15 | I wanted to be a son
[About a year ago]
I had just buried my father.
Not in the ground, no. That would have been easier. Instead, he had beenbrutallytaken by a rival family.
I should have seen it coming. I should have prepared myself for the day that my father, the man who had raised me in the darkness of this world, would leave it. But no, it hit me like a ton of bricks, my chest hollowed by the loss, my thoughts as scattered as the pieces of a broken vase.
He had been a good man, at least in the way that men like us could be. He had shown me how to survive, how to rule, how to command fear and loyalty in equal measure.
My father was a man who lived by a code, carved into him by blood and war and the kind of pain that makes men into statues.
He was good, in his own way, honorable by his standards, fierce in loyalty, terrifying in power.
People respected him, feared him, some even loved him in the quiet way you love a hurricane from a distance.
But me?
I was never enough.
Never sharp enough, never brutal enough, never him enough.
He wanted a soldier.
I wanted to be a son.
And somewhere between those two truths, I lost whatever chance I had at earning the one thing I craved more than his throne, his approval.
No matter how many enemies I buried, how many deals I brokered, how much blood I shed in his name, it was never enough to earn his nod, his pride, his damn smile.
I remember being a kid, standing at the edge of his office, watching him pour a glass of scotch with hands that never shook.
I'd hand him a report, a message, anything to make myself useful, to be seen.
He'd barely glance at me, and every time he dismissed me with that cold silence, it carved something deeper into my chest.
I spent my whole life chasing a shadow, trying to become the man he wanted, trying to make him say good job,just once.
But he died with that praise still locked behind his teeth, and now I'm left holding his empire, heavy and cold and loveless.
And maybe the worst part?
Even now, with him gone, I still hear his voice in my head, measuring me, doubting me, reminding me that I'll never be more than a pale imitation of the legend he was.
I wear the crown, but it feels more like a collar.
And I wonder if he ever knew how hard I tried.
These thoughts... they were like poison, crawling under my skin, sinking into my bones.I needed a distraction. Something to pull me out of this spiral. Anything. I needed to forget, even if just for a moment.
So, I reached for my phone, my fingers numb, clumsy with exhaustion and dread.
I scrolled through my contacts, pausing when I landed on her name, Aurelia. Chase's little sister. The one who didn't ask for anything but somehow gave me a sliver of peace.
She was away, working on that cruise ship, probably surrounded by strangers and sunsets, a world far from this one.
But just hearing her voice might've been enough.
I could talk to her about anything. Even if she was younger, even if our lives were completely different, she always listened.
She didn't judge. She made me feel like I wasn't completely lost.
My thumb hovered over the call button. I hesitated, taking a shaky breath, already hearing the calm in her voice, imagining her smile, the way she used to tilt her head when I talked like I mattered.
But just as I was about to press the button, Ciara Nash's name flashed on the screen.
Why the hell was she calling me?
I stared at her name, that familiar surge of dread creeping up my spine. The screen glowed in the dim light of my room, her name pulsing with each ring like a warning.
She wasn't someone I was particularly close with. We'd spoken a few times here and there, but I barely knew anything about her. She was beautiful, sure, but that was it. She has never caught my eye even once.
I hesitated before finally picking up the call.
"Luciano," her voice came through the phone, soft but with a hint of urgency.
"I know this might be a lot to ask," she said, drawing out the words like a child testing a boundary, "but I really need help.
I have to move into my new apartment on the Upper East Side today, and I just..
. I can't do it alone. Everything's heavy, and the movers are being impossible. Could you please come and help me?"
I stared at the ceiling, the burn of whiskey still fresh in my throat, my body glued to the bed like the weight of my life was finally catching up. I didn't want to move. I didn't want to breathe.
"Can't Chase help you?" I asked, voice flat, already knowing the answer.
She didn't even hesitate. "He's off with his new girlfriend of the monthin the Hamptons or somewhere ridiculous like that." Her tone dipped into a whine, like I was supposed to be offended on her behalf. "He always disappears when I need something."
I closed my eyes, let my head sink deeper into the pillow.
Maybe I should just put a bullet through my skull and be done with it?
"Ciara..." I sighed, already losing the will to argue. "I really can't help you."
But she didn't back off.
Her voice shifted, still gentle, but now edged with that performative helplessness she'd perfected.
