Wife of a Don, Queen of Myself

On our tenth year anniversary, I'm making out with my husband, Don Raimondo Brocchi, in his office.

Just as I'm about to secretly slip the pregnancy report into his hand as a surprise, his secretary, Anna Altamura, walks into the office.

We're forced to stop our makeout session. Meanwhile, Anna shoots me a provocative look before she begins chatting with Raimondo in fluent Italese.

"Don Brocchi, who do you like more in bed? Me or the Donna?"

Raimondo lets out a soft chuckle. The vibrations of his voice makes my back crawl with numbness.

"You, of course. After all, you're younger and tighter, amore. Meanwhile, Cassia is already 30 years old."

Haughtily, Anna picks up a document before returning to her seat.

What they don't know is that my Nonno hails from Sicaria. That means I understand each and every Italese word they just said.

After forcing myself to calm down, I locate the invitation mailed from Anworth Institute that comes with a permanent position in my inbox. Then, I key in a short response to the person in charge.

I agree to travel to the institution.

Before my trip, I will make sure to terminate everything that belongs to me.

Seeing that I had set the cake down without taking a bite, Raimondo Brocchi reached for my hand and stroked it gently. "What's wrong, amore mio? Not feeling well?"

I looked into his concerned eyes, put my phone away, and forced down the revulsion churning inside me. Then, I curled my lips into a faint smile.

Just seconds ago, he had been mocking me with Anna Altamura, his secretary and lover. Now, he was putting on the act of a devoted husband, so hopelessly in love with his wife.

I couldn't help but wonder how much longer he could keep up the performance in front of me.

"I'm fine," I said. "I was just curious what you two were talking about. It sounded like you guys were making a funny joke."

Raimondo glanced toward Anna, who was seated outside the office. They exchanged a knowing smile.

He then turned back to me, smiling as he placed the cake into my hands and affectionately brushed a finger along the bridge of my nose.

"We were just talking about a client," he said. "She's getting older and keeps changing her mind every other day. A real pain in the ass."

I took a small bite of frosting. The sweet cream somehow tasted bitter on my tongue.

Raimondo had forgotten that my Nonno built his empire in Sicaria, where I spent almost six years growing up under his care. He had even forgotten that the first time he confessed to me, he did it in Italese.

"I'm tired. I'm going to rest for a while," I said.

Ignoring the flicker of surprise in Raimondo's eyes, I stood and headed for the lounge. I didn't hesitate to brush away his hand that was holding onto me.

He froze, concern filling his voice. "Amore