Lucia
Nico falls asleep like he always does when he’s fighting it. Slow. Stubborn. As if sleep is a negotiation and he refuses to be the first one to soften.
Three stories. Two songs. One extra cup of water he doesn’t drink. One more trip to the bathroom that is absolutely not urgent.
And then his eyes finally drift shut while my hand stays on his back, steady, warm, the only thing in the world I know for sure.
“You promise?” he mumbles, half asleep.
My chest tightens. “What, baby?”
“That Papa will be there in the morning.”
The word hits the room like a dropped glass.
Papa.
He says it like it’s normal. Like it’s always been there.
I smooth Nico’s hair off his forehead carefully, like one wrong touch might wake him and make him ask another question I don’t know how to answer.
“I promise,” I whisper. “Papa will be there.”
His mouth relaxes. His hand lifts, sleepy and unconscious, and touches his ear once before falling limp against the pillow. My stomach turns. Because I’ve seen that motion twice today. In two different bodies. In the same blood.
I hold my breath until Nico’s breathing deepens into the slow rhythm that means he’s really gone. Then I stand, move to the door, check it. Deadbolt. Chain. Guards outside.
There are more layers between my son and danger tonight than there have been in his entire life.
And I still feel like I’m leaving him unprotected when I step away.
I hate that. I hate that my fear has grown teeth since I became a mother.
I look back at him one last time, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the tiny frown he wears even in sleep like his dreams are serious business.
Then I turn and slip out.
The hallway is quiet. Plush carpet that muffles sound. Warm light. Walls that feel too thick, too expensive, too permanent.
Luxury should feel like comfort. It feels like a cage with nicer locks.
I walk, anyway. Because I can’t keep pacing the edge of Nico’s bed like a ghost. Because my chest is full of something sharp and restless, and I know exactly where it’s pointing.
Turo’s study door is half closed. Light spills out in a thin line across the floor.
I push the door open.
He’s inside, standing by the desk with his back half turned to me. His tie is gone. His shirt collar is open, sleeves rolled up. One hand is braced on the desk like he needs it to stay upright.
The other hand is holding one of Nico’s toy cars. Small plastic. Bright color. Ridiculous in his fingers.
He doesn’t look like a don right now. He looks like a man caught doing something private and soft and unguarded.
He hears me. His shoulders shift. But he doesn’t turn immediately. Like he’s not sure what he’ll look like when he faces me.
When he finally does, his eyes are darker than they were this morning. Not angry. Hurt. Raw. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.
“He called me Papa,” he says.
The words are quiet. Almost stunned. Like he’s repeating them because if he doesn’t, they won’t be real.
I close the door behind me gently, the click far too loud in the hush. I stand there, hands loose at my sides, heart thudding like it’s trying to break out. I don’t know what to do with him when he looks like this. With power stripped away. With nothing between his feelings and his face.
He glances down at the toy car, thumb dragging once over the roof like he’s grounding himself. “Is that okay?” he asks.
The question shouldn’t destroy me. It does. Because men like him don’t ask if something is okay. They decide it is. They take it. They enforce it.
But this man…
This man asks.
I swallow hard. “It’s… it’s not bad.”
“That’s not an answer,” he says softly.
I take a step closer before I decide to. It’s like my body recognizes him before my fear can catch up.
“Turo,” I say carefully, like I’m approaching something wounded.
His eyes lift to mine.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t… I didn’t plan for any of this.”
A muscle in his jaw flickers. He looks away, sharp, like the weakness in his own face offends him.
“I don’t know how to be what he needs.” His voice drops another level, like he doesn’t want the house to hear him confess it. “I don’t know how to be a father without being my father.”
The sentence lands in my chest with a dull, brutal weight. I think of Marco. Of his hands in my hair. Of the way he’d say you make me do this, like violence was my fault.
I think of Turo in the motel, holding himself still with visible effort, promising Marco couldn’t get to Nico.
And I think of Nico today, sitting beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I cross the room and sit on the edge of the chair opposite his desk. The desk is between us. A barrier. A line. It feels ridiculous and necessary at the same time.
Turo doesn’t sit. He stays standing, like if he bends too far, he won’t be able to get back up.
“I’m terrified,” he says suddenly.
