleep eventually, curled up and sweating, a heating pad on your stomach and a cooling one on your forehead, mouth dry, skin clammy, heartbeat loud in your ears.

You wake up to a knock.

Two knocks.

And his voice.

Soft. Sheepish.

“Amore? I brought pads. All the kinds. I didn’t know which one was right.”

…You groan into your pillow.

You love and hate him equally.

He stands in the doorway holding three crinkling drugstore bags like offerings to some ancient goddess. A heating pad, two brands of chocolate, something herbal in a suspiciously expensive box, and every size and style of pad known to mankind—all still in their clunky plastic wrap.

You blink at him from your cave of pillows and self-loathing.

“…How did you know I was on my period?”

He shifts his weight. Looks strangely solemn, like he’s about to deliver bad news.

“…Don’t feel ashamed,” he says, gentle. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“What?”

“You… stained my bed. Just a little.”

Your face burns instantly. You open your mouth, close it again, then bury your face into the pillow with a muffled sound of dying dignity.

“Oh my God—”

“No, no! It’s natural!” he rushes to reassure you, coming closer, bags rustling. “I Googled it. I even read an article on a medical site. It said not to shame women. And that you shouldn’t be alarmed by the color.” He nods with strange authority. “It said it can be bright red, or dark. Almost like… prune juice. Very poetic.”

You peek at him. “You read a whole article?”

“Several,” he replies proudly. “Apparently you’re shedding the endometrium. That’s a real word. I wrote it down. Endo-me-tree-yum.” He butchers the pronunciation.

You sigh and close your eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to come,” he says, setting the bags down. “I didn’t like you going away. It was like when you take the batteries out of the TV remote, and you’re left pressing buttons into silence.”

You crack a tired smile.

He begins unpacking the loot. “I didn’t know what kind of pads you liked. These have wings, those don’t. These are called ‘overnight’ but they don’t seem like they’d last the whole night. That’s false marketing.”

“Bellastella—”

“And I got you this,” he adds, pulling out a soft stuffed lamb, pink and white, stupidly cute. “They say comfort is important. This one has beans in it. You can warm it in the microwave.”

You stare at him.

“…Isn’t that for children?”

He shrugs. “So are most of my coping mechanisms.”

You reach out, still weak and furious at your own body, and pull him into bed.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

A stupid smile beams on his equally (or more) stupid face like he won a prize. “You’re welcome. My endomeetrio princess.”

He sits at the edge of your bed, sheep microwaved to precisely what he believes is “uterus-friendly” temperature, wrapped in a kitchen towel because the microwave plate was “a bit suspect.” He places it gently on your lower stomach with the reverence of a man laying flowers at a grave.

“There,” he whispers. “Battle sheep, for the cramps.”

You stare at him, barely upright under your weighted blanket of hormones and death. Your body is at war with itself—nauseous and hungry, horny and repulsed, sad and amused, in pain and somehow…aroused?

Your skin feels like it's buzzing, like it wants to be touched and left alone at the same time. You could cry because he forgot your favorite snacks. Or kiss him because he tried. Or hit him just because he exists (well, hormones or not you always felt like doing the last one).

“You didn’t want to cuddle me last night because of this, didn’t you?” he says suddenly, voice dropping to that ridiculously gentle, mournful tone he uses when he’s about to make something your fault but in a loving way.

You blink. “Toti, no—”

He nods to himself, cutting you off, already spiraling into quiet martyrdom. “You didn’t want to hurt me with your pain,” he sighs dramatically. “You distanced yourself so I wouldn’t have to feel it with you. How noble.”

“No, idiot, I did not cuddle you because it is a deeply intimate act that requires equal parts of physical and emotional effort, which I do not have now, not for you.”

That is what you should have said, if you had the mental strenght, but you don’t, and this arrangement is finally getting your hard work some recognition AND designer products, many other scholars fight claw and teeth for the level of prestige that Bellastella was handling you, many other women also dedicated their lives to get men with half his influence or net worth to take them for a week on a yatch.

So you don’t say that.

You lift the sheep to look him in the eye. “No. I just didn’t want to bleed on your ridiculous silk sheets again.”

He shrugs. “You should’ve bled on me instead.”

“Bellastella—”

“Symbolic. Intimate. Red like love. Or war. Both are fitting.”

You let your head fall back with a groan.

He touches your hand, warm and calloused, grounding. “Do you want soup? Or painkillers? Or to scream into a pillow while I hold it for you?”

“I want…all of it.”

“Understood.” He stands and leans down to kiss your forehead—so delicate, like you’ll shatter—and whispers:

“You’re not alone in this bloodshed, amore. We fight together.”

You glance at the sheep, now slightly cooling. You’re still nauseous. Still hungry. Still furious and aching and adoring.

But it feels a little better. Like someone finally put a Band-Aid on your open-heart surgery.

It's absurd.

And it’s him.

He’s standing in your kitchen, peeling a banana like he’s trying to crack a safe, side-eyeing you from the corner of his eye as you lie on the couch in your oversized hoodie, looking like death warmed over and run through a blender.

You groan. Loudly.

“...You okay, amore?”

You don’t answer. You make a low, guttural sound of pain and flop your leg dramatically off the side of the couch. “My legs. My legs hurt now.”

He flinches, physically jolts. “Your legs?”

“Yes, my legs,” you snap, sharp and irrational and halfway to tears.

He blinks. “But...but cramps are for your tummy. And your mood.” He nods to himself, remembering. “My sister used to say that. ‘My tummy hurts and I hate everyone, give me the remote.’”

You lift your head. “Toti, your sister lied. Or didn’t know better. Or didn’t want to traumatize you. Or was just built different.”

