55 | History repeating itself
Pain is nothing new to me.
I've felt it all, broken bones, stab wounds, bullets tearing through flesh.
It's all part of the life I've chosen. But this?
This slow, dull ache in my shoulder, the burn of healing flesh, the forced patience of staying in bed while my enemies lurk in the shadows?
That's the kind of pain that tests a man's control.
I flex my fingers against the bedsheets, frustration curling in my gut.
The days are passing too slowly. I should be out there, handling things, hunting down whoever put a target on my back. Instead, I'm here, confined to this damn room, relying on others to do the job I should be doing myself.
Aurelia sits near the window, her gaze distant, fingers curled around the edge of her chair.
She's been here every day since the attack, watching over me, making sure I don't do anything reckless. But she looks uneasy now, her posture stiff, worry etched across her face.
"We'll stay for two more weeks," I say, breaking the silence. My voice is rough from disuse, and I clear my throat before continuing. "It's too dangerous to return to New York right now. Not until I know who's coming for me."
Her head snaps toward me. "Two weeks?"
"Yes." I meet her gaze. "I don't know if this is a personal vendetta or someone making a move against the Costa family. Either way, I won't risk your life."
She exhales sharply, looking down at her lap, her fingers twisting together.
"Aurelia." I say her name softer this time. "I will protect you. I won't allow anyone to hurt you."
She doesn't respond right away. Her eyes flicker with something I can't quite place, fear, uncertainty, something deeper. I don't like it.
"Speak what's on your mind, principessa."
She hesitates. And then, finally, she looks at me and says, "It's about Franco..."
Something ugly unfurls inside me. I feel it clawing up my spine, coiling in my chest, poisoning my thoughts.
Franco.
The way she says his name, soft and worried, makes my jaw clench. The look in her eyes is worse.
"Go on," I force out the words out, keeping my voice steady.
"I'm afraid he'll get hurt too," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "He's my friend, Luciano. I don't want anything happening to him..."
I swallow hard, but the bitter taste lingers.
Friend.
Right.
My chest tightens, and for once, it has nothing to do with my injury.
I should tell her that this is war, that people get hurt, that no one is safe when bullets start flying. But I can't. Because the way she looks at me, pleading, vulnerable, makes me want to do something reckless.
I drag in a slow breath and nod. "I'll send a few men to keep an eye on him."
Her shoulders relax, and a small smile tugs at her lips. "Thank you, Luciano."
I can't believe it.
I'm protecting the man she wants to be with instead of me.
I must be out of my damn mind.
But if keeping Franco safe puts that smile on her face, then I'll do it.
I'll do anything just to keep her close to me.
────??────
(A few days later)
The study still smells like my father.
Leather, cigars, old books. A scent burned into the wood, into the very walls, like the ghost of the man himself never truly left.
It should feel like mine now.
This room. This house. This family.
Yet as I sink into his old chair, running my fingers over the carved wooden armrests, I can still feel the weight of him here. As if, at any moment, he might walk through the door and remind me that no matter how much power I have, I'll always be his shadow.
I roll my shoulder, testing the ache. The wound is healing, but the pain lingers, something dull and constant, a reminder of how close I came to death. A week in bed, trapped in my own body, had given me too much time to think.
And I hate overthinking.
I exhale, tilting my head back, staring at the ceiling where the chandelier catches the low light.
My father had sat here, in this very chair, for years, ruling the Costa empire with a firm, merciless hand. And before him? His father.
The legacy is thick, suffocating, and no matter how much blood is spilled, the throne always demands more.
I wonder if my mother hates this room? Hates that I now sit where her husband once sat. Hates that I remind her of him.
I drag a hand down my face, feeling the roughness of my stubble. The thought has been gnawing at me for days now.
Because it's true, isn't it?
I see it in the way my mother looks at me sometimes, her gaze distant, unreadable. A quiet resentment that wasn't there before.
I remind her of him.
Not just because I inherited his power, but because my life is becoming a reflection of his.
Two men.
Two older sisters.
Two younger sisters.
History repeating itself, like some sick fucking joke.
My father married my aunt first, just as I was with Ciara. She bore him two children, my half-siblings, both dead now, gone in the same accident that took my father's life over a year ago.
I was raised knowing I was the son of the second wife, the replacement.
And now?
Now, I stand in his place, my life taking the same shape.
Ciara is dead, and I have Aurelia.
I close my eyes, inhaling deeply.
Ciara would have made a good wife for a Don. But I had never everloved her even though she knew about this life, knew what it meant to be by my side, knew that she could died if she had married me.
I was a little bit sad when she died because my dad always wanted me to marry a woman from a good family. I had just wished to meet hisexpectations.
