Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 13

The black dress Marco chose for Salvatore's birthday celebration fits like a threat—plunging neckline, backless to the point of indecency, fabric so thin it might as well be smoke. His fingers had traced the exposed skin this morning, proprietary and cold.

"Perfect," he'd said, admiring his selection. "Let everyone see who you belong to."

The mansion transforms for the don's birthday—crystal chandeliers blazing, imported flowers perfuming the air with funeral sweetness, associates and their families dressed in their finest armor of silk and diamonds. They circle Salvatore like planets around a sun, offering tribute disguised as gifts, loyalty wrapped in birthday wishes.

Marco's already three sheets to the wind, his hand sliding down a server's back while she tries to balance her tray of champagne. She sidesteps gracefully, but his pursuit continues, relentless as death and just as unwanted. The other guests pretend not to notice, this choreographed blindness we all perfect in houses built on blood money.

"Tradition demands the don dances with family." One of the older associates, Torresi maybe, announces this like he's reading from scripture. "It brings luck for the coming year."

The music shifts to something slower, classical, the kind of piece that belongs in museums rather than crime family gatherings. Salvatore sets down his whiskey and crosses the room with that controlled grace that makes my pulse skip every time I witness it.

But he doesn't go to his elderly aunt Constanza, stationed by the piano like a guardian of proper etiquette. His hand extends toward me instead, palm up, an invitation and a challenge wrapped in one gesture.

"Lucia."

The room holds its breath. Associates exchange glances heavy with speculation. My mother, stationed near the dessert table like she's guarding the tiramisu, watches with eyes sharp as the knife she probably wishes she had.

I place my hand in his, and the contact sends electricity racing up my arm. He leads me to the impromptu dance floor, and suddenly we're the center of the universe, all eyes tracking our movement.

His hand finds my waist, proper and formal, but through the thin fabric I swear I feel his heartbeat syncing with mine. We move together with an ease that shouldn't exist, like our bodies have been having conversations our mouths can't voice.

"You look beautiful tonight," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

"Marco chose the dress." The words taste bitter as the champagne I've been avoiding. "He wanted everyone to see his property properly displayed."

His hand tightens on my waist, fingers pressing into silk like he's trying to leave marks that would overwrite my husband's. The muscle in his jaw clenches, and for a moment, his control slips enough that I glimpse the violence coiled beneath his three-piece suit.

"You're not property," he says, and the conviction in his voice makes me want to believe in fairy tales where father-in-laws rescue wives from their sons. "You're—"

But he stops himself, the sentence hanging unfinished between us like a bridge we're not brave enough to cross. The music swells, and he spins me, the movement putting distance between us that feels like continents.

When the song finally ends, he releases me with the kind of careful precision that speaks of extreme self-control. The applause sounds like judgment, and I can hear my mother's approach, her heels clicking against marble.

"A word, Lucia." Her fingers close around my elbow, surprisingly strong for someone who's perfected the art of weakness.

She doesn't wait for agreement, steering me toward the hallway with determination usually reserved for avoiding creditors.

"Darling, we need to talk about this... infatuation." She smooths her dress, adopting that maternal tone she dusts off for special occasions. "I understand. Salvatore is powerful, sophisticated, everything Marco isn't. But these feelings you're developing, the way you light up—"

"I don't know what you're talking about." The denial comes out defensive. "I work for him. That's all."

Her mouth tightens into that practiced line of disapproval I've memorized since childhood. "Don't insult my intelligence, sweetheart. I've been watching men and women dance around each other for longer than you've been alive. You need to push these feelings down. Lock them away before they destroy everything we've worked for."

"Everything we've worked for?" I laugh, but it's all broken glass and bitterness. "You mean everything you sacrificed me for?"

"A crush on your father-in-law isn't the solution to a difficult marriage, Lucia."

"You're seeing things that aren't there." My voice stays steady even as my pulse races.

She reaches for my hand, but I pull away. "You're young. It's natural to confuse professional respect with something else, but you must be sensible about this."

