Page 10 of Marcello DeLuca

He sighed. “There was someone, a long time ago.” His voice dropped to a more contemplative tone. “She made me feel things I didn’t think were possible. But life had other plans.”

I was taken aback. I had been told my mother was a one-night stand who left me at the hospital after childbirth. Beyond that, I rarely heard the great Ramiri DeLuca speak of his past, especially matters of the heart.

“What happened?” I asked, leaning in, eager to understand this new layer of the man I thought I knew.

He stared into his espresso, his thoughts far away. “Our worlds were too different. Choices had to be made. Sacrifices chosen. It was the right thing to do, but it left a mark. One I carry to this day.”

The silence between us stretched through time and space, connecting his past with my present.

“Do you ever regret it?” I asked.

His eyes and tone grew somber. “Regret? Perhaps. But more than that, there’s a sense of what might have been. It’s not something I dwell on. The life we chose doesn’t allow for what-ifs.”

His words struck a chord deep within me, making me realize Lanay was more than a passing interest. She represented a possibility, a chance to feel something real. She also represented a risk of the kind of heartbreak my father experienced.

“So, Marcello,” his resolute tone cut into my thoughts. “Be sure about what you want. Our world doesn’t forgive mistakes, and it doesn’t always accommodate matters of the heart.”

I nodded. “I’ll be careful,” I promised, though I had no idea of how to shield my heart from Lanay when just the thought of her beautiful smile had me feeling like giving her the world.

He offered a slight smile. “Good luck with her, son. Sounds like you’re going to need it.”

With that, he picked up his newspaper, signaling the end of our conversation. But as he settled back into his chair, I saw a shadow of something flicker across his face—a trace of longing, perhaps, or a memory of someone who had once made him feel the way Lanay made me feel. It was a rare glimpse into the heart of a man who had built his life around strength and control, and it reminded me that even the hardest hearts have their tender spots.

I stood up to leave the kitchen, taking my father’s words with me.

Later that evening, I arrived at the theater about the time Lanay practice ends. My heart was racing. I scanned the area, and there she was, walking out of the building with her gym bag slung over her shoulder. Her uncle wasn’t there this time, so I seized the moment.

“Hey, Lanay,” I called out, and she turned to look at me, her eyes widening in surprise.

“Hi, Marcello,” she replied, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You have a minute?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Maybe we could get a coffee or something?”

“We got out of practice thirty minutes early today, so I have a little time, but I don’t think I sh...” She hesitated, glancing around before shrugging. “Sure, why not?”

As we walked to a nearby café, her scent lingered in the air, a delicate, floral fragrance that was intoxicating, making me want to lean in closer, to breathe her in completely. She was wearing a simple but elegant dress that hugged her figure just right, accentuating her natural curves without being overly revealing. It was a deep shade of blue, the color of midnight skies. The dress complemented her skin tone perfectly and made her look even more striking.

We talked about everything and nothing as we walked. She told me about her role in the school play, how much she loved acting. I listened, captivated by her passion and the way her eyes lit up when she spoke.

As we settled into our seats with our drinks, I couldn't help but notice the way she glanced around the café, as if checking for familiar faces. There was a tension about her, a nervous energy.

I decided to address the elephant in the room. “So, I assume your dad doesn’t like me.”

Her expression shifted instantly, a flicker of pain crossing her face. “It’s... complicated,” she began, her voice soft and guarded. “He’s my uncle, actually. I live with him because my parents... they’re not around.”

My heart sank. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, feeling like an idiot for bringing up painful memories. The last thing I wanted was to cause her discomfort.

“It’s okay,” she replied, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just the way things are.”

I nodded, sensing that there was much more to her story but knowing better than to press for details. We slipped into easier conversation, and gradually, the tension eased. Her laughter, soft and melodic, filled the space between us, and I found myself captivated by everything about her—the way she moved, the subtle scent of her perfume, the warmth in her eyes.

As we talked, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. She was, without a doubt, different from anyone I’d ever met. There was a depth to her that drew me in, made me want to understand her, to protect her.

“Maybe we could grab a coffee again sometime?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound too eager.

She smiled, a soft, warm smile that sent my heart into overdrive. “I’m pushing it with my uncle already, Marcello,” she said, her tone regretful.

“He doesn’t want you talking to me?” I asked, already suspecting the answer but wanting to hear it from her.

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