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The private jet moved smoothly through the clouds, no turbulence, no delays.
Rosinante gazed out the window with her usual calm, hands folded over the travel bag she'd packed in less than ten minutes. She didn't need more. She never needed more when it came to him.
He had called that morning.
Just one call, direct, impatient.
"Come," he'd said. "I want to see you."
That was enough.
The plane's interior was silent, elegant, excessive. Leather, dark crystal, a table with untouched coffee. Two escorts sat in the back, still, respectful. No one spoke. No one dared break the space Rosinante occupied so naturally, as if luxury meant nothing to her.
Russia appeared on the navigation screen. The destination didn't worry her. Neither did the prison. She knew perfectly well it wasn't a real prison. It was a poorly staged theater to placate a cop too proud of his badge. Doflamingo still ran things from inside as if he were in his own office: bought guards, absurd privileges, doors that opened when he decided.
Still, she went. Every week she went.
The jet landed without ceremony. An armored car was already waiting. Rosinante climbed in, adjusted the coat over her shoulders and rested her head against the seat. The drive to the complex was brief. The walls were high, gray, intimidating to anyone who didn't know the truth.
At the entrance, the guards recognized her immediately. They didn't ask for documents. They didn't check the bag.
"Mrs. Donquixote," one said, with a slight bow. "He's waiting for you."
Rosinante replied with a soft smile and walked through the cold corridors, the sound of her steps muffled. The doors opened before she could touch them.
Doflamingo wasn't in a cell.
He was in a spacious room, with a table, leather armchairs, a huge window and a tray with freshly served food. He was dressed impeccably, relaxed, his sunglasses on even in there. Seeing her, he stood up immediately.
"Finally," he growled. "This fucking place becomes unbearable when you're not here."
Rosinante approached unhurriedly. She set the bag aside and hugged him, resting her forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arm around her waist tightly, as if the whole world were a nuisance.
"You look tired," she murmured.
"Tired my ass," he responded, clicking his tongue. "I'm surrounded by idiots who think they can tell me what to do because they wear uniforms. But look at them..." he smiled sideways. "They all move when I sneeze."
He made her sit on his lap, without letting go. He brushed a strand of hair from her face with a surprisingly careful gesture before possessively gripping her waist, contrary to the previous gesture.
"The trip?" he asked.
"Smooth," she answered. "As always."
Doflamingo snorted.
"If I hear that cop say 'the law is equal for everyone' one more time, I swear I'll send him to clean toilets in Siberia. Fucking idiot."
Rosinante didn't respond to the insult. She just took his hand in hers, firm, warm.
"I'm here," she said.
He looked at her, serious for a second, then smiled with that arrogant confidence he never abandoned.
"Of course you're here," he said. "You always are. And that's why everything keeps working, even though they want to lock me up in this shitty circus."
He squeezed her hand and leaned back on the couch, like a king visiting a prison that really belonged to him.
Rosinante settled on his lap naturally, crossing her legs as she observed the untouched tray.
"You haven't eaten," she commented softly.
"That garbage gets cold before I get hungry," he growled. "Besides, with you here, I forget about it."
She shook her head slightly with a faint smile and took the coffee cup, bringing it to him.
"At least drink this."
Doflamingo obeyed without complaint, something none of his men would ever see. He took a sip and huffed.
"Russia is a fucking freezer," he said. "This cold gets into your bones. I don't understand how these people survive without hating the entire world."
"You're not made for the cold," Rosinante replied. "Osaka suits you better."
His lips curved with interest.
"Speaking of that... tell me how things are going there."
Rosinante adjusted herself better and began to speak calmly, as if describing a domestic routine and not a network of illegal businesses.
"Everything's stable. The port reactivated with spring. Containers are coming in without delays and the new agreements with local intermediaries are working. They haven't asked unnecessary questions."
"They better not," he muttered. "If any of them thinks he's smart, I'll break his legs even if I'm ten thousand kilometers away."
"It won't be necessary," she continued. "The weather helps. The city is different... more open. The cherry trees are already in bloom, there are festivals, tourists. No one pays attention to what doesn't shine."
Doflamingo let out a low laugh.
"Right. Pretty flowers to cover up the filth. I love it."
Rosinante nodded.
"The men are calm. They respect you even more now that you're not physically there. They follow your orders without question."
"As it should be," he said, adjusting his glasses. "They better not forget who's in charge, even though I'm in this decorated cage."
She slid her hand over his, noticing how cold it was.
"You're freezing."
"I told you," he growled. "This place wants to kill me with cold. In Osaka I'd be in a shirt, laughing at everyone, while you walk under all those cheesy trees."
"They're beautiful," she replied. "The air is warm, it smells different. Everything seems... new."
Doflamingo observed her in silence for a few seconds.
"When I get out of here," he said, "we're going there. Fuck Russia, fuck this theater. I want sun, I want warmth... and I want to see you smile without this fucking place around."
Rosinante rested her head on his shoulder.
"You'll get out," she said with certainty. "You always do."
He squeezed her hand, knuckles still cold, but his confident smile intact.
"Of course I will," he responded. "Nobody really locks me up. Especially when you keep the kingdom running."