"Sensible. Of course. Like you were sensible when you let Dad gamble away my future?" My voice rises despite myself. "Maybe what you're seeing is just someone who finally has a purpose beyond being Marco's punching bag. But you wouldn't understand that, would you? You've been playing dead for so long, you've forgotten what having dignity looks like."

Her hand rises swift and sharp, stopping inches from my face. We both freeze, shocked by how close she's come to breaking her own rules about maintaining appearances.

I step back, my whole body trembling with adrenaline and disbelief. Without another word, I turn and walk away, heading for the basement door, needing darkness and distance from this museum of compromises.

The wine cellar breathes cool and ancient, bottles sleeping in their racks. My heels echo against stone older than most of the crime families represented upstairs. Down here, I can pretend I'm someone else—someone who wasn't bought and sold, someone who doesn't dream about her father-in-law's hands.

The champagne I finally accepted after Mother's confrontation makes me feel loose-limbed and reckless, three glasses on an empty stomach because eating required an appetite I lost somewhere between Marco's morning groping and this suffocating party.

Footsteps on the stairs destroy my solitude.

"You shouldn't be down here alone." Salvatore's voice emerges from the shadows before he does, controlled and careful.

"You shouldn't have followed me." I turn to face him, and the wine makes me brave enough to take a step closer. "But you did."

"Your mother's concerned. She asked me to check on you."

"Liar." The word slips out with a smile I can't quite control. "Maria would never send you after me. She thinks I have a crush on you."

He stays perfectly still as I move closer, my fingers trailing along the wine rack. "You've been drinking."

"Finally, yes. It seemed appropriate for a celebration." Another step toward him, and I watch his jaw tighten. "Are you going to lecture me about propriety, Don Caruso? About maintaining appropriate boundaries?"

"Lucia." My name comes out as a warning, but he doesn't step back when I close the distance between us.

"I like how you say my name," I confess, the champagne making honesty easy. "Like it's something dangerous in your mouth."

"You need to stop." But his eyes drop to my lips, betraying him.

"Stop what?" I reach up, my fingers grazing his tie, not quite touching him but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Stop working for you? Stop pretending this marriage to your son means anything? Stop thinking about you when he touches me?"

His hand catches my wrist, but his grip is gentle, trembling slightly. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I know exactly what I'm saying." I use my free hand to trace the edge of his collar, watching him fight himself. "I know you watch me during meetings. I know your hands shake when you hand me contracts. I know you can't stand it when Marco marks me up, not because of the violence, but because they're his marks, not yours."

"Lucia, please." The plea sounds torn from him, his control fraying at the edges.

"Please what?" I press closer, my body against his now, feeling him respond despite his words. "Please stop? Or please don't stop?"

He's backing me against the wall before I finish the question, his hands braced on either side of my head, not quite touching but caging me in. His breathing comes harder now, chest rising and falling as he fights a war with himself.

"This is wrong," he says, but he's leaning down, his forehead almost touching mine.

"Everything about my life is wrong." My hands find his chest, feeling his heart race under expensive fabric. "This is the only thing that feels right."

"You're drunk. You're my son's wife. You're—"

"I'm yours," I breathe against his mouth. "We both know it. Have known it since that night in the drugstore when you bled all over my floor."

That breaks him. His mouth crashes against mine, and I pull him closer, fingers tangling in his hair, finally, finally getting what my body has been screaming for since I first saw him.

His mouth moves against mine like he's trying to consume me or save me—maybe both. My hands find his shirt buttons, working them free with fingers that shake from want. His hands slide down my back, finding all that exposed skin Marco insisted on displaying.

He lifts me against the wall, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, and the sound that escapes him reverberates through my bones. His mouth finds my throat, and I arch into him, every nerve ending singing hymns to proximity we can't sustain.

Voices carry down the stairs—loud, getting closer, multiple people debating something about wine selection.

We separate like we've been electrocuted, breathing hard enough to fog the cellar air. His hands shake as he straightens his tie, refastening buttons while I smooth my dress and try to resurrect my lipstick from whatever grave our kiss buried it in.

By the time the voices materialize into bodies—three of his associates seeking some vintage for a toast—we're standing at separate ends of the cellar, studying bottles like they contain the meaning of life.