25. Luca
25
LUCA
T he silence in the room is deafening. Mia sits on the edge of the bed, her back to me, shoulders hunched. The tension radiating off her is palpable, a stark contrast to the absolutely incredible sex we just had. The high I felt from multiple orgasms is rapidly fading, replaced by a growing sense of unease.
“Mia?” I venture, my voice uncharacteristically hesitant. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t turn around, but I see her shoulders stiffen. For a long moment, she’s silent, and I wonder if she’s going to answer at all. Then, so quietly I almost miss it, she speaks.
“I’ve lost my family.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. I open my mouth to protest, to tell her she’s being dramatic, but something stops me.
Maybe it’s the defeated slump of her shoulders or the raw pain in her voice. Whatever it is, it makes me pause and really consider her words.
“What do you mean?” I ask, moving to sit beside her on the bed. I reach out to touch her, but she flinches away, and I let my hand drop.
Mia turns to look at me then, and the anguish in her eyes takes my breath away. “I mean exactly what I said, Luca. I’ve lost my family. And for what? Because you hate Dom so much that I can’t even speak to my sisters when we happen to cross paths at a restaurant? Because you and Dom were so ready to fight that I couldn’t even have a moment with them?”
Her words sting, but it’s the truth behind them that really hurts. I think back to the scene at the restaurant, to the satisfaction I felt at Dom’s anger, at Sofia’s distress.
I hadn’t spared a thought for how it might affect Mia.
“And the worst part,” Mia continues, her voice rising, “is that you won’t even tell me why. Why do you hate Dom so much? What could he have possibly done to justify all this?”
I open my mouth to defend myself, to explain, but the words stick in my throat. How can I explain years of pain, of resentment, in a way that she’ll understand?
How can I make her see that this isn’t just about Dom but about everything the Sicuras represent?
But as I look at Mia, at the hurt and confusion in her eyes, I realize that I owe her an explanation. More than that, I want to give her one.
For the first time in years, I want to let someone in.
Taking a deep breath, I reach for her again. This time, she doesn’t pull away as I gather her into my arms. “I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m so sorry, Mia. I never meant to hurt you.”
She stiffens in my embrace for a moment, then slowly relaxes. “Then tell me,” she whispers. “Help me understand.”
I close my eyes, steeling myself. The story I’m about to tell is one I’ve never shared with anyone. It’s a wound I've kept hidden, festering beneath the surface.
But maybe, just maybe, exposing it to the light will help it heal.
“It’s a long story,” I warn her. “And it’s not a pretty one.”
Mia pulls back slightly, meeting my gaze. “I’m listening,” she says simply.
As I begin to speak, the memories I've kept locked away for so long come flooding back. Each word feels like it's being torn from my chest, raw and painful.
“My father was Don Sicura’s right-hand man,” I start, my voice low and strained. “He wasn’t just an employee. He was a friend, a confidant. We lived on the Sicura estate, and I grew up alongside Dom and his sister, Valentina.”
I close my eyes, remembering those carefree days. The laughter echoing through the gardens, the smell of the Sicura cook’s famous lasagna wafting from the kitchen.
It all seems like a dream now, a faded photograph of a life that no longer exists.
“We were happy,” I continue, my voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… I thought we were family.”
Mia’s hand tightens around mine, grounding me in the present. I take a deep breath and push on.
“It was a warm summer day when it happened. I remember because Dom and I had been planning to go swimming. I was waiting for him in the courtyard when I heard the gunshots.”
The memory hits me like a physical blow. I can still hear the sharp crack of gunfire, smell the acrid scent of gunpowder in the air. My heart races, and I have to remind myself to breathe.
“There was an attack on the estate. A rival family, trying to take out Don Sicura. My father… he didn’t hesitate. He threw himself in front of Don Sicura, took the bullet meant for him.”
I pause, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. Mia’s arm slips around my waist, offering silent support.
“I ran toward the sound. I shouldn’t have, but I did. And I saw… I saw my father lying there, blood pooling beneath him. Don Sicura was kneeling beside him, pressing his hands against the wound, but I knew. I knew it was too late.”
The image is seared into my brain. My father’s face, pale and drawn with pain. The bright red of his blood against the white gravel of the driveway. Don Sicura’s anguished expression as he realized his friend was dying.
