Generosity

Generosity

~ VITTORIO'S POV ~

After a few minutes, she comes out of the bathroom.

Her vanilla-crush fragrance fills the air first, soft yet bold, lingering like a whisper that demands to be noticed. The faint sweetness tugs at my senses before she even crosses the threshold.

Her hair is blown dry, sleek, every strand catching the morning light. Her eyes are brighter than yesterday, she lifts them and locks them with mine. Just a second, maybe two, but in that short time something sharp and unexpected cuts through me.

“Good morning, Vittorio.” Her voice is calm, steady, not trembling the way others usually are when they greet me. She walks closer with quiet grace.

For a moment, my throat dries, words stuck somewhere between thought and mouth. Her beauty isn’t loud, it’s quiet, refined, the kind that forces you to look longer even when you don’t intend to. But I remind myself who I am. A mafia lord doesn’t gape like a boy. I cage my reaction instantly, burying my intrigue so it isn’t noticed.

The floral dress she wears is light, simple, yet it brightens her from the inside out, as though her very skin glows. The bandage wrapped around her arm with the sling should scream fragility, yet somehow she makes even pain look composed. She doesn’t wear her wound as weakness, instead she carries it like an accessory, a mere inconvenience.

I turn my eyes toward the nurse and mutter, low but firm, “Let the doctor know I’m here.”

The nurse bows quickly, almost tripping over her own feet as she hurries out.

I look back at Eirlys. “You look better now.”

She smiles, just barely. “Thanks.”

Her voice carries a softness I don’t expect.

Silence stretches between us. Not the usual silence where people hold their breath in my presence, but a silence where she simply… ignores me. As though my presence isn’t heavy enough to weigh on her shoulders.

I break it. “What happened that day at the stadium?” My voice comes sharper than intended, but it catches her attention.

She turns her eyes to me, lips parting. “There was..”

But the door flings open.

“Good morning, Don Vittorio.” The doctor’s voice slices through the moment, severing the fragile thread of her confession.

She cuts off, words swallowed, and instead gives the doctor a faint smile.

“You called earlier,” I say, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, she’s fit to be discharged today,” the doctor answers. “I called to inform you so we could finalize it.”

“Okay. Let’s get to it.” I say.



“Sign here, and at the bottom,” the doctor instructs a short while later while in her office.

I reach into my pocket, pull out a pen, and sign with swift strokes, my signature bold across the paper.

“I’ll send a nurse to her every day to redress the wound and monitor healing,” the doctor adds carefully.

“Good.” My response is curt, final.

I slide the document across to the doctor. She picks it up, eyes scanning before she murmurs, “All good.”

Without another glance, I leave the office, Paolo trailing like a steady shadow at my back.

When we return to her ward, the first thing I see is Eirlys holding a new phone, her smile wide, bright, alive.

“Thank you, Theresa,” she says, her voice dipped in warmth. The nurse, Theresa beams as though she’s been given the world, and Eirlys’s dimples deepen.

For a split second, I freeze. That smile… it transforms her completely.

Wow.

Pretty is too shallow a word. She is luminous.

Theresa hugs her gently, clinging to that gratitude as though it were treasure.

Ladies and their endless soft moments. I clear my throat deliberately, slicing through their little world.

“Oh!” The nurse gasps, stepping back immediately, her eyes darting down.

“Everything has been finalized,” I say, voice steady, eyes fixed on Eirlys.

“Thank you.” She smiles again, though not nearly as deeply as she had at Theresa. Just polite. Just controlled.

The contrast stings in ways I refuse to acknowledge.

Why does she treat me like this?

I am important in every sense. Men of power bow to me. Women fight to catch my gaze. Strangers crave my acknowledgment. And yet, I extend myself toward her, and she looks at me as though I’m… ordinary.

“Thank you for saving me and clearing the hospital bills,” she says, her tone genuine but detached. “That’s really generous of you.”

Generous.

The word hits me like a blow I don’t see coming.

Generous?

That’s what she calls it? As though I’d just handed her alms on the street? I carried her from death itself, stormed a hospital with her bleeding in my arms, ensured she would live, and to her it is… generosity?

Shit.

That’s all she sees?

I don’t say a word. Words would only expose the fury pressing against my chest. Instead, I turn and walk out of her ward, my silence heavier than any curse.

Paolo follows wordlessly, as he always does.

As I walk out of the hospital, people bow in respect and some, some bow in fear.

Outside,

I slide into the backseat of my car, shoulders sinking into the leather. A storm brews beneath my ribs.

Paolo enters the front seat, his voice calm, sharp. “Capo, there’s still no trace of what played at the stadium yesterday.”

My jaw clenches. “How can that be? You should know better.”

My daughter falls into a barn, a gunshot cracks the air, and Eirlys lies unconscious on the race tracks with horses thundering past. And yet he says there is no trace?

“Yes, Capo,” Paolo replies quickly. “I’m digging into it fiercely. The CCTV was not in function that day.”

I slam my hand against the armrest. “CCTV or not, you should know better. Find the son of a bch behind it!” My voice thunders, vibrating through the car.

Paolo bows his head slightly, already burying himself in his phone.

The driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. “Can we go now, Capo?”

“Ye….” My answer cuts off.

Because I see her.

Eirlys.

She is walking out of the hospital, the breeze playing with her hair, strands lifting like threads of gold.

Let me take her home.

No.

If I offer her a ride, she’ll just twist it into another act of “generosity.”

Still, my eyes don’t leave her. She can’t see me because my windows are tinted, but I see her perfectly.

She approaches a car. Not just any car. A Lamborghini Urus. Classy. Bold. With a chauffeur even, waiting like she’s royalty.

So, she isn’t some fragile stray after all. She has wealth. She has backing.

Interesting.

Her car pulls away smoothly.

I turn slowly to my driver. His eyes flicker up to meet mine in the mirror, awaiting the inevitable.

“Follow that car,” I order coldly. “The Lamborghini truck.”

Paolo raises his head slightly at my words, surprise flickering in his eyes, but he knows better than to question me.

“Subito, Capo.” My driver hits the accelerator. The engine roars, and we slide into the flow of traffic, tailing the black Lamborghini as it carves a path ahead.