“I was seven!” he says in self-defense, holding up the banana like it’s a shield. “I thought a uterus was like...a little angsty sponge.”

You throw a pillow at him. He doesn’t duck.

“My thighs feel like they’ve been steamrolled. My back feels like I’m 94 years old. And I swear to God, if you say anything vaguely philosophical right now, I’m going to vomit on your shoes.”

He hesitates.

Then he walks over and kneels beside you with an expression so sincere it makes you want to punch him and sob at the same time. “Amore. My precious, sexy, violently hormonal little lamb. I’m sorry.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy vibrating with nausea and rage and arousal and inexplicable grief. The heating pad is too hot. The blanket is too heavy. He smells too good. And you are entirely, unforgivably made of pain.

“I brought snacks,” he says.

“I don’t want them.”

“I brought a hot water bottle too.”

“It’s not hot enough.”

“I brought a new sheep.”

You blink. He holds it out.

This one is pink.

“I thought variety might help,” he says softly, like you’re a hurricane about to hit land. “Also, this one’s name is Goffredo.”

You take the sheep. “Goffredo is a stupid name.”

“I agree.”

You press it to your belly and groan again. Then you burst into tears.

“Oh no,” he whispers, horrified. “Did I make it worse? Is it the banana? Is it Goffredo?”

You shake your head, shoulders shaking. “No, no—it’s everything and nothing and I love you and I hate you and I want to die and also make out and also sleep for nine years and also bite you and also why do my legs hurt?”

He hesitates. Then he kneels at your feet and gently lifts one leg into his lap. “...Muscles contract, right?” he mutters. “There’s tension. Pressure. I can help. I think.”

“You’re gonna make it worse.”

“Probably.”

He starts massaging anyway, big clumsy hands trying to find patterns. He hums a lullaby his mom used to sing—completely off-key—and you hate him a little less.

“You are...the most confusing creature I have ever met,” he says quietly.

“Same.”

He smiles and keeps rubbing.

“…so in the last chapter they visited a chapel and they found a veil inside! And she put it on him and told him that he was beautiful, but she doesn’t know that he is a priest yet a-”

You glare at him. “Toti, for the love of God, stop talking and just rub my legs!”

He blinks.

Then his entire face lights up.

Like you just told him he won the Nobel Prize and he gets to give a speech in Latin while wearing a designer suit.

“Yes, ma’am,” he chirps, grinning ear to ear, and gets back to it with enthusiasm.

You instantly regret it.

“No—wait, no, I didn’t mean it like—ugh.” You throw your head back. “Sorry. I’m just—cramps. And you’re breathing too loud. And existing wrong. I’m sorry.”

He hums. “Oh no. Don’t take it back. That was delightful.”

He leans in with a dreamy look on his face. “You scolded me.”

You stare at him. “...You liked that?”

“I loved it.”

Of course he did.

You cover your eyes with your arm. “You’re broken.”

“Probably. But you’re yelling at me, and you’re in pain, and I feel helpful, and honestly, this is the closest I’ve ever felt to being a real husband.”

You groan. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mean.” he beams.

You try to scoff but your face softens—because he’s back to massaging your calves, completely focused, doing his very best. For once, he’s not flirting or pretending to be a monster or quoting Dante.

He’s just...him.

“Do you want me to yell at you more?” you mumble.

He grins wider. “Only if you mean it, dolcezza.”

Salvatore Bellastela,

He looks so happy when you kiss him.

Like a kid who got an extra scoop of gelato and was told he’s special. He makes a soft little “mhh!” and closes his eyes, cheeks slightly pink, lips parted in surprise. He leans closer—

—and you shove him.

“WHY are you smiling like that!? This is not romantic! This is me being in pain!”

He stumbles back with the most pathetic pout, confused as a dog who was just told to get off the couch. “I—I thought that was a love kiss...”

“You thought wrong!” you bark, grabbing a pillow and smacking him lightly with it. “I am bloated, miserable, and bleeding like a stabbed saint! Stop looking at me like I’m your blushing bride!”

He raises his hands in surrender but doesn’t move, the idiot. “Okay, okay—no romance. Just...support? I can be support.” His voice goes soft, too soft, like he’s talking to a wounded animal.

You squint. “Stop that.”

“What?”

“That tone.”

“I’m just—”

“Toti I will cry and it will be your fault!”

You don’t give him time to react. You grab him by the shirt, drag him into your arms like he’s a human hot water bottle, and absolutely sob into his chest.

Like a Victorian widow. Like a child denied candy. Like your uterus has declared civil war on your internal organs and Bellastella is somehow personally responsible.

He freezes for half a second.

Then wraps you up like a burrito, softly rocking you. “I’m here, amore. Let it out. Be horrible. I like it.”

“I hate you sometimes,” you whimper against his shirt.

He pets your hair, completely unfazed. “I know. You’re adorable when you hate me.”

You pull back and glare, your eyes red and full of rage.

“Why do you smell nice right now?! Who told you to smell like that?!”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “I...thought it would make you feel better?”

“WELL IT DOESN’T!”

(You cling tighter.)

Toti adores this life.

Not the glittering gala dinners. Not the legal chess games where millionaires bet on him like a prized stallion. No—he adores this. Walking into your too-small apartment with a bag of groceries, his shirt half untucked, his sleeves rolled up like some suburban father of two. He hums while unpacking. He comments on how your kitchen smells like you. He waters the one plant that seems to be dying just out of spite.

He doesn’t ask to be thanked. He just does it.

And when you’re in the bathroom, muttering curses at your uterus or demanding soup from across the apartment, he rushes to obey like a man grateful to be useful.

He never felt like this with Titi.

