Page 30 of Luciano

My father walked in.

“The guards said you were down here.” He stepped forward, his shoes clicking against the floor. “I assume there’s a reason for that?”

I straightened, adjusting my glasses. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, eyes flicking to the heads, then back to me. He studied me.

Then—

“Go to bed, Luciano.” His voice was level but firm. “We have more guests arriving tomorrow. You’ll need to be well-rested.”

I nodded, moving to stand.

I took a step and he stopped me, his hand resting on my shoulder.

He exhaled. “You’ll also have to settle things with Carlos’s father. Eventually.”

I nodded once.

“You understand what that means?”

“Yes,” I said, because it was what he wanted to hear, but I didn’t give a fuck about Carlos’s father. He would have to do what I’d done. Seek vengeance and die or live with doing nothing.

It made no difference to me.

Silence stretched between us.

I just stared at him. Could see the guilt in his eyes. It was always there. He felt responsible for what happened to me. To my mother.

I didn’t blame him for the actions of others.

I blamed him for the exile.

For sending me away like I was an inconvenience.

He called it necessity. Survival. He framed it as protecting me. But I know the truth—he didn’t know what to do with me.

My grandmother had been cruel. I think she made me worse.

She believed that I shouldn’t feel.

I was a boy, so to her, that meant I could not afford softness. Could not afford grief. Could not afford to be anything other than what she expected a man to be.

She called my silence strength. My detachment discipline.

She never considered that maybe I just needed a hug. A platitude.

I respected my father. He had never been abusive or cruel to me. He’s a powerful man, a leader. I understand why men followed him. I understand why he’s feared.

But do I love him?

I don’t know.

I remember only having fondness for my mother. She was warmth, softness. I can still hear her voice in my head when the screaming stops, still remember the way she smelled, the way her arms felt around me.

The years before she was taken are murky, fragmented pieces that don’t always make sense. But I remember her.

I don’t remember loving my father.

---