The Don’s Fragility

There were two kinds of silence in the Valeri family. The first was respect—tight-lipped nods, held breath, the kind of stillness that came when the Don entered a room. The second was danger. And that's what filled the air now as Marco Bellanti pressed a gloved hand to the back of the recruit's neck and shoved him into the chair. The man—a young soldier named Nicco, barely twenty—winced but didn't speak.

Smart. For now.

Marco circled him like a wolf scenting weakness. "You've been asking questions."

"I didn't mean anything by it—"

"You asked where the Don sleeps," Marco interrupted flatly. "Who does he speak to after hours. What floor are his quarters on? That means something."

Nicco's face turned pale. "I—I was just curious. You know, admiring the setup. I meant no disrespect—"

"You don't admire Luca Valeri," Marco growled. "You serve him. Or you disappear."

The boy's mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water. Marco leaned in close, eyes sharp, voice low.

"If you ever, and I mean ever, ask about the Don's private life again, I will personally sew your tongue into your hand and let you choose which you want to keep."

Silence.

The dangerous kind.

Marco stood back, hands folded behind his back. "Get out."

The boy scrambled from the chair, too afraid to beg. When the door slammed shut behind him, Marco let out a breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was becoming a problem. People were noticing things. Too many eyes. Too many whispers.

Luca had always been meticulous—flawless in his image, controlled to the point of being inhuman. But lately, the cracks were showing. Late nights. Faint tremors in his hands after executions. And once, a moment Marco would never forget—Luca's door left slightly ajar. Just enough to catch the sight of a stuffed bunny on the velvet sofa.

He'd closed the door without a word and stood there for hours, guarding the secret with his life. Because that's what Marco did, he didn't just protect Luca's body—he protected all of him. Even the parts Luca wouldn't name. Even the part that wanted to be held.

Later that night, Marco leaned against the wall outside the Don's room again, arms crossed, watching the hallway like a hawk. He didn't need sleep. He needed stillness. He needed to be nearby.

The door behind him stayed closed. No sound. No sign of movement. But he could feel Luca on the other side.

They'd grown up side-by-side. Luca, the legacy son with too much rage in his heart and too much grief in his eyes. Marco, the bastard orphan turned bruiser, was never meant for softness. Yet somehow, Luca had always looked at him like he wasn't dangerous. Like he was… safe.

Even now, he remembered a night when he was sixteen, Luca fourteen hiding in the wine cellar while Luca's father held a gun to someone's mouth upstairs. Luca had curled into him then, silent, wide-eyed. Marco had whispered a promise:

"I'll keep you safe, no matter what."

He'd meant it. He still meant it.

A click.

Marco's ears perked. The door behind him didn't open, but he heard the whisper through it anyway—soft, quiet, like a prayer.

"Goodnight, Marco."

His heart clenched. He stared ahead, biting the inside of his cheek before answering.

"Sweet dreams, boss."

Then, quieter: "You're safe."

He wasn't sure if Luca heard that part. But he said it anyway. And for one more night, the secret stayed between them—wrapped in velvet, guarded by steel.

The rain hadn't stopped all night. It sheeted down the tall windows of Valeri Villa, turning the gardens beyond into dark blurs of black and green. Somewhere on the east wing balcony, a cigarette glowed, its ember flaring each time Davide drew in.

Marco leaned against the frame of the war room door, eyes fixed on the silhouette outside. "He's back earlier than I expected," he said quietly, voice low but edged.

"Mm," Rosa replied from behind her laptop, her fingers not pausing over the keys. "He doesn't come back from New York without a reason."

Davide didn't turn when he came in. He dropped his damp coat over the arm of a chair, rainwater pattering onto the Persian rug. "Scarpelli's been moving more product through Jersey," he said without preamble. "And he's not hiding it. He wants you to see him fattening his pockets."

Marco straightened. "Then he's begging for a message to be sent."

"Not yet," Davide countered, flicking his lighter closed with a metallic snap. "If we play first, we're playing his game. Let him stretch too far before we cut him off."

The two men locked eyes—an old, silent standoff that had existed since Luca's father's time.

Marco's gaze flicked upward before returning to Davide. "You here to talk business," he said, "or you here to see him?"

Davide didn't answer right away. His eyes softened, but only for a breath, and then the mask slid back in place. "You'll know when I need to see him."

The Don never left his door unlocked. That was the first thing Marco noticed. He was halfway down the hall when he saw it: the faintest sliver of golden light cutting across the marble floor from Luca's private suite. The door wasn't wide open—just enough to break protocol. Just enough to mean something was wrong.

