Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 11

The study becomes my sanctuary from nine to five, this leather-and-mahogany fortress where I can pretend my marriage doesn't exist.

I organize contracts alphabetically while my split lip throbs in rhythm with my pulse, a souvenir from last night that makeup could disguise if I wanted it to. Through the tall windows, October light streams across Salvatore's desk where he reviews documents with the focus of a surgeon. Every few minutes, he unconsciously touches his wedding ring—a gesture so automatic he probably doesn't know he does it.

Above the fireplace, Joana watches everything.

Her portrait captures her mid-laugh, dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, eyes bright with secrets she took to her grave. Those painted eyes follow me as I file correspondence, as I refill his coffee at exactly ten-fifteen—two sugars, no cream—as I exist in the space she should be occupying.

"She was beautiful." The words escape before I can stop them.

Salvatore's pen pauses mid-signature. He doesn't look up, but I see the muscle in his jaw tighten. "Yes."

"How long were you married?"

"Long enough." His tone carries a warning, but exhaustion or stupidity makes me push forward.

"She looks happy in the portrait. Like someone who laughed often."

"She did." The pen resumes its path across paper, each stroke deliberate. "Before."

"Before what?"

Now he does look up, and his eyes are black ice. "Before is all that matters now. The rest is just aftermath."

The dismissal is clear, but the way his fingers find his wedding ring again tells me more than words. He still wears it. Still touches it like a talisman against forgetting. The jealousy that crawls through my chest tastes bitter as burnt coffee.

"Your father visited today." The subject change is abrupt, intentional. "Had an interesting proposal."

My spine stiffens. "He's supposed to be keeping his head down."

"Men like Franco don't know how to keep their heads anywhere but up their own asses." The vulgarity surprises me—Salvatore rarely breaks his polished composure. "He wants to run gambling operations for us."

"Tell me you said no."

"I didn't say anything. Marco already approved it." His eyes remain on his ledger, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. "Behind my back, of course. Your father started yesterday."

The implications cascade through my mind like dominoes falling in slow motion. Franco with access to Caruso money. His inevitable skimming. Marco's petty rebellion costing more than his pride can afford.

"How much is he already stealing?"

Salvatore's mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, more like appreciation for a question well-asked. "Thirty percent off the top. Moving it through multiple accounts like we're too stupid to notice."

"What will you do?"

"That depends entirely on how much your father values his life versus his greed." He returns to his documents, conversation closed. "Dinner is at seven. Don't be late."

The hours until evening pass too quickly. I stand before my vanity, studying the yellow-green bruise that decorates my cheekbone like a badge of ownership. The concealer sits unopened on the counter. Let them see it. Let my parents look at what they purchased with their daughter's flesh.

This morning's memory still burns—Marco spitting his protest over breakfast about this new arrangement: "Your wife doesn't need a babysitter." Salvatore hadn't even looked up. "She needs employment. Unless you'd prefer she spend her days cataloging your afternoon activities?"

The bitter acceptance that followed wasn't peaceful, but it was final. And now I have these hours, these precious nine-to-five escapes where I can breathe without calculating the cost.

The dining room fills with the kind of tension that makes crystal sing.

"To new beginnings!" Franco raises his wine glass, already three drinks deep in celebration. "The Santoro name back in business where it belongs."

Mom sits beside him, but when her eyes find my bruise, she doesn't look away like usual. Her mouth opens, closes, opens again.

"Lucia," she says suddenly, her voice thin but present. "That mark on your face—"

"Is nothing," Marco cuts in smoothly, his hand finding my thigh under the table, fingers digging in warning. "My wife's just clumsy. Aren't you, sweetheart?"

"I wasn't talking to you." Mom's words surprise everyone, including herself. Her hands tremble, but she continues. "I was asking my daughter."

Franco's face flushes red. "Maria, don't start—"

"Don't start what? Caring?" Her voice gains strength, fed by wine and twenty-three years of accumulated silence. "We gave her to you people. The least you can do is not damage the merchandise."

"Mom." The word comes out strangled. Is she defending me or lamenting property damage?

Marco laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "The merchandise? That's what you're worried about? Not your daughter, but your investment?"

"That's not what I—"

"Save it." He stands, his chair scraping against marble. "Your daughter's fine. More than fine. She's exactly what we paid for."

He rounds the table to where I sit, grabs my chin, and forces his mouth onto mine. The kiss tastes like ownership and whiskey, his tongue pushing past my lips while his fingers dig into my jaw hard enough to leave new bruises over the old. I can't breathe, can't pull away, can't do anything but endure while my parents watch.

When he finally releases me, my mouth feels bruised, violated. "There. See? Perfectly fine merchandise."

Salvatore's knuckles are white around his wine glass, the stem creaking under pressure, but he says nothing. Just watches with eyes that promise retribution.

"I'm going out," Marco announces. "Don't wait up."

He's gone before anyone responds, leaving us in crystalline silence. Mom stares at her plate, her moment of courage already dissolving. Franco pours another drink. Salvatore sets down his glass with careful precision, each movement controlled violence.

"Excuse me," I manage, rising on unsteady legs. "I need air."

The garden offers escape from the mausoleum energy of the house. October has turned the roses brittle, their petals more brown than red, clinging to stems like hope to the hopeless. My breath clouds in the cooling air as I walk paths designed by some long-dead landscaper who never imagined they'd become a refuge for bought brides.

"Your father's already skimming."

I don't startle anymore when Salvatore appears—my body has learned to recognize his presence before my brain processes it. He stands beside me, hands in his pockets, studying the dying roses.

"Of course he is." My voice sounds tired even to me. "It's what he does."

We stand in silence that stretches like shadows at sunset. A crow calls from somewhere beyond the garden wall, harsh and mocking.

"What will happen to him?"

"That depends entirely on how much the old man values his life."

I turn to face him fully, and suddenly we're closer than geography should allow. The space between us carries its own mass, dense with unspoken everything. His eyes drop to my mouth—still swollen from Marco's assault—before he catches himself, stepping back with deliberate precision.

But I step forward, erasing the distance he tried to create.

"This is dangerous," his voice drops to that register that liquifies my spine.

"Everything in this house is dangerous," I counter, watching his jaw clench. "At least this danger is honest about what it is."

The air between us vibrates with possibility, with the terrible arithmetic of want versus consequence. His hand twitches at his side like he's fighting not to reach for me, and I hate how much I need him to lose that fight.

Instead, he turns and walks away without another word, leaving me alone with dying roses and the echo of almost.