9. Luca
9
LUCA
I enter my father's study with measured steps, each footfall precise against the Italian marble. The familiar scent of Macallan whiskey hits me before I spot the crystal tumbler in his hand. Don Antonio Mantione - once Chicago's most feared crime lord, now a shell propped up by amber liquid and rage.
"These fucking Cappallettis think they can muscle in on our territory." He slams the glass down, droplets splattering across his mahogany desk. The liquid catches the lamplight, gleaming like fresh blood. "Wait until I get Maria back. Then they'll see what I'm going to do with him."
My fingers brush over my mother's watch, its silver surface cool against my skin. Eight minutes since his last drink. The ritual is always the same - accusations, threats, another pour. I remain still, a statue carved from ice while chaos unfolds before me.
"Are you even listening?" He lurches forward, tie askew, though his suit remains impeccable. Always keeping appearances, even as he drowns. "You're just like her sometimes, standing there, judging. Silent."
The comparison to my mother slides off me like water. I've learned to let his words pass through me, empty as the bottles he hides in his desk drawer. My father's face reddens as he reaches for the decanter, hands trembling with barely contained violence.
"Gio has no clue who he is fucking messing wi-" He cuts himself off, gaze fixing on the watch at my wrist. Recognition flashes in his bloodshot eyes, followed by that familiar hatred. "Take that fucking thing off when you're in here."
Four minutes since the last drink. His movements grow sloppier, shoulders swaying slightly as he rounds the desk. I don't move, don't flinch. There's a certain power in stillness that unnerves him more than any reaction could.
"You want to talk business?" I keep my voice level, empty. "Or should I come back when you're sober?"
The crystal tumbler shatters against the wall behind me, but I don't turn to look. Shards rain down, a symphony of broken things - like everything else in this room.
My father lunges, years of drinking slowing his once-lethal reflexes. The silk tie becomes a garrote in my hands, wrapped and twisted with surgical precision. No wasted movement. No rage. Just the quiet efficiency that's made younger soldiers whisper about me in dark corners.
His nails scrape my forearms, leaving red crescents I'll wear like medals. The watch - my mother's final gift - catches the lamplight as I maintain the pressure. Eight pounds of force to collapse a windpipe. Twelve to ensure death. Basic anatomy, really.
But the feeling of losing this parent dredges up memories I wish would stay buried.
The car metal had been cold that day, twisted around us like a metal coffin. My small hands pressed against my mother's wounds, blood seeping between my fingers no matter how hard I tried to hold it in. Her eyes - so like mine - had dimmed slowly, each breath a battle until there were no more breaths to fight for.
I'd been powerless then. Now power flows through every calculated move, every precise application of force. The tie cuts deeper. My father's struggles weaken, his expensive Italian loafers scuffing patterns in the marble floor.
"You ungrateful-" The words wheeze out between desperate gasps. "Of course. You're just… like... me."
The words hit their mark even as his body goes slack. My grip never wavers, the pressure exact and unwavering. Like me? No. He was chaos and emotion, a hurricane of violence and drink. I am the void that follows - cold, precise, empty.
The watch digs into my palm, its edge sharp enough to draw blood. A single drop falls, staining my father's collar. Red on white. Just like that day in the car. But this time, I'm not the helpless child. This time, I choose who lives and dies.
His final breath rattles out, and I hold for exactly thirty more seconds. Precision in all things. Even death.
I release my father's body, letting it slump to the marble. My Brioni suit remains immaculate - not a wrinkle, not a speck of blood. Waste of good silk, that tie.
"Clean this up." My words cut through the silence as Mickey and Ace enter. They'd been waiting outside, as always. "Make it look natural. Heart attack from years of drinking. Nobody questions when an alcoholic's body gives out."
I can't have the families going around thinking I'm power hungry. It's better if it looks like dear ol' dad just pushed himself too far.
Mickey and Ace move with practiced efficiency, already knowing their roles. I've run this scenario a hundred times in my head, each movement choreographed like a deadly ballet. The broken glass gets swept away, the whiskey bottle positioned just so. Even in death, appearances matter.
"The doctor's on standby," Marco confirms, phone already in hand. "He'll sign whatever death certificate we need."
I check my watch - my mother's watch. Seven minutes until the family needs to be notified. Twenty until the first condolence calls start rolling in. Forty-three until I need to contact our associates about the change in leadership.
