Page 38 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

THIRTY-TWO

THE WHITE RABBIT

After that, sex was on another level. She jumped me everywhere and my guards just had to scram whenever they saw her rushing over to me. She was a beautiful, chaotic mess—but she was my mess. And whatever this was, whatever fire she was chasing in the dark, she needed it like air.

The dungeon, it wasn’t occasional anymore. It had become part of us, woven into the rhythm of our lives, like a secret ritual neither of us dared to name.

It was our fuck pad now. She let me do to her whatever the fuck I wanted and after we took a shower, I would bandage her up, and we’d pass out on the bed.

A little cutting and bleeding every night spoiled the darkness inside of me and Camilla became my everything.

Saturday came, and we had to get ready for Nonna’s eighty-second birthday.

She hadn’t shown her face in over a year, so this was a big deal—at least to the rest of the family.

I knew my aunt would hover like a warden, already plotting to lock her away again, too scared of the world getting its claws into her.

But me? I wasn’t worried. Nonna was sharper than all of us.

She was safe. She was exactly where she wanted to be—far from the chaos the rest of us were still drowning in.

Then Camilla stepped into the room, and for a moment, the noise in my head quieted.

She wore a short dress that hugged her legs like a second skin, heels that made her walk with purpose, and her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail that showed off every angle of her jaw.

Her makeup was flawless—controlled, elegant, like armor.

She looked like she belonged at my side. Like she knew exactly how powerful she was.

My runaway was beautiful, all 5,2 of her. She clutched my hand as I parked my Lambo by my father’s front porch. There were plenty of valets ready to park the cars at the back.

She took a deep breath, and I smiled.

“Get your cute ass out of my car.”

She smiled and the door opened. Roberto, the fucking idiot, was charming her with that fucked up personality of his.

He spoke Italian.

“Grazie,” she replied, and we both burst out laughing.

“Not a grazie moment?” she asked me.

“No, not when it’s from this dickhead. Roberto, this is my bride, Camilla.”

“She is much more beautiful than Simi,” he said in Italian.

“A lot more class too,” I replied in English, giving him a look.

I had already made sure everyone was aware that Camilla was still learning Italian and they needed to speak English when talking to her.

“So, sister-in-law, what is your biggest wish?” He grabbed her hand and hooked it into his arm.

“You are very different from Fiona.”

“You met Fiona?” Roberto asked.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Poor baby.” He patted her hand.

“Easy,” I growled at my brother.

“I’m just making her feel at home, brother.”

My mother’s sharp voice cut through the air the moment we stepped inside, echoing from the patio door like a warning bell. She was always loud when she was excited to see me, too loud, but this time, the warmth faded fast.

She kissed my cheek, then stopped cold the second her eyes landed on Camilla.

“You brought her .” Spoken in clipped Italian, thick with disapproval. Of course, she’d make this difficult.

“She’s my wife , Mother. Of course, I brought her.”

My voice was calm, but the glare I gave her left no room for argument.

Camilla stood tall beside me, silent, but I felt the tension humming off her like a wire pulled too tight.

“Can she speak Italian? The last time Fiona said she couldn’t.”

“Stop embarrassing me, please. I need you to like her, okay?” I sighed. “She is learning but it is a process.”

She let out a sigh but gave a small nod. My mother loves me, there’s no question, but she could be impossibly stubborn when she wants to be.

“Thank you,” I said, flashing her a wink before turning to Camilla.

She was holding herself a little too still, nerves tightening her posture. I could see it in the way her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her dress.

“Sweetheart,” I said, my voice softening as I reached for her hand, “I want you to meet the first love of my life.”

Camilla smiled. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Pontisello.”

“Charming. The feeling is mutual.”

“I doubt that,” Camilla said without missing a beat.

Roberto let out a deep, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame, while my mother offered the faintest of smiles. “At least she’s not an idiot,” she muttered in Italian, which—for her—was practically a blessing.

I shot Camilla a wink just as my brother swooped in, ever the charmer, taking our mother’s arm and leading her away like some old-world gentleman.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I murmured, pulling Camilla into a hug.

“No,” she said, relaxing a little against me. “But I’d still love to know what she really said when she saw me.”

I smirked. “That you’re beautiful.”

