Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 12

"Fifty thousand dollars in one night—are you actively trying to get yourself killed, or is this just spectacular stupidity?"

Salvatore's voice carries the kind of calm that precedes executions, each word measured and lethal. We're gathered in his study like defendants awaiting sentencing—my parents on one leather sofa, Marco pacing behind them like a caged predator, and me standing because sitting feels too much like surrender.

Dad sits with his shoulders hunched, trying to shrink himself into the expensive upholstery. The confidence he wore while running the gambling operations has evaporated, leaving behind a man who looks every one of his fifty-three years plus interest.

"It was a sure thing, Don Caruso. The game was rigged in our favor, but someone must have—"

"Someone must have noticed you betting house money on your own rigged games." Salvatore doesn't raise his voice, but Dad flinches like he's been struck. "Did you think we wouldn't notice fifty thousand walking out the door? Did you think I'm running a charity for degenerate gamblers with delusions of competence?"

Marco stops pacing long enough to slam his fist on the desk. "This is beyond embarrassing, it's fucking insulting. We bring them into the business, give them a second chance, and this is how they repay us?"

"Language, Marco." Salvatore's rebuke is mild, automatic, but his eyes never leave my father's face. "Though your point stands. The debt must be paid, Franco. Tonight."

"I don't have it." Dad's voice cracks on the admission, and I watch my mother's hand find his, squeezing tight enough to whiten her knuckles. "The money's gone. I can work it off, run more games, make it back—"

"The way you made back the last debt? And the one before that?" Salvatore leans back in his chair, fingers steepled like he's contemplating which circle of hell to assign us to. "Your credit has been exhausted, along with my patience."

The silence that follows feels thick enough to drown in. My pulse hammers in my throat as I watch Salvatore's face, trying to read the verdict before he delivers it.

"Lucia will work off the debt." His pronouncement lands like a judge's gavel. "Not just as my assistant, but as my full-time aide. She'll travel with me, manage my business affairs, handle correspondence that requires discretion. She'll be compensated at the standard rate for such positions, with the salary going directly toward the fifty thousand."

"Absolutely not." Marco's objection explodes before I can even process what's being offered. "Working in your study during business hours is one thing, but this—traveling with you, being at your beck and call day and night? I cannot allow that."

Salvatore's gaze shifts to his son, and the temperature drops ten degrees. "Would you prefer the traditional resolution to this level of theft? Your father-in-law's hands removed at the wrists? Or perhaps something more creative—I hear Franco's quite attached to his tongue."

My mother makes a sound like a wounded animal, her free hand flying to her mouth. Dad's face drains of what little color remained, leaving him gray as old newspaper.

"This is mercy, Marco." Salvatore continues in that same deadly calm tone. "Lucia works, the debt gets paid, and Franco keeps all his appendages. Unless you have a better solution? Perhaps you'd like to cover the fifty thousand yourself?"

The challenge hangs in the air like a noose. Marco's jaw works, but we all know he doesn't have that kind of money without his father's approval. His funds are carefully controlled, an allowance for a man-child who never grew past needing daddy's permission.

"This arrangement means she'll barely be home," Marco tries a different angle, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "She'll be traveling, working late hours, unavailable for her duties as my wife—"

"What duties?" Salvatore's question cuts like a blade. "The ones where you come home drunk at dawn? Or perhaps the duties that leave bruises on her face that she has to hide with makeup?"

The accusation lands like a physical blow. Marco's face flushes dark red, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"How long?" I ask, my voice steadier than I expected. "How long would this arrangement last?"

Salvatore's eyes find mine, and there's an intensity there that makes my stomach flip. "At the compensation rate for a senior aide, factoring in interest and penalties—eighteen months. Perhaps less if you prove particularly valuable."

Eighteen months of daily proximity to him. Eighteen months of legitimate reasons to be away from Marco. The trap is so obvious I can see its teeth gleaming, but I step toward it anyway because even a beautiful cage beats the ugly one I'm already in.

"I'll do it."

"Lucia, no," Mom finally speaks, her voice thin but present. "This isn't right. You shouldn't have to pay for your father's mistakes—"

"The way I paid for them with this marriage?" The words escape before I can stop them, bitter as burnt coffee. "At least this time I'm getting compensated."

Dad won't meet my eyes, studying his hands like they hold absolution in the lines of his palms. Marco crosses to me in three quick strides, his hand closing around my upper arm hard enough to leave marks.

"We're leaving. This discussion is over."

"The discussion ends when I say it ends." Salvatore's voice drops to that register that makes grown men reconsider their life choices. "Release your wife, Marco. Now."

The two men lock eyes across the study, son versus father, rebellion versus authority. Marco's grip tightens for one defiant moment before he shoves me away, the force making me stumble.

"This isn't over," Marco spits, but he's already backing toward the door. "Lucia, upstairs. Now."

I follow because the alternative is escalating this situation beyond salvage. Behind us, I hear Salvatore addressing my parents in that same lethal calm.

"Franco, you'll report to my accountant tomorrow to sign the papers. Any deviation from this agreement, any attempt to interfere or profit further, and I'll revisit the traditional solutions. Are we clear?"

"Crystal clear, Don Caruso," Dad's voice barely carries.

Marco doesn't speak during the walk to our bedroom, but his silence feels like a scream building pressure. The moment our door closes, his hands are on me, shoving me against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

"You think you're clever?" His mouth crashes against mine, all teeth and possession. "Think you've found a way around me?"

His hands tear at my dress, buttons scattering across the floor like small surrenders. There's nothing gentle in his touch—this is about marking territory before the borders shift. He bites my neck hard enough to bruise, his hands gripping my hips with punishing force.

"You're still my wife," he growls against my throat, his belt buckle jangling as he fumbles with it. "That doesn't change just because you'll be playing secretary."

He spins me around, pressing my face against the wall, but at this angle I can see his dresser mirror, and in its reflection—a silver frame, partially hidden behind his watch collection. Joana's photograph, young and radiant, her laugh captured mid-moment.

Marco's hands roam possessively while I stare at her image, and for the first time, I understand with searing clarity what I actually want. Not just to endure this, not just to survive until the next day—I want to be looked at the way someone once looked at her.

I want gentle hands that worship rather than claim, touches that explore rather than conquer. I want to be the photograph someone holds while they cry, the memory that makes strong men break, the ghost that haunts every corner of someone's world.

The realization hits harder than Marco's grip on my hips.

All this time I've been focused on endurance, on making it through each day intact, but Joana's laughing face shows me the poverty of that ambition. She was loved with the kind of devotion that survives death itself, and here I am, a living woman being handled like luggage that needs to be marked before shipping.

When he finally finishes, collapsing on the bed with the satisfaction of a man who thinks he's won a battle, I remain against the wall studying her photograph in the mirror. My dress is ruined, fresh bruises layering over fading ones, but my mind has shifted into dangerous territory.

Even Marco keeps her memory alive, this woman who achieved what I'm only now realizing I desperately want.