Chapter 13 Alessio
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ALESSIO
The only thing I hate more than my enemies is my daughter’s taste in men.
We speed up the Franklin Avenue off-ramp as rain hits the windshield hard.
Carina sits next to me, arms folded, legs crossed, completely silent.
Up front, Enzo watches the lightning over Brooklyn, clearly enjoying my meltdown.
Vic, my driver, keeps his hands steady on the wheel, focused on getting us through the last ten blocks to my penthouse.
I could kill her. That’s not true. I could kill him, the Russian, destroy everything he cares about, make him pay. I sit in the glow of the city lights, replaying what just happened in that club.
Nothing is ever subtle in Brooklyn Heights, especially the Red Room, a former warehouse now filled with velvet, mirrors, and soundproofing.
Enzo and I went there to get Carina, but found Anton Lukov’s hand on her bare thigh, his grin wide and smug.
I told Anton, in front of his brother and three others, that if he touched my daughter again, he’d need a catheter for the rest of his life.
“You’re not even going to ask me what I was doing?” Carina finally says, her full lips pursed like a dare.
“You were being a fucking child,” I say. “That’s what you were doing.”
She flashes her teeth. “How would you know? You haven’t been a child since the Carter Administration.”
Enzo snorts. He’s never met a mutiny he wouldn’t applaud.
“Don’t encourage her,” I bark at him, but he barely blinks.
“Carina,” I say, slow enough that she can hear the rage between the syllables, “tell me what you’re doing with Anton Lukov in the Red Room.”
“God, Dad. Why do you care?” She turns to me, blue eyes lit up with the pretty, reckless defiance that got her mother hospitalized three times before the divorce.
“You know why,” I say, but the words taste like blood and old church wine.
She scoffs. “Right. Because the Russians are ‘a threat’ and I’m just a pawn. I heard you the first thousand times.”
“Careful,” I say, and my voice is suddenly so cold that for a second, even Enzo’s smirk dissolves.
Carina shakes her head. “You made the whole world my enemy, and now you’re surprised I want to see what the other side is like?”
My hands twitch, wanting to break something. The urge is so strong that when Vic hits the curb, I use the jolt to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge forward.
I don’t touch her. I never would. But my shadow stretches across the seat, and she gasps; that’s enough for me. “That place isn’t for you,” I say, my voice rough. “Those people aren’t for you. Do you hear me?”
She lifts her chin. “You can’t keep me away from everything you hate, Dad. Not when it’s the only thing that makes me feel… real.”
The SUV goes quiet. The rain outside gets louder.
Enzo tries to cut the tension. “Carina, your father once made a guy eat fifty bucks in singles for calling me a ‘mosquito.’ Not everything is worth bleeding for. That Lukov kid? Even his family thinks he’s trouble.”
Carina doesn’t take her eyes off me. “I don’t care about his family. I care about someone who’s not terrified of the person I might be if I weren’t a Morrone.”
For a moment, I see her the way she wants: free from me, free from the pull of this city and its rules. It makes me want to break the glass, get out, and shout her name into the night.
Instead, I say, “You’re not seeing him again.”
She laughs—hard, loud, mean. “Yeah, sure.”
The car stops at the private lobby entrance. The security guard is already outside, holding an umbrella for me as if I’m someone important.
I step out. The rain is cold and sharp. Carina follows, her coat over her dress, heels clicking with every step. By the time we reach the elevator, I can barely stay calm. My heart pounds and I’m shaking in a way I haven’t felt since my last trip to Italy.
The penthouse is completely silent. Bruno must be out or hiding in his room. Carina heads straight to her part of the apartment and slams the door so hard the chandeliers rattle.
I turn to Enzo. “She’s going to destroy herself.”
He shrugs. “She’s got your spine. You should be proud.”
I wish he’d just clock me on the chin.
“Pour me a drink,” I say, and walk to the living room.
The city is a river of lights below. I stare out, trying to find a piece of sky that isn’t already contaminated by the memory of her voice.
Lucy finds me there. I hear the soft pad of her bare feet before she even speaks. “She’s a hurricane,” she says, quietly, coming up behind me.
“She’s a Morrone,” I correct, but even I hear the pride in it.
She slips her arms around my waist, head resting between my shoulder blades. “Tell me what happened.”
I tell her everything. I describe Anton’s hand, the velvet booths, and Carina’s wild laughter. I admit how I wanted to punish her and hurt every man who saw her the way I did in that dress.
“She hates me,” I finish. “And she’s right to. But I’m trying to keep her alive.”
