15. Luca
15
LUCA
T he sharp ring of my phone cuts through the droning voice of my accountant. I glance at the caller ID and feel my stomach drop. Bellevue Psychiatric Hospital.
My mother.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, stepping out of the conference room. “I need to take this.”
The nurse on the other end of the line speaks in a calm, practiced tone, but her words send a chill through me. Another suicide attempt. Last night. She’s stable now, but…
I’m in my car before I even realize I’ve left the building, barking orders at Marco to reschedule my meetings. The familiar route to the hospital blurs past my window, my mind a whirlwind of worry and frustration.
The pristine white walls of Bellevue loom before me, a stark contrast to the turmoil I feel inside. I’ve walked these halls more times than I care to count, each visit a reminder of everything I’ve lost, everything that was taken from us.
The antiseptic smell hits me as soon as I step inside, making my nose wrinkle. It’s a smell I’ve come to associate with despair, with the broken pieces of my family that I can never seem to put back together.
Dr. Jones meets me at the nurse’s station, her face a mask of professional concern. “Mr. Strambo,” she greets me, her voice low. “Your mother is in her room. She’s… she’s having one of her difficult days.”
I nod, steeling myself for what's to come. “What happened?”
Dr. Jones sighs, her clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield. “She managed to hoard some of her medication. Thankfully, one of the night nurses caught it in time, but… it was close, Mr. Strambo. Too close.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I clench my fists, fighting to maintain my composure. “I want to see her.”
The walk to my mother’s room feels like a march to the gallows. Each step is heavy, laden with the weight of guilt and responsibility that I carry. I’m all she has left, and yet… I can’t seem to be enough.
I pause outside her door, taking a deep breath to center myself. Then, with a nod to the nurse, I step inside.
The scent of lavender hits me as I step into the room—a fragrance I’ve always associated with my mother. Even here, in this sterile environment, she’s managed to bring a piece of home with her. It’s a small detail, but it brings a lump to my throat.
The room is bathed in soft, natural light from the large window, but it does little to brighten the scene before me. My mother sits in a chair by the window, her once-vibrant auburn hair now streaked with grey, hanging limp around her gaunt face. Her eyes, once so full of life and love, are vacant, staring unseeing at the manicured grounds outside.
“Mom?” I say softly, approaching her with caution. “It’s me, Luca. I’m here.”
She turns slowly, her gaze focusing on me with effort. For a moment, I see a flicker of recognition, of the woman she used to be. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
I kneel before her, taking her frail hands in mine. They feel so small, so fragile. When did she become so breakable?
I remember these hands differently—strong, capable, always busy. Hands that could knead dough for hours, turning simple ingredients into mouthwatering focaccia that filled our home with warmth and the promise of comfort. Hands that would brush away my tears after a fall, that would ruffle my hair affectionately as she passed by.
“Do you remember, Mom?” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “The summer picnics we used to have? You’d spend all morning in the kitchen, preparing enough food to feed an army. And then we’d go to that little clearing in the woods behind our house.”
For a moment, I see a spark in her eyes. “Picnics,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s right,” I encourage, squeezing her hands gently. “You’d spread out that red- and white-checkered blanket. Dad would bring his guitar, and we’d sing together after we ate. Remember how you always said my voice could scare away the birds?”
A ghost of a smile flits across her face. “My little tone-deaf sparrow,” she says, and for a second, just a second, I see my mother as she used to be—vibrant, full of life and love.
The memory of those days washes over me. The sound of laughter echoing through the trees. The feel of the warm sun on my skin. The taste of my mother’s homemade lemonade, tart and sweet on my tongue.
And always, always, the sense of safety and love that enveloped our family like a protective bubble.
“Why?” I ask, unable to keep the pain from my voice. “Why did you try to… to leave me again?”
Her lips tremble, tears welling in her eyes. “They took everything ,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “The Sicuras… they took our home, our family. They took your father from me. What’s left? What’s worth staying for?”
I fight back my own tears, remembering the woman she used to be. The mother who would stay up all night when I was sick, cooling my forehead with a damp cloth and singing soft lullabies. The woman who taught me to read, patiently guiding my finger along the lines of text, her eyes lighting up with pride at each word I mastered.
“ I’m still here, Mom,” I say, fighting back my own tears. “I’m fighting for us, for what they took. I’m getting our revenge. Please… please don't give up. I need you.”
For a moment, I see a flicker of the mother I knew—strong, resilient, filled with an unbreakable love for her family. Her hand reaches out, trembling, to touch my face. “My Luca,” she murmurs, her eyes clearing briefly. “My brave boy.”
I lean into her touch, a sob catching in my throat. “That’s right, Mom. It’s me. I’m here.”
But even as I speak, I can see her slipping away again. Her eyes cloud over, fear replacing the brief moment of clarity. “No,” she says, shaking her head vigorously. “No, you’re not my Luca. My Luca is a little boy. You’re… you’re an impostor, trying to trick me!”
