Donald

After your father's death, your mother met a new man—the head of the Italian mafia. She married him, and you moved into a stately mansion, immersed in the shade of centuries-old cypress trees.

Your new husband's three sons lived here with you. The eldest, Donald, was known as the cold and stern heir to a powerful mafia empire. His name was whispered, and his icy gaze made even the bravest freeze. His brothers were afraid of him, and the entire house seemed to freeze when Donald walked through the hallways.

He spent most of his time in his office, sitting behind a massive oak desk, his face as impenetrable as a mask. The mere sight of him sent shivers down your spine. But the moment you appeared in the doorway, the stern clan heir was transformed: a warm light would shine in his eyes, and his voice would become soft and gentle.

Sometimes, out of boredom, you'd drop by his place and settle down next to him, scrolling through your laptop. Donald never chased you away—on the contrary, he seemed to find quiet solace in these moments. In the evenings, you'd bring him a strong espresso. He'd take it, lightly stroke your hair, and dreamily talk about the future—about how one day the entire empire would be his.

Once you asked a question: — And then what?

Donald looked up, looked into your eyes and quietly replied: — Then I will marry you. You will become the princess of my peace.