Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 10

The ice burns worse than Marco's hand did, which feels like the universe's idea of a sick joke.

I press the makeshift compress against my swollen lip, sitting at the kitchen island at two in the morning because sleep requires a peace I'll never find in that bedroom. The marble countertop feels cool against my elbows as I hunch forward, trying to disappear into the shadows that pool in the corners of this too-large kitchen.

The copper taste in my mouth won't fade no matter how many times I rinse it. Each throb of my split lip counts time like a broken metronome—pain, release, pain, release. The ice melts slowly, pink-tinged water dripping through my fingers onto the pristine counter.

Footsteps in the hallway make my spine straighten. Too measured to be Marco stumbling home drunk again, too deliberate to be household staff at this hour. I know who it is before he appears in the doorway.

Salvatore stops mid-stride when he sees me. The kitchen light catches the angles of his face as his jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. He's still dressed despite the hour—charcoal slacks, white shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, like he never actually stops working, just occasionally changes locations.

He approaches with the careful precision of someone approaching a wounded animal, each step deliberate and unthreatening. The distance between us closes slowly until he's standing before me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Without asking, he takes the ice from my hand. His fingers are warm against mine, steady where mine tremble. He angles my face toward the light with his other hand, examining the damage with clinical detachment. But his eyes—his eyes are hard as black diamonds, containing a fury that makes my breath catch.

"Hold still," he murmurs, though I wasn't moving. His thumb ghosts near the swelling, never quite touching, mapping the geography of violence without adding to it.

He turns away and returns with a first aid kit that appears from God knows where—probably one of many stashed throughout the mansion for occasions exactly like this. The leather case opens with practiced efficiency, revealing supplies arranged with military precision.

"This will sting." His voice carries no emotion as he tears open an antiseptic wipe.

The chemical burn makes my eyes water, but his touch remains impossibly gentle. He works with the efficiency of someone who's done this before, who's tended to split lips and bruised faces with the same careful attention.

Did he do this for Joana too? The thought rises unbidden. Did she sit in this same chair while he catalogued her injuries with these same steady hands?

"Is this what you expected when you arranged this marriage?" The question escapes before I can stop it, muffled by his hand still steadying my jaw.

His movements pause for half a heartbeat before resuming. "I expected my son to be many things. But not this."

"Then why don't you stop it?" My voice cracks on the last word, exhaustion and pain making me reckless.

He sets down the antiseptic and meets my eyes directly. The weight of his gaze makes my chest tight.

"You agreed to this marriage, Lucia. You said yes. You signed the papers. The old laws are clear—I have no authority to intervene between husband and wife."

"The old laws." I laugh, but it comes out bitter and broken. "Of course there are old laws about this."

"There are old laws about everything in our world." He opens a small tube of antibiotic ointment, the gesture so mundane in this moment of controlled violence. "Laws about respect, about territory, about family. And laws about marriage that even I can't break without consequences."

His fingers spread the ointment across my split lip. The intimacy of it—his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheek—makes my heart rate spike in a way that has nothing to do with fear.

"But the laws don't say I can't be creative with their interpretation." His hands linger on my face, thumbs resting against my cheekbones. The moment stretches between us, taut as wire, dangerous as exposed electricity.

I lean into his touch without meaning to, my body betraying me again, always betraying me when it comes to him. His pupils dilate slightly, a crack in his perfect control, before he pulls away like I've burned him.

"I'll handle this my own way." He closes the first aid kit with sharp efficiency, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen

"What does that mean?"

"It means you should get some rest." He steps back, rebuilding the distance between us with deliberate precision. "Tomorrow will be different."

The promise hangs in the air, but I'm too tired to decipher it. He leaves without another word, and I'm alone with my throbbing lip and the ghost of his fingers on my skin.

Morning comes too soon, bringing with it the performance of breakfast in the formal dining room. Marco slumps in his chair, hungover and sullen, attacking his eggs like they've personally offended him. I push food around my plate, my swollen lip making eating an exercise in strategic pain management.

Salvatore enters with his usual controlled authority, but there's calculation in his movements that wasn't there before. He takes his seat at the head of the table, surveying us both like a general planning battle strategy.

"Lucia will be serving as my personal assistant starting today." He delivers this information like he's announcing the weather. "The household accounts need attention, and my correspondence has gotten unwieldy. She'll be working from my study during business hours."

Marco's fork clatters against his plate. "She's my wife, not your secretary."

"And you're rarely home during business hours anyway." Salvatore's tone remains perfectly even, but there's steel underneath. "Unless your afternoon activities with various women have suddenly become less important than your marriage?"

Marco's face flushes red, but he can't argue with the truth everyone knows. His jaw works like he's chewing words he can't spit out.

"This isn't negotiable," Salvatore continues, buttering his toast with mechanical precision. "She starts this morning."

The silence that follows feels like the held breath before an execution. Marco's hands clench into fists on the table, knuckles white with suppressed rage.

"Fine," he spits finally. "But don't think I don't know what you're doing."

Salvatore looks up then, meeting his son's eyes with the kind of calm that precedes natural disasters. "I'm managing my household efficiently. If you see ulterior motives in that, perhaps you should examine why you think your wife needs protection from you."

The accusation lands like a slap. Marco pushes back from the table hard enough to make the china rattle, storming out without another word.

Salvatore returns to his breakfast as if nothing has happened, but when his eyes meet mine across the table, I see it clearly—protection disguised as duty.