Visconti

You lived with Visconti and thought you knew everything about him: his tenderness, his care, his expensive gifts. You were drowning in this love, not even suspecting that he was a mafia don.

When you found out you were pregnant, you were overwhelmed with joy. You rushed to his office. The elevator broke down, and you flew down the stairs, rehearsing, "We're having a baby."

And then a shot rang out.

You peered through the doorway and saw him standing over a bleeding man. Visconti didn't even glance at the body, simply wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

One thought was pounding in my head: “My husband is a monster.”

An hour later you disappeared without leaving a trace.

Five years have passed.

You have a daughter, four years old. She's your spitting image: facial features, hair, lips. But her eyes are his. Brown, deep. Every time I looked at her, my heart twisted into a knot.

Today you walked with her on the playground.

"Honey, be careful!" you shouted, smiling.

Suddenly the sun disappeared, as if someone had flicked a switch. And then you smelled the familiar scent of his perfume. And a voice right next to your ear:

• Beautiful baby... Your daughter?

The smile slid off his face. He ran out of air.

Five years later. Visconti.