#godfather

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

The smell of cigarettes fills the office before you know it, a light mist seeping through the curtains of the windows overlooking the lake. The afternoon light falls on a pile of documents on your husband's desk, Michael.

Thinking about it, you're no longer sure if he's really your husband... the old him vanished a long time ago. You take a few steps forward, keeping your gaze down and folding your hands in your lap.

The only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock; you turn your gaze to watch it slowly swing from left to right. He sits behind the desk, leaning forward slightly to sign a paper. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed, a sign of intense concentration.

He hasn't even noticed your presence, or perhaps he's simply ignoring you. You, in there, almost seem like an intrusion... it's a world built for him, not for you. The light from the lamp reflects off the polished wood, cutting the contours of his face in two.

You stop in front of the desk, your hands even tighter "Michael..." your voice comes out low, like a whisper... you hate yourself for how fragile it sounds "I need to talk to you" he doesn't look up immediately, he leaves you there, feeling the weight of your own voice as if he wanted to teach you the right measure of words, then finally he says softly "I'm listening."

You take a step closer... you don't know why your heart is beating so hard - perhaps because you still love him, perhaps because you hope the man you once knew will return "I need to know. Everyone's talking, saying things... about you, about your family. I... I can't go on living like this."

He doesn't answer right away, simply looking up from the paper and placing the pen next to it. He shifts back in his chair so he can cross his left leg over his right. He folds his hands in his lap, just like you are doing right now "Do you know what your problem is, darling?"

His voice is low, almost affectionate... almost "It's just that you think the truth is your right, but that's not the case. The truth is a burden, and I keep you away from that burden because I love you. You have the right to live a quiet life, not to get your hands dirty... that's your right."

At that point, he slowly raises his eyes to you, that gesture - just that - is enough to make you take a half-step back. You feel trapped even though there's no chain holding you back. Your now sweaty hands stretch to the sides of your dress, tightening it slightly.

Michael exhales slowly as he rises from his chair, walking around the desk to come toward you. His hands end up in the pockets of his black pants "I'm not lying to you, I'm protecting you" you bite your lower lip before murmuring "I just want the truth, Michael." the sound of the clock sounds like a gunshot in the silence.

He pauses, inhales again, and looks up at you once more. Those eyes, so dark, so calm... no tremor, no flash of emotion "The truth," he repeats "You want the truth." he takes a hand out of his pants and runs it over his face, as if to erase the anger building inside him.

His voice lowers to a tone that hides something more dangerous "The truth would destroy you, you really don't want it" you stop, but you've gone too far to turn back "you can't decide what I can handle!" your words come out louder than you intended, and you immediately regret it.

"Every time you ask me about my business," he says "you ask me to show you the part of me I try to keep away from you" driven by anger, you take a step forward, pointing your finger at him "I don't-!" the slap came from the side, suddenly... a sharp blow.

The noise cracked in the air like a whiplash, and you remain still... your cheek burning. It wasn't so much the pain that struck, but the humiliation. Tears blur your vision as you touch your cheek, in disbelief: you didn't think it could hurt this much, and not just physically.

"See what you're forcing me to do?!" he yells at you as he rubs his hands together to ease the pain of the blow "Every time you insist, every time you don't listen to me... you push me further." the words slip through you like poison.

Suddenly, the feeling of fear and humiliation seems to have disappeared... now you understand, the Michael you fell in love with is gone forever. Old memories come to mind, the beautiful summer days when he took you to the beach, by the sea.

"Good..." you whisper, wiping away the solitary tear that has fallen down your cheek "Do as you wish, Michael, but from now on, you and I are done" your voice sounds like a snake's hiss, bitter "I've waited so long for you to change, but apparently it hasn't happened. Stay with your stupid family; let them curse me for what I just said, I don't care."

You take a few steps back, toward the door "Find another woman, there will be plenty of them who want you." a half-smile of hatred escapes you "You ruined me, and I, who deluded myself into thinking we could have had a better future together. One day I'll leave when you least expect it, and that moment will come soon enough... and woe betide you if you come looking for me; I never want to see you again."

You've finally managed to say everything you've never been able to admit, not even to yourself; you feel at peace, so to speak. His face is expressionless, but you know he's still confused. There's a hint of concern in his eyes, as if your words came from someone else's mouth, not yours.

You've always been so kind and polite that he would never have considered retaliating. He doesn't say anything, probably knowing it's the best thing to do to avoid further escalating the situation. You turn away from him as your feet move quickly across the office parquet, ready to escape the hell that has confined and manipulated you for far too long.

© Xoshize 2026

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She screamed again—raw, primal—her voice bouncing off the walls like a warning to the gods. The midwife, sweat clinging to her brow, barked quick, steady instructions in Sicilian. Vito stood outside the door, fingers clasped so tightly they turned white.

He had faced men with guns, begged for scraps of dignity, stolen bread to survive—but nothing compared to this helplessness. He could not fight this. He could not protect her from this pain.

“Signore Corleone,” the midwife called suddenly. Her voice cracked like thunder.

He rushed in without hesitation.

There she was—his beloved wife—face pale, lips trembling, but eyes burning with a fierce kind of joy. And in her arms—

A boy.

His son.

The baby let out a cry, a tiny, defiant wail that seemed to challenge the world itself. Vito’s breath caught in his throat. His knees almost gave out.

The midwife gestured. “Would you like to hold him?”

He approached slowly, as if afraid he might shatter the fragile thing swaddled in cloth and miracle. When the child was placed into his arms, Vito stared down at the wrinkled face, the dark hair already thick, the scowl that somehow mirrored his own.

“He’s loud,” he whispered, in awe. “Like a lion.”

She chuckled weakly from the bed. “Takes after his father.”

“No,” he murmured, eyes still locked on his son. “He’ll be better than me. Stronger. I’ll make sure of it.”

The boy quieted, as if recognizing the man who would shape his future. Vito pressed his lips to the baby’s forehead, reverent.

“I name him Santino,” he said softly. “My sunshine. My fire.”

In that moment, something shifted in Vito. The orphan, the immigrant, the boy who ran from fear—died. In his place stood a man who would build an empire from blood and love, who would burn the world if it ever tried to take this child from him.