Page 38 of The Scars We Keep
The marble floors shine under low lighting.Portraits of deceased men line the walls, ancestors who built this empire on the backs of others, taking what they wanted and calling it legacy.I used to stare at those paintings as a kid, wondering if any of them loved their children more than they loved their power.
I know the answer now.
My father’s office is at the end of the hall, beyond the sitting room where my mother used to wait for him to come home.That’s where she’d sit with a glass of wine that often turned into a bottle, pretending she didn’t know where he was or who he was with.I still see her there sometimes, a ghost of a woman who gave up fighting a long time ago.
I move further into the house with the four De Luca men following close behind.
When I reach the door to my fathers office, I stop and turn to face them.
“You wait here,” I say.
I turn back around when they follow, anger flaring hot in my chest.
“I said wait here.”
The one nearest to me stiffens, the same bastard who eye-fucked me in Lorenzo’s foyer.Up close, he’s even worse.Cold eyes that hold too much curiosity.
“We have orders not to let you out of sight,” he says.
I tilt my head, standing my ground.Spine straight.I’ve faced worse than him.Hell, I’ve survived worse than him.
“You think my father’s going to slit my throat in the middle of a meeting?”I ask, voice dripping with disdain.“Back the hell off before I make sure Lorenzo hears about how his men don’t know the difference between protection and babysitting.”
The silence stretches, taut as a wire ready to snap.
Something dark flickers in his eyes, something that makes my stomach turn.The others peel away one by one until it’s just him.The creep.He holds my gaze a second longer than necessary.Then finally, he retreats.
I push the door open and walk inside.
Walking into this room is like walking back into a version of myself I prefer not to think about.The little girl who used to sit outside this very door, knees pulled to her chest, waiting for her father to notice her.Waiting for him to call her in, to ask about her day.That seven-year-old who believed that if she was good enough and smart enough, he might love her the way fathers are supposed to love their daughters.
She died in this room.Killed by a man who saw her as an asset before he ever saw her as a child.
My father neither stands nor shows any sign of warmth or affection.He simply gestures to the chair across from him with one hand, casual as if I were a business associate rather than his daughter.
“Sit,” he says.
I don’t.I won’t give him the satisfaction of obedience.Not anymore.
His fingers tap once on the wood before he leans back, studying me with the same detached interest he’d give a balance sheet.
“How’s married life?”he asks.
The question is so absurd and grotesquely inappropriate considering everything he’s done that I almost laugh.
Instead, I raise an eyebrow.“Cut the shit.”
He smirks as if this is amusing and I’m entertaining him.
“What does Lorenzo want?”he asks.
There it is.Right out of the gate.No pretending he cares about me beyond what I can do for him.Straight to the point.My chest aches with that old, familiar rage.
“Why?”I bite out.
“Because I need to know what game he’s playing.”
“He’s not playing anything.”