Marco's pulse quickened.

He stepped forward silently, gun holstered but fingers twitching near it, eyes scanning for movement. The Villa was too quiet—no sign of staff. No footsteps. No TV. No music.

He reached the door and pushed it open with the back of his hand, slow and careful. What he saw stopped him cold. Luca Valeri—the Don, the devil, the untouchable king of their blood-soaked empire—was curled sideways on the silk sheets, asleep beneath a plush pink blanket. His mouth was slack in the softness of sleep, his face entirely free of tension, and in his arms, resting against his chest, was a small, worn stuffed bunny. Cream-colored. One of its eyes was a sewn-on black button. The ear had been restitched at least twice.

Marco had never seen anything like it. He should've stepped back and closed the door. Pretended he saw nothing, but he didn't move.

His hand dropped from the edge of his jacket.

Because suddenly, everything made sense.

The quiet sadness in Luca's eyes when no one was looking. The bone-deep exhaustion that even power couldn't cover. The way his hands trembled—not in fear, but in restraint.

Marco had always known Luca was carrying more than he let on. But this? This was the truth.

Luca wasn't just tired—he was soft. Quiet. Fragile beneath the steel.

A little.

And Marco? His chest ached with something he couldn't name. A protective urge so deep it bordered on painful.

He didn't feel judgment. He didn't feel pity.

He felt reverence.

The man who ruled the city with a whisper was asleep, holding a bunny, and Marco had never wanted to protect someone more in his life.

He stepped back.

Gently, slowly, he reached for the door handle and pulled it shut, careful not to make a sound.

He stood there the rest of the night, unmoving.

And when Luca stepped out the next morning—suit sharp, voice crisp, mask perfectly in place—Marco didn't say a word.

But when their eyes met, Luca's gaze flickered. A flash of hesitation. A question.

Marco just gave the faintest nod.

I saw. I know. And I'm still here.

Blood always smelled the same—sharp, metallic, hot.

It clung to his skin even after he scrubbed it off. Lingered in his lungs. Lived in the folds of his memory.

Luca stood in the marble shower, forehead pressed to the cool tile, hands braced against the wall as the water beat down on him. It was scalding hot, but he didn't move. He let it burn.

His stomach had been in knots since the Carlo execution. Not because of the kill. Not really.

Because for the first time in weeks, he'd felt something afterward—an emotion too close to guilt. To sadness. To… fear.

And when he'd turned and seen Marco standing there, eyes hard but jaw tight with something that looked a hell of a lot like worry—that's when the tremors had started.

They hadn't stopped since.

He dried off and dressed in silence, defaulting to black lounge pants and a soft long-sleeve shirt—something he wouldn't be caught dead in outside his walls. The fabric clung a little too gently, the cotton a little too soft. He didn't care.

He padded barefoot across the penthouse to the small hidden cabinet. The one only he knew about.

Except now… maybe not.

He still didn't know for sure if Marco had seen. That night, the door was left cracked—it had been one mistake, one stupid slip. But when he stepped out the next morning, Marco looked at him differently.

Softer. Deeper. Like he knew.

And he hadn't said a word.

Luca's hands shook as he opened the cabinet anyway.

He pulled out his bunny. Cradled it to his chest, breathing in the faint scent of clean linen and fabric softener. It helped—a little.

He sat on the couch, pulled the blanket over himself, and tried to sink into little space—into stillness.

But it wouldn't come.

Not tonight.

He felt too exposed. Too raw.

His brain wouldn't shut up—what if someone else found out? What if his softness was the crack that broke the whole empire?

He curled tighter under the blanket, gripping the bunny with white-knuckled hands.

Somewhere in the quiet, the panic started.

It wasn't loud. Wasn't dramatic. It was subtle—heart racing, skin itching, a roaring pressure behind his eyes that made it hard to breathe.

He gasped in shallow little huffs, trying not to make noise, trying not to cry because crying was weak, and weak got you killed in his world.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried counting. Breathing. One-two-three-four in, one-two-three-four out.

It didn't work.

Nothing worked.

Until—

A soft knock at the door.

Just once. No words.

But he knew.

Marco.

Luca's breath hitched. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His voice wasn't ready. He stayed frozen.

He heard nothing for a long time—then the soft sound of someone sitting down just outside his door.

Marco.

Again.

Luca choked on something halfway between a sob and a laugh.

The man was always there. Quiet. Steady. Just close enough that Luca could breathe, just far enough that he didn't push.

God, how long had he been in love with him?

He buried his face into the bunny's soft fur and finally, finally let the tears come.