The doctors have given up urging me to get some rest.
And today, I only leave his side because there are things to be done.
I kiss his knuckles before I leave him, my mouth lingering there longer than necessary, because part of me believes he can feel it, that somewhere beneath the machines and the drugs and the pain he knows I’m still here, still standing, still refusing to let the world take him from me.
“You rest,” I murmur softly, my voice steady even as my insides twist. “I’ll handle things.”
I don’t know if he hears me.
I choose to believe he does.
The walk from the medical wing to Giovanni’s office feels different today, heavier, quieter, as though the house itself isholding its breath, waiting to see what kind of person will step into power now that the Don cannot rise to claim it himself.
Six men are already waiting when I enter.
They stand when they see me, one after the other, movements crisp and respectful, eyes sharp with calculation and something else that takes me a moment to identify.
Expectation.
I sit in Giovanni’s chair, forcing myself not to be tentative or even apologetic.
And maybe it’s the trace of his scent in the leather, but it boosts me, so I sit the way he does, spine straight, shoulders squared, my hands resting on the desk as if they have always belonged there.
And I let the moment stretch long enough for me to feel the weight of it settle into my bones.
“Here’s what I want to happen in the next twenty-four hours.”
The words leave my mouth without tremor, and when I look up, I see it in their faces immediately, the subtle shift from curiosity to focus, from polite attention to readiness.
I don’t explain myself and I don’t soften my tone.
I tell them what I need, what must be moved, who must be watched, which doors should close and which ones should be left just ajar enough to invite the wrong kind of courage.
I speak calmly, decisively, and when I’m done, silence hangs in the room, thick with understanding.
The head capo, a man with steel-grey hair and eyes that have seen too much blood to flinch easily, steps forward and slams a fist over his heart.
“We won’t let you down,Donna.”
The word lands differently now than it did the first time I heard it whispered in a corridor, then offered cautiously by a doctor who did not know what else to call me.
Donna.
I’m no longer just a wife. Or a girl or a liability.
The term hardens with authority. Responsibility and power.
Something shifts in my chest, something that’s not pride exactly, but resolve, sharp and clean and unyielding.
“I know,” I reply simply, and I mean it. “And I thank you all.”
The meetings that follow are not about me pretending to understand shipping routes or financial instruments I have never studied, but about ensuring that the right men are in the right places, that nothing stalls simply because Giovanni cannot sign his name or glare someone into obedience.
I listen more than I speak. I ask questions that surprise them. I tell one man to slow down, another to move faster, and a third that if he cannot guarantee loyalty then he will be replaced by someone who can.
There’s no argument or questioning. And somewhere between the third briefing and the fourth, I realise that I’m no longer acting.
This is not performance. It’s instinct born of the need to do more than survive this harrowing challenge. It’s the need to fucking win.
