Like Father, Like Son

Chapter 4

The Caruso mansion rises from manicured grounds like a monument to new money trying to buy old respectability.

And here I am, the purchase price.

The car ride lasted twenty minutes but aged me twenty years. Dad sat rigid in the front seat, rehearsing his gratitude. Mom clutched her purse like it held the last shreds of her dignity.

I watched the town transform from familiar poverty to unfamiliar wealth, each mile marking the distance between who I was this morning and who I'll be by tonight.

"Remember to smile, Lucia." Dad's eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. "First impressions—"

"Matter. Yes, you mentioned that."

My dress feels too tight, borrowed from Mom's closet because we couldn't afford new. Navy blue, conservative, the kind of outfit that screams ‘respectable girl from good family’.

Only if you ignore the frayed hem I tried to hide with nail polish, of course.

The iron gates part like jaws, and we're swallowed into a circular driveway where marble fountains spray money into the air. A servant in an actual uniform opens our door.

The house looms above, all limestone and arrogance, windows glowing gold against the dying light.

"Mr. and Mrs. Santoro, Miss Lucia." The servant's voice carries practiced deference. "Please follow me."

We trail him through a foyer that belongs in a museum into a formal dining room where a table for twelve holds settings for five. Crystal catches light from a chandelier that probably weighs more than me.

"The family will join you shortly." The servant evaporates, leaving us to marinate in our discomfort.

Mom runs her finger along the table's edge. "The wood is imported. Italian walnut."

"How wonderful." My voice comes out flat. "I am being sold to people with excellent taste in furniture."

"Lucia…" Dad starts, but footsteps interrupt.

A man enters like he's doing us a favor by existing.

Mid-twenties probably, magazine-handsome in that aggressive way that announces itself, with dark hair slicked back and no humility in sight. His suit probably costs more than I make in a year, and his expression says he knows it.

"The Santoros." He doesn't extend his hand. His eyes move over my parents like they're furniture, then settle on me with the weight of ownership. "And the bride."

This must be Marco, then—my future husband appraising his purchase.

"Mr. Caruso." Dad practically genuflects. "We're honored…"

"I'm sure you are." Marco cuts him off, already bored. He takes the chair beside mine, close enough that his cologne fills my lungs. "Leave us."

"I'm sorry?" Mom's voice wavers.

"I said leave. I want to inspect what I'm buying."

He doesn't look at them, just at me, and his gaze feels like hands.

Dad stands immediately, pulling Mom with him. "Of course. We'll just… We'll be in the foyer."

They flee like kicked dogs, and I'm alone with this man who's supposed to become my husband. The door clicks shut with the finality of a cell door.

"Stand up." His first words to me alone are an order.

I remain seated. "No."

His eyebrow arches, the first crack in his boredom.

"You're already being difficult? How tedious." He stands instead, moving behind my chair. His fingers trail across my shoulders, and my skin crawls in revolt. "Nice neck. Good bones."

His hand slides down, and before I can process the violation, he's cupping my breast through the dress, weighing it like produce at a market. The shock paralyzes me for exactly two seconds before rage unsticks my voice.

"Get your hand off me."

"Shh." His other hand grips my shoulder, holding me in the chair when I try to stand. "I need to know what I'm getting. Surely you understand that."

His hand leaves my breast only to slide lower, trying to push between my legs. I clamp my thighs together and grab his wrist hard enough to feel bone.

"I said no."

"You said no?" He laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "You don't get to say no anymore. Your father sold that right along with the rest of you."

But when the door opens, Marco jerks back so fast he nearly trips and his entire demeanor shifting from predator to prey in the space of a heartbeat.

I twist in my chair to see his father, Salvatore Caruso, for the first time. The charcoal suit fits him like armor, silver threading through dark hair that's slicked back from a face carved from Roman stone.

Then he steps fully into the light, and my blood turns to ice water in my veins.

It's him.

The stranger from the drugstore.

"Father." Marco's voice comes out smaller, younger.

He returns to his seat with the careful movements of someone who's learned not to provoke the lion.

"Marco." Salvatore's tone carries no warmth, just acknowledgment.

His gaze moves to me, and my chest does this weird tight-hot thing I don't have a name for. Recognition flickers there—quick, contained, filed away.

He takes the head of the table with unhurried grace, and I catch myself watching the way he moves, which is absolutely not what I should be doing right now.

"Miss Santoro, welcome."

"Thank you for having me, Mr. Caruso."

I manage to keep my voice steady despite whatever is happening to my body. Part leftover adrenaline from Marco's assault, part this new electricity that started when Salvatore walked in.

"Your parents have explained our arrangement?" He poses it as a question, but he already knows the answer.

When he looks at me, my skin prickles like static before a storm, and I don't understand why my body is betraying me like this. "They've explained their version of it."

His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, and I stare at it for a beat too long before catching myself. "And you find their version lacking?"

"I find their version focuses heavily on their benefits."

"Most arrangements do." He settles back, those dark eyes never leaving mine, and there's this pull in my lower stomach that I've never felt before—like hunger but not for food, like fear but warmer. "The question is whether you object to this particular arrangement."

The room holds its breath. Marco shifts beside me, and my body recoils from him instinctively while simultaneously leaning toward his father in a way that makes no sense.

Through the doorway, I glimpse my father hovering, his face pale with anxiety.

Do you object?

The question hangs there, deceptively simple.

I could say yes. I could stand up, walk out, refuse to be currency in my father's debts. And then what? Salvatore Caruso doesn't forgive debts. He collects them, with interest measured in blood and bones.

The thought terrifies me, but there's this other feeling twisted up with the fear.

I look at my father, this broken man who broke us all with him, his eyes pleading for salvation he doesn't deserve. I think of Mom, trapped in her careful silence.

I think of the stories whispered about what happens to families who cross the Carusos.

"I don't object."

Salvatore nods once, decision rendered and witnessed.

"Good. Family loyalty is admirable. It's a principle too few understand anymore." His gaze shifts to Marco, and the temperature drops ten degrees. "Too few indeed."

Marco stares at his hands, suddenly fascinated by his manicure.

The man who just groped me like livestock now shrinks under his father's attention and the contrast makes my brain short-circuit.

Marco grabbed and I wanted to vomit, but when Salvatore just exists in the same room, my whole body lights up like a struck match.

What is wrong with me?

"The wedding will be next month." Salvatore stands, and I track the movement without meaning to. "The lawyers will handle the details. Marco, we have business to discuss."

He moves toward the door, pausing just long enough to look back at me.

Those eyes hold mine for three seconds that feel like three hours, and the way his gaze lingers, calculating and knowing—it makes my stomach flip in a way that's entirely new, entirely confusing.

My body runs hot and cold simultaneously, like I have a fever, like I'm sick, except being sick never made me feel this aware of my own skin.

The door closes behind him, and I'm left with a question that I know will haunt me forever.

Did he already know who I was that night?