Affonso Donati
Affonso Donati wondered as he watched a young couple lean closer at a nearby table, their hands touching and eyes never leaving one another, if he could possibly understand that sort of emotional devotion to another person. That complete, pure type of loyalty and love that would make him want to bring a woman constantly, impossibly closer. A feeling that would have him always needing to touch her, and then still have him running back for more, later.
He didn’t wonder for long.
Affonso didn’t understand those sorts of nuances between lovers at all. He never had, despite his two decade long marriage, not to mention his many dalliances with women and mistresses over the years. He fully expected, and believed, that he would never truly understand those strange things.
Perhaps he was just incapable.
Who was to say?
The closest thing he had ever come to that sort of deep emotion was an obsession with Camilla Calisto Donati during his younger years, but even that hadn’t been a proper love. And it ended terribly, for both of them.
Affonso supposed his raising probably had a great deal to do with all of his perspective, or lack thereof, on the matter. A philandering father who made no secret of his constant affairs with many women, and a mother who never spoke against her husband’s choices. His father had always kept a handful of whores on the side to feed his whims, and often brought his two sons along for the ride.
On the other hand, Affonso’s mother was the perfect housewife incarnate, always presentable and respectable. Her children were always clean and well-behaved. Food was always on the table for each meal of the day, never failing. Her children were seen, but never heard. And Affonso had never heard his mother complain about any of it, even when she was sick.
Affonso had learned, through years of watching the dynamics between his parents, that this too was the type of relationship he wanted—expected—between himself and his wife. It seemed normal enough, the way his father never hid his intentions or affairs from his wife, and how his mother simply bent to her husband’s whims.
Had she been unhappy, surely she would have spoken up?
Had she been in pain, surely her sons would have seen it?
Affonso remembered nothing of the sort from his mother. And so, he fully believed that all women were capable of behaving in the same way. But if they struggled, he also figured they could learn what was expected of them over time. After all, falling in line was much easier than being constantly unhappy.
Like anything else in life, this too could be learned.
His first wife had been perfect, or as near to it as a woman could be. Her own raising, one similar to Affonso’s, had likely helped her along a great deal in that respect. She birthed him children, kept his home clean and beautiful, warmed his bed when he wanted her to, and she turned her cheek to his affairs and business dealings over the years. She was quite happy to just be and be let be, so to speak.
She had been happy in her place, and satisfied by material things instead of emotional nonsense and empty promises of fidelity that Affonso could not keep.
The only thing his wife had never done that he wished for, was birth him a son. Two healthy girls, sure, but never a boy to carry on his name and legacy. Oh, there had been the stillborn son at seven months gestation …
Affonso shook the thought away.
He did not think about that.
He would not.
That event had happened just a year into their marriage. He could not remember a more devastating event in his life emotionally. Back in those times, fathers had been expected to stay at home or in the waiting room until birth was over. Affonso had demanded to be present for the birth. It was his first child with his wife, after all.
They knew the baby was a bit early.
They had not known he would be dead.
“A boy,” the doctor had whispered into the quiet delivery room.
Too quiet.
Affonso distinctly remembered the elation in his heart at hearing those two words. A boy. His boy. And then as fast as that joy had come into his heart, it was violently ripped away. Slippery, wet, and bloodstained, the baby came into the world silent. And blue on his lips, one little hand clenched into a fist, and the other spread wide open. Ten fingers, and ten toes. Perfect features that seemed oh, so still.
He was doll-like.
The baby boy never breathed.
He never moved or opened his eyes.
He never lived.
He never was.
Devastating wasn’t a good enough word, but it was the best one Affonso had.
It was the only memory in Affonso’s life that he willingly chose to supress with every bit of effort he could bring forth. It was the only time he had seen his wife cry.
Never again.
It could ruin a man. He was not made for that sort of pain.
No one is, he thought sadly as he watched the young couple just one table over. Sure, life was simple and easy for them now, or it appeared that way, but life would eventually teach them its terrible truths, too.
In time, it always did.
That was unavoidable.
“You seem distracted.”
The statement of his companion brought Affonso out of his thoughts, and back to the meeting at hand. He was grateful for the reprieve.
“We could do this another time, if you prefer,” Maximo said.
Affonso shook his head. “No, old friend. Now is perfectly fine. I was just thinking about my deceased wife, that’s all.”
Maximo’s expression softened. “Ah, well, if you’re not ready to discuss this arrangement, then I can certainly understand why.”
Affonso regarded his counterpart for a moment, wondering how similar yet different the two were in the grand scheme of things. Both men were respected bosses of their Cosa Nostra families. Affonso in New York, and Maximo Sorrento in Las Vegas.
But that was just about where the similarities ended.
“You know,” Affonso started to say, “At my age, I’m not required to go through this charade again. I was married for two decades, I’m nearing my sixties. It just isn’t expected for a man—a boss—of my age and position to remarry to please the Commission.”
Maximo nodded. “I’m aware. And yet, here you are, looking for another wife. A young wife, I might add. You even have the option to choose this time around, without the usual constraints and rules of made men to weigh down your choices. Except, you’re still opting for the proper Catholic, Italian woman of a respectable house and name.”
“I am,” Affonso agreed.
“Why?”
“Unfinished business, I suppose.”
“Oh?”
“A boy,” Affonso murmured. “A son. I would like to have one to carry on my family’s name and my legacy in this thing of ours. Doesn’t every man in our position?”
“I see,” Maximo said.
“My wife has been dead long enough, and so, it is time to move on.”
“Then it’s time to get to business, isn’t it?”
Affonso smiled. “It is always time for business.”
Maximo gestured over his shoulder, and quickly, one of his waiting men stepped forward, a file waiting in his hand. He passed the item over to his boss without a word, and Maximo then slid it across the restaurant table to Affonso.
Opening the file, Affonso found a photo of a beautiful blonde, green-eyed woman staring back at him. A young woman, yet not too young. She certainly didn’t have a child-like appearance, but rather, a woman just stepping into adulthood and what it would bring to her life. She was perfectly put together. Impeccably dressed in beautiful clothes. Heathy-looking. Petite. Smiling brightly at the person taking the photo.
Emma Sorrento. Affonso took in the details of Maximo’s niece that had been provided in the file of information. Her age, schooling, interests, and training. Piano and ballet, like his own daughters. She was perfect in a sense, everything that a mafia wife should be on the surface.
“You should know,” Maximo started to say as Affonso continued flipping through the information and few pictures, “something about Emma.”
“And what is that?”
“We’ve allowed her a degree of freedom in her life. It helps to keep her happy, if you understand—”
“With men, you mean?”
Maximo cleared his throat. “Well, yes, exactly that.”
Affonso cared little for that information. “I don’t mind.”
“No?”
He almost laughed at the surprise in the other man’s voice. While he could certainly understand the appeal and desire a man would have for a virgin, it was not currently high in Affonso’s personal needs or wants.
“I married a virgin once,” Affonso admitted, shrugging. “And I spent the first six months of our marriage teaching her what to do. I’m not interested in teaching a woman how to please me, or herself, for that matter. I want a son, that’s all, nothing more. I figure a woman who understands how to get herself in such a way will work better for me than one who knows nothing.”
“You could be right,” Maximo said.
Affonso closed the file and slid it back across the table. “I am never wrong, Maximo. I’ll agree to a marriage with the girl. Soon.”