Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 2

I burst through the open door, my lungs still burning from the sprint.

"Dad!" My voice echoes through the dark house.

The kitchen chair sits crooked beneath the open cabinet, and I don't need to climb up to know what I'll find. But I drag myself up anyway, fingers searching behind the flour container, behind the sugar, behind every damn thing I used to hide money from him.

Empty. All of it empty.

"Lucia, is that you?" Mom's voice floats from the living room, that particular tone that pretends everything is normal when nothing has been normal for years.

"Yeah, Mom. Just need to grab something from my room."

I take the stairs two at a time, my body moving on pure adrenaline now. There's still the bedroom stash—three thousand dollars hidden in a hollowed-out book. Money he doesn't know about. Money that could—

My bedroom door is ajar when it should be locked.

The air inside feels disturbed, wrong. My bookshelf stands against the far wall, and I go straight for the third shelf from the bottom. The water-damaged copy of The Fault in Our Stars that I hollowed out myself, that I never told anyone about.

I pull it free. The cavity gapes empty as a scream.

My knees hit the floor before I realize I'm falling. My fingers scrape the hollow space like I can conjure money from wanting it badly enough.

Nothing. Not even dust.

No. No, no, no.

I tear through the other books, hardcovers hitting the floor. Maybe I moved it. Maybe I forgot. Maybe I'm having a breakdown and the money will materialize if I just—

"Lucia?" Mom appears in my doorway, her face wearing that careful blankness she's perfected. "What are you doing?"

I hold up the gutted book, my hands shaking hard enough to make the pages flutter. "Where is it?"

"Where's what, sweetheart?" But her eyes slide away, finding the wall suddenly fascinating.

"Don't." My voice comes out raw, scraped. "Just don't. Where's Dad?"

"He's in the living room. Lucia, you're scaring me."

I push past her, taking the stairs two at a time. The living room reeks of his cologne, the expensive stuff he still buys while I eat ramen five nights a week. He's sitting in his chair counting something in his lap.

My money.

He's counting my money.

"That's mine." The words fall out flat, matter-of-fact, like stating the weather.

He looks up, his face shifting through surprise, annoyance, and finally settling on that particular brand of indignation he wears when caught.

"Lucia, this is family money. We all make sacrifices."

"Family money?" A laugh bubbles up, bitter as bile. "I worked fourteen-hour shifts for that money, Dad."

"Don't be dramatic." He stands, tucking the bills into his jacket. "I know what I'm doing. There's a game tonight—high stakes, real players. I can triple this in three hours."

"You can't triple anything. You only know how to lose."

His face flushes red, that particular shade that used to scare me when I was young enough to think fathers protected their daughters.

"How dare you speak to me that way? I'm still your father. This roof over your head, the food you eat—"

"The roof I pay rent for. The food I buy." Each word drops like evidence in a case he's already lost. "When did you last contribute anything besides debt, Dad?"

Mom hovers in the doorway, wringing her hands like she can squeeze peace from her fingers.

"Franco, maybe we should discuss this. Lucia works so hard…"

"Shut up, Maria." He doesn't even look at her. His eyes stay locked on mine, and I see it there—the moment he decides to stop pretending he's anything other than what he is. "I need this money to fix our situation while you're just prolonging the inevitable."

"The inevitable being what? You losing everything again?"

"The inevitable being me making one smart play that sets us back where we belong." He buttons his jacket, my fourteen months of sacrifice now padding his pockets. "The Santoros don't serve. We rule."

"We no longer rule anything, Dad. Can't you just accept it and move on?"

"I haven't had the right stake. Tonight's different. Salvatore's men run this game—clean, honest odds. No one's cheating Franco Santoro tonight."

And just like that, he ignores me completely.

"Salvatore?" The name drops like a stone in my stomach. "You're gambling with Salvatore Caruso's people?"

Everyone knows that name.

Salvatore Caruso—the man who owns this town now, who stepped into the vacuum my father created and made himself king. The man whose crew doesn't give second chances, whose definition of payment plans involves hospital visits and missing fingers.

"Dad, you can't gamble with them. You know what they do to losers who can't pay."

"I'm not going to lose." He moves toward the door, and I grab his arm.

"Please. Please don't do this. That money is all we have."

He looks down at my hand on his sleeve, then up at my face. For just a moment, I see a flicker of the father he might have been in a different life. Then it's gone, replaced by the gambler who's always one bet away from glory.

"I'm doing this for us, Lucia. You'll thank me tomorrow."

He pulls free and walks to the door. Mom steps aside to let him pass, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"If you leave with that money, don't come back without it." My voice sounds strange, older, like someone who should have been my mother.

He pauses at the door, his back to me. "I always come back, baby girl."

"And that's our problem."

The door closes with a soft click. I stand in the living room, staring at his empty chair, while Mom makes small noises about starting dinner as if we haven't just watched him gamble our last chance at survival.

My phone buzzes. Enzo, asking if I can open tomorrow. I text back ‘yes’ because what else do I have?

I sink onto the couch, my body finally registering fourteen hours on my feet, and I know that he's not coming back with more money.

He's coming back with more debt.