“Liar.” She laughed, her voice low and warm against my chest.

I kissed the tip of her nose and laced my fingers through hers, gently guiding her toward the patio doors.

Outside, the estate grounds had been transformed for the occasion.

A massive white marquee tent billowed in the soft spring breeze, its sides tied back to reveal long tables draped in linen, glittering with glassware and silver.

Strings of warm lights zigzagged above, glowing against the early afternoon sky.

The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and baked pastries drifted through the air, mingling with the faint floral perfume of the garden.

Every relative I’d ever known, including some I swore I hadn’t seen since childhood, was already there. A sea of familiar faces, laughter, clinking glasses, and gossip humming like static.

A sudden rush of energy came as a pack of little boys tore across the grass, shouting my name like I was some kind of hero. Most of them belonged to Maggie, Loretta’s older sister, and, surprisingly, one of the kindest women in the family. Camilla smiled, startled but soft, as they surrounded us.

For the next fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, I became the unofficial emcee, guiding Camilla from one relative to the next, introducing her with a pride I didn’t bother to hide. She greeted each person with grace, even as the weight of their judgmental stares lingered a little too long.

“It’s really beautiful here,” Camilla said, her gaze sweeping over the hilltop, down to where the ocean shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun. The wind played with the edges of her ponytail, and for a moment, she looked completely at ease, like she belonged here.

“It is,” I replied, though I wasn’t looking at the view. I was looking at her.

She smiled, and I gently guided her toward our table, set near the back of the tent, far from the spotlight. I never did like sitting up front, paraded around like a showpiece.

Fiona arrived a few moments later, her arm linked with a man I didn’t recognize. Her plus one, no doubt.

“Camilla,” Fiona said with a forced smile, her tone just a little too bright.

“Fiona.” Camilla’s response was flat, emotionless, a verbal shrug that landed like a slap.

I placed a steady hand on Camilla’s back, tracing a slow circle as I glanced at Fiona.

She caught the look I gave her and immediately backed down, eyes widening with a silent apology.

She swallowed hard, visibly tense. I gave her the faintest nod, just enough to let her know she’d stepped out of line, but the moment had passed.

“Pierre,” Fiona said quickly, trying to recover. “I want you to meet my oldest brother—Alfonso Pontisello.”

The guy was all muscle, solid and imposing, and when he shook my hand, he put real force behind it. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. If he knew what I was capable of, he wouldn’t have shaken my hand quite so firmly.

Loretta was making her way over, and I could already feel the tension building.

"Choose another table," I called out in Italian, my voice carrying across the room. Without missing a beat, she shot me the finger, her expression smug, and walked smoothly to a different table.

Camilla couldn’t hold back a laugh, the sound light and genuine. She didn’t need to speak the language to know exactly what I’d said.

Fiona chuckled too, but there was an edge to her amusement as Luca, my younger brother, and his plus one, approached. He was getting married at the end of the year, but the girl next to him wasn’t his fiancée. She was a distraction, nothing more.

I made the introductions, and he shook Camilla’s hand. Then Paulo and his friend joined us, their easygoing energy filling the space. Paulo was one of the better cousins—quiet, reserved, but with a good head on his shoulders, which wasn’t saying much when it came to our family.

“Paulo,” he said, introducing himself to Camilla. Her response was warm, her voice sweet as she shook his hand. “Alfonso,” he said, making eye contact with my brother.

“Paulo,” I repeated, offering a nod.

The luncheon officially began with the usual clinking of glasses and murmurs of polite conversation. I couldn’t help but smile as Nonna was led out by my aunt, her steps slow but defiant. I’d been right, my aunt had dragged her here despite her protests.

She didn’t speak, didn’t wave. But when her eyes locked with mine across the crowd, she raised two fingers in my direction, subtle, sharp, and perfectly timed. I chuckled. She hated every second of this charade.

I never should’ve told my father where she’d been hiding, but she was eighty-two now. Even if she didn’t look a day over sixty, she’d earned a celebration. Still, I’d make sure she disappeared again once this was over. She deserved her peace and her freedom.

My father stood from his seat and the lunch grew quiet.

“Good afternoon, everyone. If I could have your attention for just a moment.” Dad raised his glass of champagne, staring at Nonna.