"Useful and trustworthy are different things." But his voice was less sharp. "You're proving the first. Time will tell about the second."
It was the closest thing to approval I'd gotten from him. I'd take it.
Luca was friendlier from the start.
He'd wander into my office during lunch breaks and ask questions about my life before Inferno. Where I went to school. What I'd studied. What I'd wanted to be before Giuseppe decided my future for me.
I gave him edited versions that left out the worst parts. The suffocation. The constant feeling of being decoration. The auctions and expectations and slow death by a thousand indignities.
Luca seemed to understand anyway.
"Families are fucked up," he said one afternoon, sprawled in the chair across from my desk like he owned it. "Doesn't matter if they're criminals or legitimate. They all find ways to make you feel like you're failing just by being yourself."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Always." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My father wanted me to be a lawyer. Respectable. Legitimate. When I chose this instead—" He gestured at the club around us. "—he disowned me. Said I was a disappointment."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I chose this. Just like you chose to stay. And honestly? I'm happier here than I ever was trying to be what he wanted." Luca studied me. "Are you? Happy here?"
Was I?
I thought about it. About the work that gave me purpose. About Matteo who made me feel wanted. About Sandro's trust and Elio's grudging respect and Luca's easy friendship.
About the guards who followed me everywhere. The inability to leave. The constant awareness that I was still in a cage even if the bars were invisible.
"I don't know if happy is the right word," I admitted. "But I'm more myself here than I ever was with my family. That has to count for something."
"It counts for everything." Luca stood. "Back to work. Sandro wants those quarterly projections by Friday."
***
The hardest part was the guilt.
I was helping the organization my father was trying to destroy through FBI cooperation. Every financial improvement I made strengthened the Vitales. Every tax deduction I found gave them more resources. Every restructuring made their legitimate businesses more profitable.
I was actively working against Giuseppe's interests.
The realization hit me one afternoon while reviewing restaurant revenues. I sat back in my chair and stared at the numbers, feeling sick.
This was betrayal. Real, concrete betrayal. Not just choosing to stay with Matteo—that was personal. But this? Using my skills to help the Vitales while my father worked with federal agents to bury them?
This was choosing sides in a war. And I'd chosen against my own blood.
I must have looked upset when Matteo appeared in my doorway.
"What's wrong?" he asked, concern clear on his face.
"I'm betraying my father." The words came out flat. "Not just by staying here. By actively helping you. Making your businesses more profitable while he's trying to destroy you."
Matteo closed the door and crossed to me. "Do you regret it?"
Did I?
I thought about Giuseppe sending me on a suicide mission. About twenty-three years of being treated like decoration. About Antonio calling to demand I come home and perform my role as the pretty son.
About the freedom I'd found here. The purpose. The feeling of being valued for my mind instead of my appearance.
