For a moment, everything is perfect. Then my father appears. He walks past me without looking, offering his hand to Dante. “Congratulations, ragazzo. First place. Well done.”
Dante beams. “Thank you, sir.”
My father turns to me, face already pinched. “Time to go. Say goodbye.”
The joy drains from my limbs. I force a smile and clap Dante’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
He frowns a little, noticing the stiffness, but I walk away before he can say anything else.
At home, Mama meets me at the door. She wraps me in a quick hug that smells like lavender and fresh bread.
“How did you do, amore?” she asks.
“I got second place,” I say proudly.
“That’s wonderful—”
“No,” my father snaps, stepping inside behind me. “It is not wonderful. It’s a disgrace.”
My stomach drops.
“Mio marito,” Mama begins softly, “he—”
“Quiet.”
The word slices the air clean in half.
He towers over me. “Second place is failure. Second place is weakness. You need to train harder. Be better. A future Don doesn’t lose.”
“I—”
My voice sticks in my throat, terror pressing down on my lungs.
“Outside,” he orders.
I obey. Hours blur into sweat and dirt and burning lungs. Laps. Sprints. Again. Again. Again.
My legs scream. My chest feels like it’s on fire.
Tears burn behind my eyes, but I don’t let them fall—not while he’s watching.
When he finally stops me, I can barely stand. He crouches down until his face is level with mine, voice cold enough to freeze the sweat on my skin.
“You push harder. Or you will never be Don.”
He turns and walks inside, letting the door slam shut behind him.
The second it closes, I collapse onto the grass, clutching my legs with shaking hands, trying to rub the pain away. I drop my head back against the ground, staring at the sky through a blur.
I’ll never be Don, I think. Not because I’m weak—but because it should be Dante.
It’s always been Dante. And the truth settles warm in my chest, easing the ache for the first time.
I slowed down today. On purpose. Because I don’t want the crown. I never have. I’m built to be second. To protect. To follow where he leads. To make sure he never falls, even if I have to bleed to keep him standing.
A smile cracks through the pain. A small one, but real.
Then my father’s voice thunderbolts across the yard, his silhouette filling the doorway.