And six hours until Skye's boutique opens.
The thought crashes through my carefully ordered mind like a bullet through glass. I freeze, jaw clenching at this unprecedented lapse in focus. I've seen her three times now, always from a distance. Each time, she's moved with that effortless grace, amber eyes sharp as she surveys her domain. Her latest window display features a black dress that would suit her perfectly, the fabric clinging to curves I shouldn't be thinking about right now.
"Boss?" Bas' voice pulls me back. "The doctor's here."
I shake off the unwanted distraction, irritated by my own weakness. There's no room for such thoughts, not when power transitions require absolute precision. One mistake, one moment of distraction, and everything I've built could crumble.
But still, my mind calculates: five hours and fifty-eight minutes until those doors open.
Once the doctor signs the certificate and the boys clean up, I look around my father's study - my study - now pristine after hours of meticulous cleanup. No trace remains of the violence - just like he taught me. The irony doesn't escape me.
My fingers brush against the watch face again. Seventeen times in the past hour. The realization hits like ice water in my veins. This unconscious tell should have been buried with the rest of my weaknesses years ago, alongside that terrified eight-year-old boy who couldn't save his mother.
"Everything's set, boss." Bas approaches, his footsteps echoing in the now-silent room. His dark eyes flick to my wrist, tracking the movement as my thumb traces the silver edge once more. Eighteen.
I meet his gaze, letting the temperature in the room drop ten degrees with a single look. Most men would flinch, step back, make excuses. Bas knows better, but the question lingers in his stance, in the slight tilt of his head.
The crystal decanter catches my reflection - perfectly pressed suit, not a hair out of place. The external control is absolute. Yet beneath that polished surface, something shifts, unsettled. Like a hairline crack in bulletproof glass.
I turn the watch face down, hiding my mother's initials from view. The metal bites into my skin, a sharp reminder of what sentiment costs in our world. My father proved that tonight, drowning in memories and whiskey until it killed him.
"Get rid of his private stock," I order, voice devoid of inflection. "Every bottle."
Bas nods, already moving to execute the command. He's been with me long enough to understand - weakness must be eliminated, no matter what form it takes. Even if that weakness is checking a watch like a nervous teenager before his first hit.
Nineteen times now.
The recognition coils in my gut like a serpent. Not from killing my father - that was simply business, inevitable as gravity. No, this unease stems from something far more dangerous: loss of control. And I know exactly when it started.
Three casual glimpses of amber eyes and confident curves, and suddenly I'm counting minutes like they matter.
I try to lose myself in work instead. The reports spread across my desk paint a perfect picture of succession. Every captain falling in line, every account transferred, every loose end cauterized with surgical precision. Yet my attention keeps drifting to the security feed I pulled up, specifically the storefront three doors down from the camera.
I minimize the camera feed for the fourth time in an hour. My empire is expanding by the minute - I should be focused on the shipment manifests, on the new protection territories, on the two families eyeing our borders for weakness. Instead, I find myself calculating the exact distance between my office and her boutique. Eight blocks. A ten-minute drive accounting for morning traffic.
My fingers twitch toward my mother's watch again. The urge to check the time, to count the minutes until Skye's shop opens, burns like acid under my skin. I curl my hand into a fist instead, knuckles white with restraint.
"The Buetis sent their respects," Bas announces from the doorway. "Along with a request for a meeting."
I don't look up from the reports. "Schedule it for next week. Let them sweat."
"And the Cappallettis?"
"They'll fall in line or fall apart. Their choice."
I'm sure it will be the latter and I'll need Enzo to commit to me after all.
The words come automatically, strategies flowing like blood through veins. But beneath that cold efficiency, something fractures. A hairline crack in perfect control, spreading each time I remember how she moved through her shop yesterday - confident, untouchable, completely unaware of the predators circling her world.
The security feed minimizes itself again. I hadn't even realized I'd reopened it.
This is weakness. Distraction. The kind of sentiment that got my father killed. That got my mother-
I slam the laptop closed, the sharp sound echoing through my office. Bas doesn't flinch, but his eyebrow raises a fraction - the closest he'll come to questioning my actions.
If I can't excise this fascination, I'll control it. Study it. Dissect it until it loses its power. Just another variable to be managed, like everything else in my carefully ordered world.
My hand brushes the watch again. I pull it back like I've touched fire.
It seems my control is slipping everywhere today.