"Luc, please. You're the only person I can trust with this.
I've got boxes everywhere, and the building won't even let me move in without someone to sign the delivery forms. I tried to do it on my own, but it's just too much.
I'll owe you. Really. I'll make it up to you. "
I could hear her pouting through the phone, could picture her sitting on a stack of designer boxes, phone in one hand, latte in the other, already dressed in something expensive and pretending to be helpless just enough to make a man feel needed.
But I wasn't a man who needed to be needed.
I was a man who needed peace.
And she was the opposite of that.
"Ciara, I said no."
Silence.
Then a breath. Soft. Calculated.
"Luciano," her voice came again, softer now. "I'm sorry about your father. I know you're still grieving... I get it."
"But you know how much he liked me, don't you?" she continued. "He always welcomed me with open arms.He wouldn't want you to dismiss me like this. He'd tell you to help someone who needs you."
"I'm not asking for the world, Luc," she added, voice trembling just enough to sound real. "Just a few hours."
I sat up, the phone pressed too tightly to my ear now, my free hand clenched into a fist.
"Don't talk about my father like you knew him," I said, low and cold. "He's dead. And you don't get to use his name like some kind of golden ticket."
"I'm sorry, but I really need your help."
I should've said no. I should've turned my back, focused on the gnawing ache in my chest. But I didn't, because at the mention of my father, I felt like I was falling apart.
In the end, I agreed to help her.
When I arrived at her building, it was nothing short of impressive. The kind of place only the elite could afford, the type of luxury that made me feel the weight of my own father's absence even more acutely.
But I pushed that aside before stepping into her place.
She was waiting in the lobby, a frown on her face as she noticed me approach. She didn't smile like I expected.
"You made it," she said, voice a little too flat.
I nodded. "Where's your stuff?"
She led me up to her apartment. It wasn't grand, not by the standards of the city, but it was pristine, all clean lines and sharp edges.
We worked in silence for a while inside the apartment. I moved boxes, transported furniture, and tried not to think about what had happened with my father.
When we were done, I found myself sitting on the floor of her new apartment, leaning against the wall. Ciara sat across from me, her arms crossed.
"What's wrong?" she finally asked, her gaze not leaving mine.
I didn't respond. The weight of everything was there, pressing down, but I wasn't ready to talk about it. Instead, I shrugged, forcing a tight smile. Ciara didn't push to talk about my father, which was unexpected.
She poured us both a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light as she handed one to me.
We drank in silence, the burn of the alcohol grounding me for a moment. The conversation drifted to lighter things, her helping me move boxes, the clutter of her apartment.
After a while, we ended up sitting closer, surrounded by half-empty boxes. The whiskey bottle sat between us, nearly gone. Ciara stood, brushing her hands on her jeans.
"I'll be right back," she said, disappearing into the other room.
I got up, figuring it was time to head home. I'd helped her move enough for one night, and the ache in my chest was starting to creep back in.
Igrabbed my jacket, slinging it over my shoulder, and turned toward the door.
Then I heard her footsteps. I looked up and froze.
Ciara stood there, completely naked, her skin glowing faintly in the low light. My breath caught, my mind blanking for a second.
"What the fuck, Ciara?" I managed to say since I was in shock.
She stepped closer, unbothered by my reaction, her eyes locked on mine.
"I know you're grieving about your dad's death," she said softly, her voice steady. "But let me help you..."
I shook my head, taking a step back. "No. Sex isn't the fucking answer."
"I know," she said, closing the distance between us. Her voice was low, almost a whisper. "But use me, even if it's just for one night." She reached up, wrapping her arms around my neck, her body inches from mine. "I won't ever tell anyone this happened."
I should've pushed her away. I should've walked out the door and left it at that. But the grief, the raw, gnawing emptiness, clawed at me. It had been there since the moment I'd heard he was gone, and I was so fucking tired of carrying it alone.
I let her pull me closer. My hands found her waist, hesitant at first, then tighter. She didn't flinch, didn't pull back. Her body pressed against mine, warm and yielding, matching my urgency.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't love or affection. It was messy, a collision of grief and escape.
For those fleeting minutes, I wasn't Luciano Costa, heir to an empire. I wasn't a son grieving a father. I was just a man, chasing oblivion in her touch. And when it was over, when the wave of release faded, I felt fucking ashamed and disgusted by myself.