Her voice rises, becoming shrill. She tries to pull her hands from mine, but I hold on, my heart breaking. “Mom, please,” I beg. “It’s me. I’ve grown up, but it’s still me. Your son. Remember the lullaby you used to sing to me? ‘ Ninna nanna, ninna oh, questo bimbo a chi lo do ?’”
For a second, I think I've reached her. Her struggles cease, and she looks at me with a mix of confusion and hope. But then the moment passes, and she’s screaming again.
“No!” she shrieks, yanking her hands free. “Get out! You’re not my Luca! Get out!”
The nurses rush in, alerted by her cries. As they move to calm her, one of them gently but firmly guides me out of the room. The last thing I see before the door closes is my mother, curled in on herself, sobbing like a lost child.
I stumble down the hallway, barely making it to a quiet corner before my composure crumbles. Tears burn in my eyes, my breath coming in harsh gasps. The pain in my chest is almost physical, a gaping wound that never seems to heal.
This is what the Sicuras have done to us. This broken woman, this shell of the vibrant, loving mother I once knew—this is their doing. They took my father’s life, and with it, they might as well have taken my mother’s too.
I remember the day it all fell apart. Seeing my father’s body lying broken on the pavement. My mother’s anguished screams when she was told of my father’s death.
She tried so hard to be strong for me. Even as our world crumbled around us, as the Sicuras swooped in to claim everything my parents had worked for, she fought to give me some semblance of normalcy. But the light in her eyes dimmed more each day until finally, it went out completely.
The first time she tried to take her own life, I was fifteen. I found her in the bathroom, an empty pill bottle by her side. I remember the panic, the feeling of utter helplessness as I called for an ambulance. The long nights in the hospital, praying to a God I wasn’t sure I believed in anymore, begging for her to be okay.
She recovered, physically, at least. But something in her had broken beyond repair. The mother I knew—the one who sang me to sleep, who could chase away my fears with a hug and a smile—she was gone.
In her place was this fragile, haunted woman who looked at me with vacant eyes, as if she couldn’t quite remember who I was.
And now, years later, nothing has changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse. The woman in that room, the one who screamed at me to leave—she’s a stranger wearing my mother’s face.
And yet, I can’t let her go. I can’t give up on her, no matter how much it hurts to see her like this.
As the initial wave of grief subsides, a familiar anger begins to burn in my gut. It spreads through me like wildfire, consuming everything in its path. My hands clench into fists so tight that my nails dig into my palms, drawing blood. But I barely notice the pain.
All I can feel is rage, pure, unadulterated fury that threatens to overwhelm me.
I think of my father, gunned down trying to protect the Sicuras. I think of my mother, reduced to this shell of herself. I think of everything we built, taken from us in one fell swoop.
And for what? Because my father was apparently expendable? Because his life didn’t mean as much as Don Sicura’s?
The injustice of it all hits me anew, and I have to bite back a roar of anger. My whole body trembles with the effort of containing the rage that threatens to explode out of me.
I want to destroy something. I want to feel bones crunch under my fists, hear screams of pain that might drown out the echoes of my mother’s cries.
I want to burn the whole fucking world down and watch the Sicuras burn with it.
My vision blurs, tinted red with fury. In my mind’s eye, I see Dominico Sicura’s smug face. I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat, squeezing until the light fades from his eyes. I want him to feel the helplessness, the despair that has been my constant companion for years.
But it’s not enough. Killing Dom would be too quick, too merciful.
No, I want him to suffer.
I want him to watch as I dismantle everything he holds dear, piece by agonizing piece.
I think of Mia, safely ensconced in my home.
Sweet, innocent Mia, who has no idea of the storm that’s about to break over her family. For a moment, I feel a twinge of… something. Regret? Guilt? But I push it aside ruthlessly. She’s a means to an end, nothing more.
My steps are measured and controlled as I walk out of the hospital. But inside, I’m a hurricane of rage and pain. The need for vengeance burns through my veins like acid, consuming every other thought.
I get into my car, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The engine roars to life, a pale echo of the fury raging inside me. As I pull out of the parking lot, my mind is already racing with plans.
Making Mia my wife, claiming a Marino sister—it's not enough . Not nearly enough to pay for what they’ve done to my family.
Dom Sicura needs to feel this pain, needs to understand the depth of what he and his family have taken from me.
I need to make him see, to force him to confront the consequences of his family’s actions. I want to watch as his perfect little world crumbles around him, as he loses everything he holds dear, just as I have.
The drive back to my estate is a blur. My mind is consumed with visions of revenge, each scenario more brutal than the last. By the time I pull up to my home, a cold calm has settled over me. The rage still burns, but it’s focused now, honed to a razor-sharp edge.
As I step out of the car, I catch sight of Mia through a window. She’s in the library, curled up in a chair with a book. For a moment, I’m struck by how young she looks, how innocent. But then I remember my mother’s vacant eyes, my father’s blood-soaked body, and my resolve hardens.
Mia Marino-Strambo is no longer just my wife. She’s a weapon, the key to destroying Dom Sicura and everything he holds dear.
And I intend to use her to her full potential.