Lucy is silent for a moment, then she turns me around. Her eyes are blue, not like Carina’s, but icy, analytical. I can feel her reading the loopholes in my story, trying to untangle the knots I won’t admit.
“She doesn’t hate you,” Lucy says, brushing her thumb along my jaw. “She’s trying to break your curse.”
I laugh, bitter. “She can’t.”
“That’s why she’s trying.” Then softer, “You can’t protect everyone by cutting out their hearts before the world does.”
I look at her—really look at her. She’s so small, so impossibly tender, and yet when she looks at me, I feel sick and clean and wanted all at once.
“I don’t want her to die in some alley,” I say. “I don’t want to bury my daughter.”
Lucy nods. “Then show her why you fight so hard. Not just what you’re fighting against.”
I realize this is why the world feels empty, but this woman feels like home, beautiful even when things are hard.
I kiss her, and she gasps into my mouth.
We lose ourselves for a while, her hands at my collar, mine in her hair, until a crash from the other end of the apartment pulls us back. It’s Carina again. I hear glass breaking, then a string of loud curses.
“We should go,” Lucy says.
I want to say no, to keep her here and let the world burn around us, but I pull away. “I’m sorry,” I say. “For all of it.”
She shakes her head. “Never apologize for wanting to save your daughter.”
I nod, but the thought stays with me: I’m not sure what I want to save Carina from. The world? Myself? Or the fact that every man she meets will know how she acts when she’s desperate for love.
I find Carina in the kitchen, barefoot, hair wild, rage evaporating off her like mist. There’s a broken tumbler in the sink, whiskey pooling around the shards.
“You want something to drink?” she asks, not looking at me, fishing another glass from the cabinet.
“How long?” I ask.
She pours two fingers of bourbon and slams it back before answering. “Since November.”
“Does your mother know?”
She sets the empty glass down with a delicate little clink. “Does it matter?”
I sit beside her at the marble island, our knees nearly touching. “He’s no good for you.”
Carina looks at me, and in the flicker of her lashes, I see something like hope. “He treats me like I’m the one with all the power. I like that.”
I exhale, long and slow. “He’s using you.”
She shrugs. “He’s the only one not pretending otherwise.”
There is an honesty to her, a clarity I both envy and resent. The city made her hard, but I made her. She has an honesty and clarity I both envy and resent. The city made her tough, but I made her harsh. I almost tell her I’ll kill him anyway. Instead, I say, “You’re still not seeing him.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I fear the retinas might detach. “You can’t control me anymore.”
But she’s wrong. I can. I always have.
I stand. “Go to bed, Carina. Tomorrow, I’ll make you breakfast.”
She looks at me, searching for weakness, and finds none.
“Fine,” she says. “But I'm not eating the eggs if you poison them.”
I almost smile.
She leaves, slamming her bedroom door behind her, a little lighter, a little more dangerous.
I return to Lucy, who is curled up in my bed, reading. She doesn't look up as I enter, just flips a page and lets the silence do the work.
“I wish I knew how to fix this,” I say.
She sets her book aside and pats the mattress beside her. “Come here.”
I do. And for the first time in hours, the world feels like something I might survive.
I wake at 3:40 AM to the sound of Carina’s laughter, some distant echo through my bedroom vent.
I picture her on the phone with Anton, the forbidden call, their voices soft but urgent.
I don’t get up—don't want to interrupt, don't want to reveal how badly I'm still losing—but I stare at the ceiling for another hour, taking inventory of every regret that still runs my life.
By the time Lucy stirs and pulls herself across my chest, I'm already halfway to work mode. I kiss her cheek, slide from the sheets. The kitchen is empty except for a half-written note in Carina’s handwriting, which I pocket as insurance for later.
Vic waits downstairs, the SUV warm, the windows fogged against the morning chill. Enzo slides into the passenger seat, looking like he hasn't slept in days.
"Anything?" I ask.
He grins. "Anton’s father is getting nervous, like he knows we’re onto the kid. You want me to start poking around?"
I nod once. "Make sure it’s subtle. If Carina catches a whiff, I’ll never hear the end of it."
"Was thinking—" Enzo starts, but I cut him off with a raised hand.
"I’m going to fix this. No blood. Not yet."
He nods. "You're the boss."
We drive in silence, the city a puzzle of gray and gold and endless traffic.
All the while I think of Carina, of Lucy, of the old scores I still need to settle. Of the violence in my blood and the mercy that girl somehow conjures from me.
Romance really is wasted on the young. Only when you're older do you discover what's worth destroying. Romance is wasted on the young. Only when you’re older do you realize what’s worth risking everything for, but by then, it’s often too late.