Mafias are known to invent the most creative ways to torture a person. Physical pain, psychological games — they had perfected it over centuries. They were simply the best at being the worst.

The sun was just beginning to peek out of the horizon, dragging its colors with it — first a faint lilac, then reddish, finally an orange hue bleeding across the sky. It was only 5:30 a.m.

Salvatore smiled to himself as he thought of what he had planned for Zara. The alarm clock, set for 6 a.m., would scream so loud she’d probably run out of the room with her heart in her throat. And with the amount of alcohol she’d downed yesterday, the headache waiting for her wouldn’t let go for days.

His long, slim fingers drummed against his thigh, the ride feeling unusually pleasant as he played the image in his mind over and over again. Enemies will always be enemies, he thought. And it was her fault — she should have covered all her tracks, protected herself better.

‘You let your guard down too.’ A voice in his head whispered.

His fingers froze.

He hadn’t. He knew exactly what he was doing.

‘All along?’ The voice asked again, this time laced with sarcasm.

His mind threatened to drag him back to the memories he had buried deep — the night he refused to think about. A shudder ran through him before he forced the thought down.

What happens in Enchanted, stays in Enchanted.

Frowning, he picked up his phone, needing distraction.

“Take me to see the goods first,” he said, scrolling through his schedule. Today was transaction day. He was about to have his fun.

---

“Luca, come get me in twenty minutes,” Zara said into the phone, her eyes sweeping across the room like a predator checking for traps. Salvatore had been here. Who knew what else he’d planted?

“Yes, Donna,” Luca’s voice came, steady and obedient. She let the phone fall carelessly on the bed and pressed her fingers against her temple, massaging the merciless throb in her head.

Her eyes shifted again to the note resting on the side drawer. Maybe that was all he had done. The alarm clock that nearly made her pull a trigger, and the stupid little note dangling from it.

“Didn’t want to return to a burnt mansion,” she read out loud. Against her will, the corner of her lips curved into the smallest smile.

Yesterday.

Her thoughts stuttered, then broke apart as memories crashed in, one after the other. The shock from the alarm had swallowed everything at first, but now the *real reason* she was here pressed in, demanding to be faced.

The last time Zara cried had been at her father’s funeral. Watching the man she thought invincible lowered into the earth, powerless inside a box, stripped her clean of innocence. That pain had been fire. Now the tears felt cold, so cold she wiped them away before they could even fall.

“I’m sorry, Donna. You have stage four glioblastoma… a very aggressive tumor. Surgery is not advisable at this stage. We could attempt chemotherapy, radiotherapy, but it is already too late. At best, it will add months, not years. And the side effects…”

The doctor’s voice had sounded like static, like one of those bad dreams she used to have after her mother died.

She had opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. No words came. Not even when the doctor said the thing she dreaded most.

“Six months, maybe. A year if we’re lucky.”

The knock at the door pulled her back. Twenty minutes had passed in silence. The twenty minutes she had planned to use to freshen up, wasted in thought.

She darted into the bathroom, washed quickly, fixed her hair, the same clothes back on her body. She had barely stepped out when the door opened and Luca walked in, emergency card in hand.

His eyes scanned her. Worry lingered there — maybe even fear. For reasons she couldn’t explain, that look made her throat tighten.

“Donna, are you okay?” he asked softly, his gaze barely brushing hers before falling away.

He never held eye contact.

Too beautiful to be a bodyguard, too shy to even stand still around her — Luca had always been an odd one. At first she had doubted him, but time and loyalty proved stronger. He had saved her during the D’Amico ambush, shielded her with his own life, turned down every bribe her enemies had waved under his nose. Even her father used to joke that Luca was more loyal to her than to him.

If she could, she would tell him everything. The truth about her illness. The anger, the fear, the unfairness choking her. How she had dreamed of being Marco’s guardian until he was strong enough to lead, how she wanted to live long enough to step aside for him, how she wanted to find love one day, trust someone enough to be weak with. But she couldn’t. Not even with Luca.

She was the Donna. She had an empire to shield and a brother to protect. And weakness — weakness cost more than death in their world.

“Did Marco sleep well?” she asked as they walked out, her voice steadier than she felt.

“Yes, Donna.”

He wanted to ask why her eyes looked different, why her voice sounded fragile, but he said nothing. It wasn’t his place. His duty was to protect her, not question her.

“I guess he’s growing up too fast,” she murmured, a small smile flickering across her face.

“Take me home. I’ll change, take him to school, then we’ll see the goods before the transaction.”

“As you wish, Donna,” Luca replied, his usual refrain.