Roses everywhere—climbing the walls, spilling from vases, carpeting the floor in a sea of crimson. Identical to the ones delivered these past few days. The scent was overwhelming, cloying, almost funereal.
My heart skipped a beat.
How did he know I was being discharged today?
Had he been watching?
For one desperate, foolish moment, hope flickered in my chest like a dying candle. Perhaps he did care. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing, of showing me that I mattered—
But the very next second, voices drifted from a neighboring room—and shattered every last illusion.
"The Young Don of the Volpe Family is so devoted." A nurse's voice, hushed with awe. "To save Signorina Gallo from any awkwardness after her return from Europe, he sent flowers to every room in the clinic and completely redecorated this entire floor for her."
"Must cost tens of thousands a day. The Volpe Family really does romance differently."
"Shh, keep it down—the Young Don's blood-bound wife is recovering here too."
I braced myself against the wall, my face drained of color.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips.
Of course.
The flowers had never been for me.
They were for her. For Massima. To spare her the embarrassment of being seen as the other woman while his wife lay broken in the same building.
Every rose was a declaration.
Every petal was a knife.
Excited murmurs rose from downstairs, echoing through the marble lobby like the roar of a crowd at a blood sport.
I leaned over the railing instinctively to look.
The lobby on the first floor had been transformed into a sea of crimson roses. Thousands of them, arranged with the precision of a military operation. Crystal chandeliers cast golden light over the display, and soldiers in dark suits lined the walls like an honor guard.
Nico and Massima stood in the center.
He was down on one knee.
The Young Don of the Volpe Crime Family—heir to an empire built on blood and silence—kneeling before the woman who had destroyed me.
His lips moved.
And then—
He spoke.
"Massima, will you stay with me forever?"
The most clichéd line in existence.
Yet he delivered it so naturally.
So effortlessly.
His voice.
I hadn't heard his voice in three years. Not once. Not a single word spoken aloud in my presence. The selective mutism had been absolute, unbreakable—a curse that had defined our entire marriage.
But for her?
For her, he could speak.