Titi, with her red lipstick and colder words. Titi, who made it clear that their house was hers, their dinners were her victories, and that his only place was to show up, behave, and stay out of her way unless needed for press. Toti married his way into the top floor of a Milanese empire—and it felt like being locked in a museum. No fingerprints on the counters. No TV too loud. No yelling. No being too soft, too emotional, too clingy.

But with you?

You scream at him. You cry in his arms. You cuddle him like a bear and then tell him to get away because you’re sweaty and gross and bleeding like the Virgin of Sorrows.

And he lives for it.

He folds laundry with one AirPod in and the TV blaring some terrible soap opera you like. He mutters plot theories. He texts you from the kitchen “WHY DID THE PROFESSORE KISS THAT GIRL? Is that legal?” and runs to rewatch that scene with you when you’re done with work.

This is what being a husband should feel like.

Not the legal contracts and quiet dinners, not the polite silence of a cold penthouse, but this: screaming, cuddling, dishes, drama, affection that doesn’t need translating. He’s the man who makes your soup and folds your pants and scratches your back just right.

He’s home.

And he loves it.

“Oh, look,” he beams, voice half-muffled against the pillow, hair a mess and one sock dangling, “I love your hair when you just woke up… so pretty…”

You groan. “Toti, shut up.”

He rolls onto his back like a starfish, already squirming with delight. “No but really. This whole life—your apartment? Your weird fridge that hums like an old man? The ugly mug with a chip you won’t throw out? I love it. It's like… cozy. Like a nest. Like a rat’s nest. But sexy.”

You squint. “What?”

“I love your rat nest, amore,” he insists with childlike conviction. “It’s so full of life. Like, your towels don’t even match—”

That’s the last straw. You sit up, blanket falling from your shoulders like a shroud of rage.

“No. Absolutely not.”

He startles. “What?”

“You don’t get to romanticize this,” you snap. “This isn’t quirky. This isn’t some whimsical indie film about poor-but-glamorous women who drink bad wine and write poetry on typewriters. This is me, living paycheck to paycheck with a fridge older than the Berlusconi trials, with a landlord who thinks mold is a personality trait!”

He stares, eyes round. You continue, fuming:

“You go back to your villa with three floors and two espresso machines, and you talk about my chipped mug like it’s vintage. You’re not visiting reality, Bellastella. You’re playing house with a woman who has no backup plan. You don’t get to cosplay poverty when your bank account has commas in it.”

You pause. He hasn’t moved.

“And there’s research on this, by the way,” you add, in full academic fury now. “Romanticization of austerity by the upper class. It’s literally documented. Do you know how disgusting it is to frame survival as aesthetic? You think it’s charming that I can’t afford a second blanket—you get to be enchanted while I’m cold.”

He’s still staring.

You blink. “…Are you—are you even listening?”

He swallows. Nods. Then murmurs, dreamily, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You slap a pillow into his face.

He comes back from whatever rabbit hole the internet dragged him into this time—probably while pooping, because that’s when he does most of his research—and slams his phone down dramatically on the counter.

“I have something important to tell you,” he says, chest puffed up like he’s about to come out as a time traveler.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m a sapiosexual,” he declares, dead serious. “That means I’m sexually attracted to intelligence. It explains so much. Like why I’m so into you. Your brain? Hot. Your rants? Pornographic. Your thesis? Erotic masterpiece.”

Without missing a beat, you grab the nearest spray bottle—kept exclusively for moments like this—and give him a spritz right between the eyes.

He yelps like a cat, shielding himself with his hands. “Hey! I’m being vulnerable!”

“You’re being insufferable. You’re not ‘coming out,’ Toti. You’re just a rich old perv with a type.”

He wipes his face on his sleeve. “A type that includes your brainy little behind, might I add.”

You roll your eyes—but later, when he's not looking, you do start thinking.

You scroll back through memory. The parade of women that have been mentioned in half-finished stories or seen in passing on his phone when he forgets to hide his tabs—yes, they’re all stunning. Models. Heiresses. One woman you’re pretty sure was Miss Switzerland 1999. But—

Wait.

The heiress? Law degree from Oxford. The model? Neuroscientist. The one who looked like a literal Renaissance painting? Published anthropologist.

Even his ex-wife, Tiziana—ruthless, vicious, terrifying—held two PhDs and founded a nonprofit before turning 30.

You remember once hearing a story about him dating a woman in a wheelchair who was also a chess grandmaster. Another was deaf, taught classical Greek.

He’s dated skinny women, thick women, tall, short, Black, brown, Asian, mixed, plus-sized—but never once someone without a graduate degree or three terrifying braincells that could build and dismantle empires.

Damn it.

The idiot’s right.

You mutter under your breath, “He really is a sapiosexual.”

From across the room, without turning, he grins. “Told you so.”

You spray him again.

“Come meet me in court” just a text, so of course you go after him.

But today feels different

You weren’t expecting it—honestly, you never do with him. One moment he's snoring on your couch with crumbs on his tie, the next he's all silk and thunder, walking through the faculty hall like he owns the air.

Today, it's the latter.

Professor Bellastella. Full regalia.

Three-piece suit—midnight blue. Tie perfectly knotted, cufflinks like tiny handcuffs in gold. Hair slicked but not too slick. Cologne warm and expensive. He walks like a man with an empire under his soles.

He’s mid-conversation with a board member, something about restructuring the law curriculum, when he catches you walking by with a stack of documents hugged to your chest. His voice doesn’t lower, but his tone changes completely:

"Ah, and here she is. My brilliant assistant.”

You freeze.

He waves you closer with a flick of two fingers, the kind that should offend you but somehow always makes your spine snap straight. “Gentlemen—this one right here? Best acquisition I’ve made in the past five years. Unmatched work ethic. Razor-sharp mind. You give her any problem—academic, bureaucratic, moral, existential—she’ll cut it clean with precision.”