Rosinante remained silent for a few seconds. Then, with her usual calm, she opened her bag and pulled out a small white sheet, carefully folded. She slid it across her hand to his, without drama, without ceremony.
"I discovered something interesting," she said. "I thought you might like it."
Doflamingo frowned and looked at the paper as if it were a threat. He took it between two fingers, turned it, brought it closer to the window's light.
"What the fuck is this?" he growled. "A map? A broken X-ray? It looks like a badly printed stain."
Rosinante watched him, patient.
"Look carefully."
He looked at it again, tilted his head, removed his glasses and squinted.
"I don't see anything," he huffed. "Fuck, is this a joke? There are shadows, circles... Who the hell took this picture? Is it blurry on purpose?"
"It's not blurry," she replied softly. "It's like that."
Doflamingo ran his thumb over the shit, as if he could forcibly clarify it.
"It looks like a floating bean," he said, annoyed. "Or a fucking ghost. If this is some kind of medical report, tell the doctor to shove his printer up his ass."
Rosinante let out a small exhalation, almost a contained laugh.
"It's an ultrasound."
Silence.
Doflamingo blinked once.
"...A what?"
She rose slightly to sit on the table.
"An ultrasound."
He looked at the sheet again. Then at her. Then back at the sheet.
"That?" he pointed to the center of the paper. "That weird little dot?"
Rosinante nodded.
"Yes."
Doflamingo opened his mouth, closed it, clicked his tongue.
"You're not fucking with me," he murmured. "You're telling me that... that...?" he pointed again. "That is...?"
"Uh-huh."
The silence became heavy. He leaned back on the couch, still with the paper in his hand, as if it suddenly weighed too much.
"I've never seen one of these things in my life," he said. "I thought it looked more... I don't know... clear. Human-shaped. This looks like an expensive smudge."
Rosinante leaned toward him.
"It's early."
Doflamingo swallowed. He looked at her again, serious, disarmed for the first time.
"Is it real?" he asked, lower. "This isn't one of your weird surprises?"
"It's real."
He let out a brief, incredulous laugh.
"Fuck..." he murmured. "I'm in a fake prison in Russia, freezing my soul off, and you come at me with this."
He gripped the paper carefully, as if afraid to break it.
"And I don't understand what the hell I'm looking at... but—" he looked up, a slow, dangerous and excited smile forming "—I like it. A lot."
Rosinante placed her hand over his.
"I knew you would."
Doflamingo snorted, shaking his head.
"Look at the timing you chose, Rosi," he said. "But they better all watch out..." his smile sharpened "because now no one touches what's mine."
Doflamingo didn't let go of the picture He left it on the table, in front of him, as if it were a more important document than any contract. He leaned forward, his hands gripping her waist, his gaze fixed on Rosinante.
"Explain everything to me," he said. "And don't skip anything. Everything means everything."
She nodded, without losing her calm.
"It was a routine checkup. Nothing out of the ordinary. The doctor said everything's fine."
"What the fuck does 'everything's fine' mean?" he growled. "That phrase doesn't tell me shit."
"It means there are no risks," she continued. "That the development is as expected. That there are no worrying signs."
He clicked his tongue, impatient.
"How long?" he asked. "Since when?"
Rosinante answered without beating around the bush.
"Not long. That's why the image is like that."
Doflamingo looked at the ultrasound again, as if now he could extract more information from it.
"And you?" he looked up. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," she said. "A little tired, nothing more."
"Tired?" he repeated, frowning. "That's it? No weird dizziness, pain, none of that strange shit?"
"Nothing that isn't normal."
He didn't seem convinced.
"I want names," he said. "Doctors. Clinics. Schedules. I want to know who touches you and when."
"I already have them written down," she replied. "In Osaka."
"Of course in Osaka," he huffed. "Spring, pretty flowers and you carrying my child while I'm here surrounded by idiots with borrowed guns."
Rosinante reached out and placed it on his cheek.
"You're still in charge," she said. "They know it."
Doflamingo snorted, but his expression softened slightly.
"They better," he muttered. "Because if anything goes wrong..." he didn't finish the sentence.
He looked at the wall clock with annoyance.
"Fuck," he said. "It's almost time, isn't it?"
She nodded slowly.
"I have to go."
He clenched his jaw, stood up and pulled her against him without asking permission. He hugged her tightly, one hand firm on her back, the other protecting her almost instinctively.
"Take care of yourself," he ordered. "And don't do anything stupid. No unnecessary trips. No carrying heavy things. If someone stresses you out, get rid of them."
"I will," she replied.
Doflamingo rested his forehead against hers.
"And next time," he said in a low voice, "I want another one of these. Even if I still don't understand what the hell I'm looking at."
Rosinante smiled.
When they separated, he picked up the ultrasound and folded it carefully, tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat.
"This stays with me," he said. "Nobody touches it."
The guards were already waiting outside. Rosinante took her bag and headed for the door. Before leaving, he spoke again.
"Rosi."
She turned.
"Thank you."
There were no insults this time. Only certainty.
The door closed behind her, and Doflamingo was left alone, in the room that still wasn't a room, with the cold of Russia outside and something completely different burning in his chest.