The admission is so blunt, it knocks the air out of me.
“Of what?” I whisper.
His eyes flick to me, then away again. Like saying it out loud might summon it.
“Hurting him,” he says. “Ruining him. Making him… like Marco.”
My throat tightens. “You won’t,” I say immediately, too fast, like I’m trying to cover the words with force.
Turo’s gaze snaps back to mine. “You don’t know that.”
I hold his stare. “I do,” I say, quieter now. “Because you’re afraid of it.”
He goes still. “What does that mean?” he asks, voice controlled, dangerous around the edges.
“It means your father wasn’t scared of hurting you,” I say.
My voice shakes, but I don’t stop. “Marco wasn’t scared of hurting me.
They didn’t question it. They didn’t care.
” I swallow hard. “You asked him what he wanted you to be,” I continue.
“You didn’t claim him like a possession.
You didn’t tell him what to call you. You gave him a choice. ”
Turo’s hand tightens around the toy car. His knuckles go pale.
“That’s not enough,” he says.
“It’s everything,” I whisper.
The room goes quiet again. But it’s a different quiet now. Charged. Heavy. Like the air is thickening between us.
I can feel it. Three years of absence. One night that never stopped living under my skin. A child sleeping down the hall who has the same eyes as the man standing in front of me.
And before I can even register what’s happening, he takes a step closer.
It’s as if the world around us shrinks. There’s just Turo, and me, and this space between us that feels too charged with energy to ignore.
His hand is on my cheek, warm, firm, and before I can say anything, before I can even think about the million things I should do, his lips crash into mine.
It’s sudden. Unexpected. And completely overwhelming. His mouth is urgent, like he’s been holding something in all night and finally can’t wait any longer.
The kiss isn’t soft or gentle. It’s fiery and raw. All-consuming.
I freeze for a second, just absorbing the heat of it, but then everything clicks. Every part of me leans into it, into him. I kiss him back, my hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his jacket. The world tilts, spins, and I forget about everything.
Everything except this.
My hands slide up under his shirt, feeling the taut muscles of his back, the way he shifts and groans under my touch. He pulls away just long enough to look at me, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something fierce.
“Lucia...” he murmurs, trying to control himself. His lips are barely an inch from mine, his words sending a shiver straight through me.
I stumble back, and the edge of his desk catches the backs of my thighs. Paper explodes everywhere. A stack of documents skitters to the floor like startled birds. A folder slides off the corner and lands with a soft slap. Something metallic—his pen, maybe—clatters once and rolls out of sight.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I twist my fingers into the cotton of his shirt, the warmth of his chest radiating through the fabric.
His breath catches as his hands find the straps of my nightdress, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake.
He gasps as he looks at me, his eyes darkening to the color of wet slate.
The heat of his gaze traces every curve beneath my champagne-colored lace underwear, making my skin prickle.
His breath catches again. His pupils dilate until only a thin ring of gray remains. He doesn’t blink as his gaze follows the edge of champagne lace across my skin. The air conditioning raises goosebumps along my arms, or maybe it’s the way he's looking at me.
I bite my lower lip, reach behind my back. One hook. Two. The tension in the fabric releases. I roll my shoulders forward slightly, and the straps slip down, one after the other. The bra drops between us, a whisper of lace against carpet.
He eliminates the space between us in a heartbeat, his body pressing against mine.
His mouth finds my nipple, drawing it in, and a moan escapes my lips.
My back arches, thighs clenching, but he doesn’t linger.
He trails kisses lower, and lower still, until he’s positioned between my legs, hands spreading my thighs apart with a possessive touch.
He pinches my panties between his teeth, causing me to gasp desperately.
My legs tremble with desire as he yanks the material down while slipping to his knees.
“Turo, please…” I whisper, desperate with need.
He exhales, hot and heavy against my center, and grins, a wicked and devastating smile. “Oh, Lucia, I don’t know if you really want me.”
A helpless, needy sound escapes me, humiliation and arousal churning in my stomach. “Please,” I whisper, squirming beneath him. “I need you.”
And then his mouth is on me, his tongue licking with a fierce hunger. He flicks over my clit, then slides down to tease my entrance before thrusting in. His nose presses just right, and I cry out, hips grinding into his face.