There’s a beat.

You look at the board member. He's nodding, impressed.

You look at Toti. His eyes are gleaming—fond, proud, dangerous. The kind of man who’s used to breaking people just to rebuild them better. And yet right now he’s standing beside you like you’re the prize on the pedestal, not him.

“She’s already contributed to the Comparative Systems draft. Found errors no one else saw. Do you know what that means? She’s smarter than my entire editorial committee.”

You can’t help it. Your fingers tighten around the papers. “Professor—”

He cuts you off with a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be modest. You were made for this.”

There it is. The hit of dopamine. Of recognition. Of power.

He gives you that look—the one that reaches into the chasm where your impostor syndrome lives and sets it on fire.

Validation like fatherly warmth with just enough edge to be mistaken for flirtation. Validation like an expensive drug. Validation like—

“You’ll be running circles around all of us soon,” he murmurs low enough for only you to hear. “You’ll write the papers I’ll want to sign. You’ll win the grants I never managed. You’ll be the name they remember.”

You stare at him.

He smiles.

And just like that—your boss, your academic idol, your part-time sugar daddy, your full-time emotional parasite—gives you everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. All at once.

Male validation.

Father-figure approval.

Academic glory.

Career blessing.

Wrapped up in a smile that says: You’re mine.

And somehow, in that moment, it doesn’t feel like a prison.

It feels like a throne.

You slide into the passenger seat of his convertible—top down, engine already humming like an overfed housecat. The second you close the door, the illusion of “Professor Bellastella, Italy’s top legal mind” dissolves like sugar in hot espresso.

He’s taken the suit jacket off, crumpled it on the backseat like it’s worth ten euros instead of ten thousand. His tie’s loose, hair tousled by the wind, and he has a single red gummy bear stuck to his collar.

Toddlastella is back.

“Did you know,” he starts, mouth full of something chewy and blue, “that wombats poop in cubes?”

You blink. “What.”

He nods, dead serious, like he just delivered the final argument in a criminal appeal. “It’s because their intestines contract in, like, a weird rhythm. Very architectural. Symmetrical. Truly, nature’s engineers.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he turns to you, eyes wide.

This man’s nickname is “Prince of the Forum”

Your mind traces back to all the articles, always praising his poise, his elegance, his brilliant mind that seemed to have no rival and maquinated the most wonderful ide-

“Would you still love me if I chewed a crayon?”

You sigh, slow and deep. “Are you actively considering chewing a crayon?”

“I’m just saying,” he waves a hand, “I understand the temptation. The texture. The smell. Like wax and childhood and self-destruction.”

“…Do you need lunch?”

“I need validation and possibly a snack.”

“You had tiramisu an hour ago.”

“I need a salty snack, amore. My blood sugar is emotional.”

You lean your head against the seat and stare at the road. He’s softly humming now, drumming the wheel with two fingers. Out of nowhere:

“Did you know hippos can’t actually swim? They just bounce off the riverbed like fat bullets.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

“You’re supposed to be Italy’s most feared litigator.”

“I am,” he says, offended. “But I’m also a well-rounded man of knowledge. Did you know that if you microwave grapes they—?”

“No.”

“Okay.” He sucks on a blue candy and mumbles, “You’re no fun. But I’d still eat a crayon for you.”

This man. This impossible man.

Half-saint, half-psychotic toddler.

Legal god, academic lion, domestic nightmare.

And somehow, inexplicably, yours.

He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as the convertible hums along the cobblestone road, sunglasses perched stupidly high on his forehead like a crown, shirt unbuttoned just one too many buttons for a man of his title. You're trying to focus on the folder on your lap, but it's hard when he’s still yapping like a Chihuahua with a PhD.

“So, listen to this,” he says between sips of espresso from a tiny paper cup he absolutely should not be drinking while driving. “There’s this Colombian soap opera, right? It’s about this ugly girl—but like, super ugly—she starts working at this high-end fashion company, and the boss is this tall, perfect, handsome devil—so basically me—and he treats her horribly because she’s not beautiful.”

You shoot him a side glance. “You’re aware you’re describing yourself as the capitalist pig antagonist, right?”

“What? No! I—wait. No, no. I’m the victim here.” He adjusts his sunglasses and squints at the traffic like it personally wronged him. “He falls in love with her, okay? She’s brilliant. She has glasses. That’s practically you.”

You snort. “So let me get this straight. The beautiful rich boss realizes he loves the ugly underdog assistant—”

“Not ugly, just… subjectively plain!” he protests.

“—and you identify with the boss?”

“Well—he’s misunderstood! And beautiful. And always stressed! And—why are you looking at me like that?!”

You cross your arms. “Because you are the rich, powerful man in a suit treating his underpaid assistant like she’s disposable—then making goo-goo eyes when it’s convenient.”

He pauses. Blinks. Mouth opens.

“...Okay, fair,” he mutters.

You go back to reviewing the legal summary in your lap. He’s quiet for maybe two seconds. Then:

“You know, when I finally feel… good enough,” he says, unusually soft, “and I get over this whole brain nonsense and we start—you know—having sex like hot, well-adjusted people do…”

You slowly look up at him.

“…We should do a roleplay.”

Your eyes narrow. “I swear, Toti, if you say 'boss and secretary'—”

“I WAS going to say 'boss and secretary,'” he interrupts proudly, “but I want to be the secretary.”

You blink.

“…What?”

“I want to wear little glasses and have a clipboard and spill coffee on my blouse and go ‘Oh no, Mister Bellastella, how clumsy of me!’” He giggles to himself like a twelve-year-old. “And you’d be the mean boss who slams the desk and says, ‘You’re five minutes late again, Miss Bellastella!’ and then—boom! Sexy disciplinary action.”