“My father's last words were to Don Sicura. ‘Take care of them,’ he said. ‘Promise me.’ And Don Sicura promised. He swore on his life that he would look after us.”
I laugh bitterly, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “Promises are easy to make when a man is dying. Keeping them… that’s another matter entirely.”
Mia shifts beside me, and I can feel her eyes on my face. But I can’t look at her.
Not yet.
If I do, I might lose my nerve.
“At first, it seemed like Don Sicura would keep his word. The funeral was lavish, a hero’s send-off. He gave a beautiful speech about loyalty and sacrifice. My mother and I were treated with sympathy, with respect.”
I remember the funeral in vivid detail. The sea of black-clad mourners, the mountain of flowers. Dom standing beside me, his hand on my shoulder in a gesture of support. I had been grateful for his presence then, had clung to our friendship like a lifeline.
“But then… then things changed. Slowly at first, so slowly I almost didn’t notice. But looking back, I can see it clearly.”
I stand up abruptly and pull on a pair of boxers, needing to move. I pace the length of the room, feeling Mia’s gaze follow me.
“It started with little things. Invitations to family dinners that used to be automatic suddenly stopped coming. Dom and Valentina, whom I’d thought of as siblings, began to treat me differently. There was a distance there, a hesitation that hadn’t existed before.”
I remember one incident in particular, the memory so sharp it makes me wince. “About a month after the funeral, I ran into Dom in the garden. I was excited to see him—we hadn’t spent much time together since… since it happened. I started talking about some new video game, the way we always used to. But Dom… he just looked at me with this expression I couldn’t quite place. Pity, maybe? Or discomfort? He made some excuse and left, and I was left standing there, feeling like an outsider in the place I’d always called home.”
Mia makes a soft sound of sympathy, but I barely hear it. I’m lost in the past now, the words pouring out of me like a dam has broken.
“And then there was Don Sicura. The man I’d looked up to like a second father… he could barely look at me. When he did, it was with this mix of guilt and… and something else. Like I was a living reminder of his failure, of the friend he couldn’t save.”
I turn back to Mia, and the compassion in her eyes nearly undoes me. But I force myself to continue. She needs to understand.
I need her to understand.
“About six months after my father died, Don Sicura called my mother into his study. He told her he was selling our house—the house I’d grown up in, the house filled with memories of my father. He said it was for our own good, that we’d be more comfortable in a smaller place away from the constant reminders of our loss.”
The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. “He was kicking us out, Mia. Nicely, politely, but kicking us out all the same. And my mother… God, my mother just nodded and thanked him. Like he was doing us a favor.”
I sink back onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. “We moved to a small apartment in the city. It was nice enough, I suppose, but it wasn’t home. And that’s when I started to see the truth. We weren’t family to the Sicuras. We were an obligation, a duty to be fulfilled and then discarded.”
Mia’s hand finds mine again, her touch a lifeline in the storm of my memories. “What happened then?” she asks softly.
I take a shuddering breath. “My mother… she couldn’t handle it. The grief, the loss of status, the betrayal… it was too much for her. She started drinking, started having these… episodes. She’d cry for hours, or she’d sit and stare at nothing, completely unresponsive.”
The memories of those dark days threaten to overwhelm me. The sound of bottles clinking in the night. The smell of alcohol on my mother’s breath when I’d try to wake her for school.
The crushing loneliness of being the only one holding things together.
“I tried to help her, to take care of her. But I was just a kid. I didn’t know what to do. And the Sicuras… they washed their hands of us. Oh, they still sent money every month, still paid for my schooling. But that was it. No visits, no calls. Nothing .”
I look at Mia, needing her to understand. “Do you know what it's like to be completely alone at thirteen? To come home every day not knowing if your mother will be conscious or catatonic? To have to learn how to forge her signature so you can sign your own school forms?”
Mia shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “Oh, Luca,” she whispers.
But I’m not finished. Now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop.
“I saw Dom sometimes, at school. He was always surrounded by friends, always laughing and carefree. And I… I was the charity case. The son of the dead hero, pitied but ultimately forgettable.”
