She pressed herself against him, and I watched his expression shift. The ice in his eyes thawed, just slightly, just for her.
I paused.
I didn't want to deal with this. I kept walking.
The next second—
Crack.
A slap struck my face, hard.
The sound echoed through the clinic corridor like a gunshot.
Patients and staff turned to stare—soldiers, associates, made men who had seen violence that would haunt ordinary people's nightmares. And yet they stared at this, at the Young Don striking his blood-bound wife in public.
I pressed my hand to my right cheek.
It burned.
He seemed to freeze for a moment, his hand still raised. He looked at his own palm as if he didn't recognize it.
Then his expression went cold again, colder than before, as if the brief flash of humanity had been a mistake he needed to correct.
"Apologize."
Those two words were meant for me.
I almost laughed.
Every time he spoke. Every time he actually said something to me—broke his precious silence to address me directly.
It was always about Massima.
What did she have that I didn't? What magic did she possess that could unlock his voice, his tenderness, his humanity?
But it didn't matter anymore.
None of it mattered.