You close your eyes in defeat.

“Toti.”

“Hmm?”

“You are an idiot.”

He beams, delighted. “But I’m your idiot.”

You roll your eyes again. He hums. “You’ll think about it, right?”

You don’t answer.

He keeps driving. “I’ll start shopping for blouses.”

The rest of the road is not enjoyable at all, he keeps rambling and rambling and won’t let you speak, not necessary, you know exactly where you two are headed.

You’re testing the waters now.

There’s no illusion left: Bellastella will never be faithful. He might not even be a good person. But he's yours—or at least desperately wants to be. And that gives you power. It’s a dangerous game, but you’ve never been one to play it safe when your heart’s already on fire.

Barbara brings you coffee, her voice casual but her eyes just a bit too observant.

“He left to meet that model. You know, the one who just went through the scandal with the footballer?”

“Oh, the blonde one with the million-dollar cheekbones?” You sip slowly.

“She’s the one. Messy divorce. He’s helping clean her record. Reputation laundering. All legal, all charming. Classic Bellastella.”

“And where is that? How far?”

Barbara checks her phone. “A little past the coast. Hour and a half with no traffic.”

“When did he leave?”

“Ten minutes ago exactly. Why? You needed him for something?”

“No,” you say, the ghost of a smile tugging at your mouth. “But I will. In an hour and fifteen minutes.”

Barbara looks at you like she wants to laugh but thinks better of it.

One hour and fifteen minutes later.

Bellastella is just stepping out of his car, adjusting his coat, casting a quick glance at the restaurant’s glass doors. He looks immaculate, disarmingly so—one of those rare men who can make expensive clothes look like second skin. He’s barely taken two steps when his phone rings.

He sees your name.

He answers instantly.

“Piccola?”

“Toti?” you say, with that carefully practiced breathlessness. “So sorry to bother you, I just... I couldn’t find the authorization forms for the Vassallo hearing. I was filing and—ugh. Forget it, it’s probably just on my desk. I didn’t know you were busy—pardon me—”

“Don’t move,” he says, already pivoting, already walking back to the car. “I’m coming back.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m already in the car.”

“But—”

“No buts. You need me, I come.”

You hear the slam of the car door, the engine. Tires.

You hang up.

He’s not a good man.

But for now?

He’s yours.

You sip your coffee slowly, watching through the tall glass window as Bellastella leans just a little too close across the café table. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, smile weaponized. The woman across from him is stunning—tall, perfectly toned, the kind of beauty that looks curated. Barbara sees you looking.

“She’s been on his calendar for months,” she says without lifting her eyes from the folder. “Had to reschedule her three times. He moved court dates for this one.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Really?”

“Mmh. He’s even wearing cologne. The real one, not the decoy.”

You smile.

A dangerous one.

“It would be a shame,” you say slowly, “if I suddenly needed a ride to the other office.”

Barbara snorts. “You wouldn’t.”

“I just remembered,” you continue, reaching for your phone, “they asked for the original deeds. I can’t carry them by metro, too bulky.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m a public servant. And an afterthought, apparently.”

You type out the message, casual and sweet as syrup:

“Toti? I hate to ask, but would you have time to give me a ride to the other office? They just dropped a file on me and the box is huge…”

You don’t even have a box.

You send the text and keep watching.

In real time, you see him feel his phone buzz.

He pulls it out. Reads. Blinks. Straightens.

You watch the perfect date's face shift as he leans in and—very gently—reaches for his coat.

You feel no guilt.

None.

You’re not the girl who gets left behind anymore.

You’re the emergency.

You’re the reason he leaves.

The cramps hit like a truck. You’re curled on your office chair, hoodie drawn tight, heat pack barely making a dent. Barbara hovers nearby, watching you with the mix of pity and exasperation only close coworkers can muster.

"Want me to get you something?" she asks.

"No, just leave me here to die. In silence."

She nods solemnly and walks off.

Ten minutes later, the office door swings open like a storm front. Bellastella strides in, hair perfect, coat slung over his arm, balancing a paper bag and what suspiciously looks like a fuzzy blanket. Barbara, behind him, looks far too smug.

He drops the bag on your desk.

“Hot water bottle. Chocolate. Advil. Tea. Two types,” he lists off like a waiter. “And this,” he unfurls the blanket and throws it around your shoulders like a cape, “is for dramatic effect.”

You blink at him.

"How did you know?"

He shrugs like it's obvious. “I have eyes and ears everywhere.”

Barbara tries (and fails) not to snort.

You look between them, squinting. “You... told him?”

“I may have mentioned you were slowly disintegrating,” she says with zero remorse.

"You’re welcome, by the way," Bellastella says, leaning on your desk. “This is also a reminder that you’re not allowed to die on me.”

"Touching."

"And," he adds, winking, “if you do die, I call dibs on your office. Best light.”

You glare.

He smiles wider.

And despite yourself—despite the pain and the hormones and the fury of being seen by this man—you kind of want to laugh.

The bag he brought sits on your lap like a peace offering—or a bribe. Inside, along with the tea, meds, and chocolate, is his debit card. No note, no explanation. Just the casual, reckless trust of a man who thinks the world will never say no to him.

You stare at it, curl a little deeper into the blanket, and open your browser.

Your laptop is wheezing like it’s in its death throes. One tab open and the fan sounds like it's about to take flight. You check a few prices. Mid-range models. Reliable. Sleek.

Then your stomach growls, and you remember you haven’t had a full meal since... Thursday?

You text him.

“I’m between a new laptop and eating three meals. Thoughts?”