I stand and begin pacing, a memory surfacing that I’ve tried hard to suppress. “There was one moment, though,” I say, my voice tight with suppressed anger, “one incident that made me realize that Dom wasn’t just a passive player in all this. He was actively choosing to turn his back on me.”
Mia leans forward, her eyes intent on my face. “What happened?” she asks softly.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. “It was about a year after we’d been kicked out of the estate. I was struggling to keep up with school and take care of my mother. One day, I overheard some kids at school talking about a big party Dom was throwing for his birthday.”
I can still remember the sick feeling in my stomach when I heard them talking, laughing about the elaborate plans, the expensive gifts.
“I hadn’t been invited, of course. But I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That maybe it was an oversight. That our friendship still meant something to him. So I scraped together what little money I had and bought him a gift. It wasn’t much—just a book he’d mentioned wanting to read once. But it was all I could afford.”
I clench my fists, the memory of that night still raw after all these years.
“I went to the party. I could hear the music from down the street, see the lights and the crowd of people. When I got to the gate, the security guard didn’t want to let me in. Said I wasn’t on the list. But then Dom came out.”
I laugh bitterly. “For a moment, I thought he was coming to welcome me. To invite me in. But the look on his face… it wasn’t happiness to see an old friend. It was annoyance. Embarrassment, even.”
Mia reaches for my hand, but I pull away, lost in the memory.
“He came up to me and said, ‘What are you doing here, Luca?’ Not ‘Hey, glad you could make it’ or ‘Come on in.’ Just ‘What are you doing here?’ Like I was some kind of intruder.”
I can still see Dom’s face, the mix of pity and discomfort in his eyes. “I told him I’d come for his birthday, showed him the gift. And do you know what he did? He looked at that poorly wrapped book like it was something dirty. Then he pulled out his wallet and tried to give me money.”
The pain and humiliation of that moment wash over me anew. “He said, ‘Look, I appreciate the thought, but this isn’t really your scene anymore. Why don’t you take this and get yourself something nice instead?’ As if I were there for a handout. As if our years of friendship meant nothing.”
I turn to Mia, meeting her horrified gaze. “That was the moment I realized that to Dom, I wasn’t a friend anymore. I wasn’t even a person. I was a charity case, an obligation. Something to be dealt with and dismissed as quickly as possible.”
My voice drops to a near-whisper. “I threw the book at his feet and left. I could hear the party resuming behind me, the laughter and music. And I swore to myself that one day, I’d make Dom feel as small and worthless as he’d made me feel that night.”
I shake my head, coming back to the present. “That’s when the rivalry really started. That’s when I decided that I wouldn’t just reclaim what the Sicuras had taken from me—I’d surpass them. I’d become everything Dom was and more. And then, when I had it all, I’d take it all away from him. Just like he’d taken everything from me.”
The old anger rises in me, hot and fierce. “He had everything , Mia. Everything that should have been mine. The family, the wealth, the respect. And he didn’t even realize how lucky he was. He took it all for granted while I was scraping by, trying to keep my mother alive and myself out of foster care.”
I start to pace, unable to sit still under the weight of these memories. “When I was fifteen, my mother… she tried to kill herself. I came home from school and found her on the bathroom floor, empty pill bottles scattered around her.”
The image is burned into my brain. The pallor of her skin, the blue tinge to her lips. For one horrible moment, I’d thought she was dead.
“She survived, but… that was the end. The doctors said she needed full-time care, that she was a danger to herself. So she was institutionalized. And I was truly alone.”
I turn back to Mia, and I know she can see the pain etched on my face. “That’s when I swore I’d make the Sicuras pay. For every broken promise, for every moment of pain and loneliness, for everything they took from us. I worked my ass off, clawed my way up from nothing. And I swore that one day, I’d have it all. Everything Dom had and more. And then I’d make him feel what I felt. I’d take everything from him, just like his family took everything from me.”
The room falls silent as I finish speaking. The weight of my confession hangs in the air between us, heavy and oppressive. I feel drained, hollowed out. But also… lighter somehow. As if sharing this burden has somehow lessened it.
I look at Mia, suddenly terrified of what I might see in her eyes. Disgust? Pity? Rejection?
But what I see is worse. It’s understanding. It’s compassion.
And I don’t know how to handle that.
“Mia?” I ask, suddenly unsure. “Say something, please.”