But now?
Now, I sit here in my father's chair, in his study, and I feel something entirely different.
Relief.
Because if Ciara was alive, Aurelia wouldn't be here since Ciara would have caused drama. Aureliawouldn't be my wife.
I wouldn't have her soft laughter filling the halls. Wouldn't have her scent lingering in our home back in New York, wouldn't have her presence beside me.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on the desk as I stare at the whiskey decanter in front of me.
What would Aurelia think if she knew?
If she knew that I was happy Ciara was gone? That I would thank her for dying if I could?Maybe I should find the one who killed Ciara and thank the person? Maybe send them a million dollar check or a bucket of flowers?
I run a hand through my hair, letting those feelings settle in my gut.
I'm about to pour myself a glass of whiskey when I feel apresence.
I know it immediately, without having to think. The unmistakable pull of her.
I don't need to see her to know it's her. I've been around her long enough to sense when she's near. There's a certain stillness that follows her, a quiet energy that fills the room. And it's right in front of me, coming closer with each step.
I don't turn to look at her, but I hear the soft click of the door opening, her footsteps light on the polished floor. I don't know why I haven't said anything, why I just sit here in silence, waiting for her to break it.
"Drinking is bad for you, Costa," she teases, her voice smooth like velvet but with that edge of playfulness that I've come to enjoy.
I glance over at her, meeting her eyes for a brief moment. Her gaze is soft, but there's something about it, something like she's studying me, trying to see past the mask I wear.
It makes me feel exposed, and I hate that.
But I can't deny the pull. I can't pretend that I don't want to let her in.
"As you wish," I chuckle, putting thewhiskey bottle away.
She doesn't say anything right away, instead walking across the room and sitting down across from me, her legs tucked underneath her as she settles into the chair with a grace I can't help but admire.
She looks around the study, her eyes scanning every corner, every piece of furniture, as though she's trying to understand this space, trying to make sense of its quiet dominance.
"Your father..." she begins after a moment, her voice quiet but curious. "What was he like?"
I raise an eyebrow. I wasn't expecting that question.
It's not like I've spoken to her about my father, about the man who raised me, or, more accurately, the man whose expectations I've spent my life trying to meet.The man who never gave me the approval I craved.
That's why I was so fucked up after he had died.
I take a moment to collect my thoughts.
"He was... cold," I say finally, leaning back in the chair and crossing my arms. "Strict. Demanding. Like most men of his position. He never taught me how to be affectionate, how to be anything other than ruthless, but he taught me how to rule. How to control everything around me."
I pause, the weight of the memories settling heavy on my chest. "He was a man who believed in power above all.
And maybe that's why I've spent my life chasing it.
Maybe that's why I'm sitting here, trying to make something of myself, something that will finally earn his approval, even if he's dead. "
She doesn't speak right away, just watches me, her gaze intent and focused. It's strange, having her look at me like this. As if she's seeing something in me that even I can't see.
"And your mother?" she asks, breaking the silence. "What's your relationship like with her?"
The question makes me flinch, though I don't let it show. I've never really known how to answer this one.
But I answer anyway. "She's... distant. She hated my father, hated being married to him after my aunt died. But she stayed. And now? Now, I think she resents me, because I remind her of him."
I swallow the bitterness in my throat, the weight of that truth hanging between us.
"It's strange," I add after a pause. "I don't think she ever wanted me to succeed, she never wanted me to take over from my dad because she never wanted me to become like him."
Aurelia's silence is soft, but it's full of understanding.
I don't think she knows the full extent of what I mean, but I can see that she's processing it. Her eyes are thoughtful, searching for something I haven't said, something buried deep inside me that even I'm afraid to confront.
"I... didn't expect that," she says finally, her voice softer than before. "I thought you and your mother would have had a better relationship. You're still her firstborn, and with that comes a lot of power. Don't mothers in the underworld always want their sons to be powerful?"
I smirk, a dark laugh escaping my lips. "Power doesn't make family easier. It just makes everything more complicated."
She nods before she changes the topic. "Where is your sister, the one who shouted at me? I haven't seen her at all."
The question takes me off guard, though it shouldn't. My jaw tightens as I feel the possessiveness rise in me like a slow, burning tide. "She's not here."
Aurelia blinks, her brow furrowing as she tilts her head. "Okay...? Where is she? I want to talk with her."
My muscles coil, the need to protect what's mine coming alive in me. No one, not even my own family, is allowed to raise their voices at Aurelia. Not a single person. Not even my sisters.
"She's somewhere far away," I say, my words firm and decisive, a cold edge to my tone that leaves no room for argument. "You don't need to worry. She won't ever bother you again."