A beat later, he replies:

“Send me the link.”

You hesitate. Then:

“I don’t think it’s fair. Barbie needs one too.”

This time, he doesn’t even pretend to negotiate:

“Then I’ll be getting two.”

You show Barbara the exchange and she mutters something in a mix of disbelief and awe.

He reappears, fixing his cufflinks in the mirror. Tonight’s look is dangerously sharp—pinstripe suit, cologne that makes you a little dizzy.

“I think I’m going out tonight,” you say, eyes on your phone, pretending not to watch him.

He pauses, glancing at you through the reflection.

“Oh?”

You shrug. “It’s a shame I haven’t really visited any part of Rome yet.”

He smiles faintly. “You’re right.”

Without even looking, he opens his drawer, pulls out a thick stash of cash, and hands it to you like he’s giving you napkins.

“For the shame.”

You take it. Fold it. Say nothing.

He kisses the top of your head like you're some little pet he's leaving with a sitter.

“Try Trastevere,” he says as he heads for the door. “And don’t get kidnapped.”

“Depends on the ransom,” you murmur.

He laughs, disappears.

You and Barbara stare at the door. She raises an eyebrow.

“What are you?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I’m getting lasagna and a MacBook.”

She laughs as you head to lunch together.

“When did you two become so close?”

“…I don’t know…”

It comes back to you in fragments, like dreamlight through blinds—blurry, warm, unbearable.

You were in pain.

That kind of pain that makes the world feel too sharp, too loud. Like your skull was filled with static. And then he appeared—Toti, with your pills in one hand, a glass of water in the other, and a face full of worry.

He crouched in front of you, calm, steady.

“Shhh... is it hurting?” he asked, his voice low, almost tender.

You nodded, unable to speak past the pressure behind your eyes.

“Medicine isn’t magic,” he murmured, pressing the pill into your hand. “It’ll need a few minutes... but some sleep might help.”

You tried to mumble agreement, but your voice failed. Everything felt too much—today, life, yourself.

Your body was full of noise and your brain was overheating, like a laptop that’s been forced to run too many programs for too long. You wanted to shut it all down, just click Power Off and lie there.

He reached for your feet and began unclasping your shoes. No dramatics, no teasing—just quiet care. You leaned back, breathing through the hurt, letting his hands ground you.

He rose and settled behind you, arms folding around your shoulders, tucking you gently into him. His breath was calm against your hair.

“Tell me three things you can see.”

You blinked, tried to focus. “The lamp... the curtain... your tie.”

“Good. Now three things you can hear.”

“The... traffic. Your watch ticking. Someone brushing their teeth.”

“Now three things you can feel.”

“Your shirt... the towel... the couch under me.”

“Alright,” he whispered. “Now breathe in—slowly, until I count to four.”

You did.

“Now out, until six.”

You did.

And again. And again.

Slowly, the edges dulled. The sharpness faded. You weren’t better, not really, but you were no longer drowning.

You did not realize when he begun to rock you, but he did, and you were not eager for it to finish.

You rested, wrapped in his silence.

A while later, half-asleep, you caught the soft sound of brushing teeth again. Then a belt unbuckling. Somewhere, a siren echoed through the Roman streets, lost in the hum of the city.

But you stayed there, in the space he’d carved out for you. Not healed. But held.

The weight of the mattress shifts.

Toti lies to your side.

You flinch slightly. “What are you doing?”

“It’s my suite, is it not?”

You stare at him. “I thought you had a date tonight.”

“I do,” he says, scooting closer without hesitation.

“Toti,” you warn, already exhausted. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

His voice is calm. Not playful, not seductive. Just... quiet. Matter-of-fact.

“Just know,” you say, more firmly, “that my answer is final.”

“So is mine.”

You expect him to try something. He doesn’t.

Instead, he gently reaches for the back of your jumpsuit and undoes a button, then another, and then softly drags his nails up and down your back. Featherlight. Measured. Not lustful.

Soothing.

You shiver, involuntarily—but not from fear.

“This is what Mommina used to do when I was a kid,” he says, barely above a whisper. “She said it would help me fall asleep when my head wouldn’t stop spinning.”

His fingers pause just for a moment, like he’s remembering.

“Did it work?” you ask.

He exhales through his nose. “It did.”

A beat.

“Until it didn’t.”

You don’t ask what changed. You already know. She left.

That little boy who learned to calm himself with scratches along the spine never stopped needing them. He just got taller. Louder. Louder with his money, louder with his charm. But not here. Not now.

Now he’s just breathing next to you, hand moving gently up and down your back, tracing the shape of someone he doesn’t dare ask to stay—so he soothes instead.

You let him.

For once, not because you owe him, or because you’re too tired to fight.

You let him because, somehow, it helps.

The afternoon light slants golden over the cobblestones when you arrive. It had been a nice lunch, unassuming, forgettable even. But now you stand outside the gleaming windows of a jewelry store, the name etched in gold on the glass. Bellastella waits for you inside, his silhouette framed by bright halogens and crystal reflections. Something's off. You feel it before you even push open the door.

He doesn’t greet you.

"You wanted to see me?"

He nods once, slow. "Come here."

You walk to him, careful, attentive. He's looking at something behind the counter, but you know it isn't about the jewels. You glance at the velvet trays anyway—rings, rows of them, some gaudy, some minimal, all expensive. And still, it isn't about them.

"Are you mad?" you ask, the question crawling past your throat, featherlight, testing the air.

He doesn't answer right away. Then, with a clipped breath: "Mad? For you calling me at the most inconvenient moments? For costing me hundreds of euros in missed meetings, changed reservations, and private drivers turned around mid-route? No."

The way he says it is almost flippant. Almost.

