Turo #2
Marco’s face contorts. “Don’t tell me what I want.”
“Nico,” I say gently, without taking my eyes off Marco. “Look at me.”
Nico’s gaze shifts fully to mine. His small face scrunches. His ear touching stops, as if he’s trying to obey, to be brave.
I force my voice to soften just enough to reach him. “You’re doing good,” I tell him. “Stay still. Breathe slow.”
His lower lip trembles. He nods once. My chest aches. Lucia makes a sound. Small, involuntary, like her soul is trying to crawl out of her body.
I don’t look at her. If I look at her, I will break.
Marco sees everything. He sees how my attention splits between the gun and the child. He sees the way my hands remain open but my shoulders are coiled. He grins suddenly, sharp and ugly.
“Look at you,” he says, almost gleeful. “The don. So controlled. So calm. But it’s different when it’s this kid, isn’t it?”
His breath is ragged. His eyes are bright. He’s enjoying this.
That realization is a blade sliding under my ribs. Because Marco isn’t just desperate. He’s vindictive. He wants me to feel what he feels. Powerless, humiliated, irrelevant. He wants to drag me down into his panic and drown me in it.
“I’m not going to hurt him,” Marco says quickly, as if reading my thoughts, as if pretending mercy makes him less monstrous. “Not unless you make me.”
Lucia’s voice is whisper-thin. “Marco, please.”
Marco ignores her. His focus is on me. “Tell them to back off,” he demands. “Tell your dogs to put their guns down.”
My men are frozen in the periphery, weapons drawn but not aimed. Discipline holding on by a thread. I don’t turn my head, but I feel Matteo’s presence at my flank. I feel Luca behind me, rigid.
I speak without looking away from Marco. “Lower weapons.”
My men obey. Marco’s eyes dart across them, satisfied, then back to me.
“Good,” he says, breathless. “Good. Now you’re going to listen.”
He presses the gun tighter to Nico’s head, just to prove he can. Nico whimpers. His hand lifts, touches his ear again, quick as a blink.
My vision goes red for a fraction of a second. I force it back. I force myself to breathe.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m listening.”
Marco’s mouth trembles like he’s about to cry, but the tears in him become anger before they can fall. “You’re erasing me,” he spits. “You’re replacing me like I never existed.”
I keep my voice steady. “No one can erase you.”
He laughs, wild. “Bullshit! He calls you papa. He looks at you like you’re… like you’re…”
His voice cracks. Jealousy is a childish emotion until it’s holding a gun.
“I filed first,” Marco says again, frantic, circling back to the only thing he thinks gives him legitimacy. “He’s mine on paper. Mine. Mine.”
Lucia’s face is tight with terror, but she keeps her posture controlled. She is doing what she did for years: staying calm so the violent man doesn’t escalate.
Except this time, it isn’t her body on the line. It’s our son.
I can see her shaking. Just a little. A tremor at her fingertips. She is trying not to let Marco see, because he feeds on it.
I force myself to widen my focus. Not to lose Marco, but to read the whole environment. The service vehicle. The gap in perimeter coverage that shouldn’t exist. The way Marco appeared from exactly the one blind angle we hadn’t expected to be compromised.
Enzo. Even dead, the man is still reaching for my throat.
I should have purged faster.
I should have…
Not now.
There is only reality. Marco is drunk. His fine motor control is compromised. His hand is shaking. His finger is too close to the trigger. He is also my son. Not in the way Nico is. But blood is blood, and blood makes things complicated.
I need Nico alive. I need Nico unscarred. I need him to not watch me execute Marco like a dog in front of him.
I need to end this without turning my son’s world into a before-and-after that includes watching his “father” die.
Impossible math.
I take another slow step forward.
Marco jerks the gun. “Stop!”
I stop immediately. Compliance is strategic. Let him feel control.
“Okay,” I say. “I stopped.”
Marco’s eyes flick down to Nico again. Nico is crying silently now, shoulders shaking, but he isn’t fighting. He’s listening to me. He’s doing what I told him.
My brave boy.
Marco’s mouth twists. “Say it,” Marco demands suddenly. “Say he’s mine.”
Lucia makes a sharp, helpless sound like she’s being punched. I don’t look at her. I keep my gaze on Marco.
“I can’t,” I say quietly.
Marco’s face contorts. “You can.”
“I won’t,” I correct, still calm.
The difference matters. Marco’s breath turns ragged. His finger tightens again.
Lucia’s voice comes out broken but steady. “Marco… please.”
Marco snaps his head toward her. “Shut up.”
The gun shifts with his movement. Nico squeaks. My body tightens, ready to launch, ready to tear my own son apart with my hands if that’s what it takes to save Nico.
I don’t move. Because movement will get my child killed.
Marco is spiraling. His anger is rising like a fever. I need to redirect. I need to give him something that releases pressure without giving him power.
“Marco,” I say softly, “you don’t want to do this.”
His laugh is sharp. “You don’t know what I want.”
“I do,” I say, and I put the truth in it this time, careful. “You want to matter.”
His eyes flash. His mouth opens, words jammed behind fury.
I continue, voice steady. “You want to be seen. You want to stop feeling like everyone moved on without you.”
Marco’s breathing stutters. For a heartbeat, his expression wavers again. Hurt cutting through rage.
It’s enough. Enough to make him hesitate. Enough to make his grip shift.
Enough to give me a window.
My gaze flicks, only for a fraction, to the space behind him. To the guard positioned at the perfect angle, hidden by the service vehicle’s bulk. I don’t move my head. I don’t change my posture. But I lift my left hand slightly. Two fingers.
A signal so small, no one notices unless they’ve been trained to read my body like a language. The guard behind Marco adjusts. I feel the air tighten.
Marco’s eyes narrow. “What did you—?”
I keep talking, voice smooth, keeping his attention on me. “Marco,” I say, stepping half a pace closer, “this was never about Nico.”
Marco’s face twists. “It’s about you taking everything!”
Wrong angle. Wrong phrasing. I see it the second the words land. Marco’s pupils blow wider. His rage spikes. His hand jerks. His finger tightens on the trigger.
Time slows. I see Nico’s tears suspended on his lashes. I see Lucia’s lips part like she’s about to scream. I see Marco’s hand shaking. I see the guard behind him, preparing to move.
Everything happens in seconds. It feels like hours. And the only thought in my head, sharp enough to cut through everything else, is brutal and singular:
Not my son.