When I was hungry, he cooked for me himself, making the oatmeal I loved, the kind that was easy on my stomach. The Don of the Rossetti Family, sleeves rolled to the elbow, standing over a stove in the estate kitchen while his underboss waited in the hall.
Every time we went out, he held my hand and never let go. His men walked three paces behind, and he kept me on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the street, the way old-world men protect what belongs to them.
Every anniversary, every birthday, he showed up on time with a gift and a smile.
Then Catarina moved in, and everything changed.
She was his blood-sworn brother's widow. That was the reason. Fausto Volpe had taken a bullet for Tomasso during the Calabrese turf war, and the old code was clear: a Don protects his fallen brother's family. Catarina had no one else, no family name to shelter her, no territory, no protection. So he brought her into our home under the sacred code of hospitality.