You blink. You should say something, apologize maybe. But your instincts tell you to stay still. Something else is coming. Something heavier.

He steps toward you.

You forget how tall he is until moments like this. He's always in motion—talking, joking, sighing theatrically. But now? Now he's still. Poised. Suddenly he's not Toti the jester, not the spoiled manchild with women in every district of Rome. No. Now he’s a man. And a dangerous one.

"But do you know what actually maddens me?" he says, voice low, threading through the space between you.

He’s close enough that you can smell him—leather and cardamom, tobacco and something faintly sweet. You’d mocked that cologne once, but now it sinks beneath your skin. You inhale despite yourself.

Your body betrays you further. You're supposed to be on your period. Instead, your skin tingles, hyperaware. Your chest tightens. Your senses bloom. His cologne sharpens. His breath tastes like coffee and mint and heat. You see every line around his mouth, every glint of irritation in his eyes.

"What truly makes me crazy," he says, now only inches away, "is that you won't accept me."

Your breath hitches. He reaches forward, places both hands firmly on your shoulders.

"You keep using me. Playing me. Bending the rules so I have to come running. And you know what?"

You want to back away. You want to step into him. You do neither.

"You're making me crazy."

His voice is a low growl now. Not loud. But feral. Controlled. Dangerous.

You meet his eyes. Something in them glints—something between desire and fury, lust and hurt.

"And the worst part?" he leans forward, just slightly. "I'm going to let you."

You swallow.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His thumbs stroke slow circles into the fabric over your shoulders. It's too much. Not enough.

You want to yell at him. You want to cry. You want to laugh.

"Toti—"

"I would give you everything. Every euro, every second, every piece of me. I already do."

His voice cracks then. Just slightly.

And there it is. Beneath the fury, beneath the arrogance and the silk suit: a boy unloved. A boy desperate. A boy trying not to beg.

He softens. Just a shade. Enough to let you breathe.

"Say the word," he whispers. "Tell me you want me. Not my money. Not the things I do for you. Me."

Silence crashes between you.

You feel the edge of tears. And anger. And want. So much want.

You reach up and place a hand over his. He flinches. Then steadies.

"I don’t know what I want, Toti."

"That’s a lie. You know exactly what you want. You just won’t let yourself have it."

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

"I am not your mother," you whisper.

His grip tightens. But only for a second.

"I know. That’s why I want you."

A pause.

"I am not your savior either."

He lets go.

You exhale. Air rushes back into your lungs like you've been underwater. He steps back, smoothing his lapels like nothing happened.

"Pick one," he says, nodding at the case.

"What?"

"A ring. Any ring. If you’re going to ruin my life, at least do it wearing something from me."

The bastard smiles.

You stand there, breath caught somewhere between your throat and your ribs. The ring he slid onto your finger moments ago still feels foreign, heavy — an artifact of something you don’t know how to name yet. Something between a bribe and a promise.

“You could take it all back,” you murmur, low, afraid of your own voice. “You could leave any second. Just vanish. Strip me of everything you’ve given. Or worse — all of it could just… stop meaning anything.”

Bellastella doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you for a moment with a strange sort of tenderness, then turns to the counter. “She thinks gold loses value,” he mutters to the jeweler, shaking his head like you’ve just insulted an ancient truth.

You watch him — that maddening, infuriating man — reach for something again.

He pulls out a bracelet. It’s not delicate. It’s a bold, almost obnoxiously thick chain — unmistakably real. The light bounces off of it in warm waves. It gleams the way only pure gold does.

“Twenty-four karat,” he says, voice calm now. “The purest. No alloys. No dilution. It doesn’t tarnish. It doesn’t oxidize. And it doesn’t lose value. It actually appreciates.” He lifts your hand and clips the bracelet onto your wrist with ceremonial precision. “That’s what I give you. My time, my power, la mia fottuta ossessione. And now this. Solid. Certified.”

He places the authenticity certificate in your hand. You don’t know what to say. Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

He takes a step closer. You feel the heat radiating from his chest.

“Is that enough?” he asks.

You can only stare at the gold wrapped around your wrist. It’s warm. Not from the shop lights. From him. His skin. His obsession. His madness.

“Why…” your voice comes out as a whisper, almost too fragile to carry the weight of the question. “Why are you doing this?”

His eyes stay on yours. Steady. Serious in a way that makes your stomach clench.

“Because I want you,” he says plainly. “Because I want you to see that I’m serious. That this isn’t a phase. That I’m not just playing.” He leans down a little, voice softer now, lips at your temple. “I want you to see this is real.”

“Salvatore…” you begin, breath trembling, “I don’t want these things. Not the jewelry. Not the money. Not the trips. I want—”

“Say it.”

“I want exclusivity.” Your voice sharpens. “I want to be the only one.”

There’s a beat. A flicker in his gaze, like a needle on a compass jerking true north.

He gives a breathy little laugh. “You know Wilde said: Men always want to be a woman’s first love. Women are far more clever... they want to be a man’s last.” He smiles. But it fades fast. “Okay.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a phone — not the one you’ve seen a hundred times on his desk, the one his secretary answers, the one the entire firm seems to orbit around.

This one is different. Sleek. Unmarked.

His private phone.

He hands it to you.

You stare at it, confused.

“The password is Pietro’s birthday,” he says simply.

Your fingers go cold. Pietro. His nephew. That’s… personal. Sacred. Untouchable. Bellastella may be an idiot with people but has a soft spot for his demonspawn godson. You type it in, and it unlocks without hesitation.

“Go through my contacts. Block whoever you want.” He says it like he’s offering you a menu. “The models. The heiresses. That judge from the Supreme Court who thinks I’m still taking her calls.” He steps closer, his voice wrapping around your neck like silk. “Go ahead. Cut them off. I don’t care. They’re ghosts. You’re the only one that’s real.”

His breath is warm against your ear.

Your fingers tremble around the phone.

“You don’t have to do this…” you whisper.

He doesn’t even blink. “I want to do this. Because you’re driving me insane. And because I want you to know — I’m not letting you go. So if this is what it takes to show you I’m yours, then fine.” He presses his forehead to yours. “Now show me that you believe it.”

The weight of the gold at your wrist shifts.

You press your lips together and let your thumb hover over a contact.

The screen reads: Carolina - Milan Shoot.

You look up at him, and his expression is unreadable.

Then: “Start there,” he murmurs. “Let them know I’ve already been found.”

“Remember the night I kissed you?” he asks, his voice low, hoarse from restraint. He’s not looking at you — not yet — just driving, hand tight on the wheel. Rome’s lights blur past the windows, flickers of gold against shadow.

You don’t answer.

“I… left for a date right after,” he continues, as if admitting to a crime. “But I swear to you, it was business.”

You scoff. “Of course it was.”

“Do you remember Sandra?”

“Sandra Bellissima?” you say with venomous sweetness, echoing the nickname he used to moan like a mantra. Your head tilts toward him, eyes narrowed. “How could I forget?”

He sighs, one hand briefly rubbing his face, jaw tight. “Yes. Sandra Bellissima. You may remember her, but… you don’t know everything.”

You shift in your seat. “Try me.”

He exhales again — a little slower this time. “Back then, the firm was drowning. You know that. We were too proud to say it, but the numbers were brutal. And then… one day I came in with a miracle. Half of what we needed. Clean. Fast. You remember?”

You do. He’d strolled in that morning like a prince returning from conquest. Like he’d just seduced the universe itself.

“Sandra’s family,” he says, glancing at you. “They were the ones who bailed us out. The date — that night — was with her aunt. To discuss terms. To promise… a favor.”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy replaying the timeline. That night you’d curled into bed with the ghost of his kiss on your lips, while he was out trading favors in a high-rise lounge somewhere. Selling a little piece of himself.

“They helped me when I needed it,” he says. “And now I owe them. There’s a political play in the works. Nothing I can’t handle, just… things I don’t tell most people.”

He finally looks at you. “But I’m telling you.”

Your throat is dry. You nod once, tightly, as if permission is harder than forgiveness.

The city disappears behind you, and soon the road curves toward the hills. Moonlight paints the countryside in silver and ink. He pulls off the road onto a gravel path, stops the car, and gets out.

“Come with me,” he says.

You hesitate, then follow.

The air is crisp, kissed with jasmine and pine. Stars are beginning to bloom across the sky like soft fire.

He leads you up a small slope to a clearing — wildflowers rustling underfoot, the dark outlines of distant rooftops below. The city far away now. Up here, it’s just you, him, and the unspoken.

He sits, leaning back on his hands, legs stretched out. You join him. Not close — not yet. But near enough to feel the warmth of him.

He pulls something from his coat pocket. A small velvet box.

You still.

“Salvatore—”

He opens it. The ring catches the starlight like it was made to live in it.

“I’ve been carrying this for too long,” he murmurs.

You glance at him. “You were waiting for a moment?”

“I was waiting for you to stop looking at me like I’m temporary.”

Your breath snags in your throat.

He turns toward you. His voice lowers, reverent. “You truly are a vision, you know that? You haunt me. Even when you’re near. Especially when you’re near. I can't get you out of my head. I don’t want to.”

He reaches for your hand.

You let him take it.

“Do you want to know the truth?” he says. “The moment I kissed you — that night — something broke in me. Not snapped. Cracked open. Something warm crawled out and it never went back. And I went to that date like I was cheating on a future I hadn’t earned yet.”

Your chest is tight. You don't know where to look — the ring, his mouth, the soft way his thumb traces your knuckles.

“I want to give you things. Not to impress you, not to win you. Just to mark you. So the world knows: mine.”

You meet his eyes. “And what if you leave?”

“I won’t.”

“What if everything you gave me disappears?”

He leans closer. “It won’t.”

You look at the ring again. You feel a little drunk on the intimacy, on the open sky, on his scent — like tobacco and clean linen and heat. And maybe something deeper, something older. Devotion.

He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it slowly. “Let me mark you. Not just with gold. With something real.”

You whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I’ve had every kind of woman. Every kind. But I’ve never had you. Not really. Not the way I want.” He lifts the ring from the box and slides it onto your finger with aching slowness. “And I’ve never wanted to give anyone everything I had. Not until you.”

You stare at the ring. Your finger. His fingers.

Your mouth is dry. “This doesn’t mean anything without—”

“Exclusivity,” he finishes. “I remember.”

He reaches again into his coat and pulls out his private phone. Hands it to you, like last time. “Password’s the same.”

You blink. “You’re serious?”

“Block them all,” he says. “The heiresses. The supermodels. The judge. Block even the ones you only think I’ve flirted with. I don’t care.”

You stare at him.

“I want you to feel safe here,” he murmurs, touching the bracelet on your wrist, the ring on your hand, your pulse at your neck. “Not because of the things I give you. But because I am yours.”

You lean in, and for the first time, he doesn’t make the first move. He waits. Perfectly still.

You press your lips to his — not a question, not a demand.

An answer.

And he shudders.

“You may understand that we cannot make this public immediately.”

“Why not?” ”I am giving you a raise in your pay, people will talk.”

You nod in understanding sounds logical.

He still has the shopping bag in his hand, and the shopping bag has a box inside.

“What is it?”

“Another ring, not as nice as yours.”

“What for?”