My dad just sighs. “Enough with the dramatics,” he clips. “Are you getting married or not?”
“One day,” I smirk.
“Raffaele.”
“Andrea,” I parrot, fighting the urge to laugh when I notice his hands clenching into fists.
He lets out a condescending scoff. “I should never have let Beatrice raise you. She filled your head with useless nonsense—”
Something in me snaps at his tone and the fact he’s blaming Mom. And to add insult to injury, he’s doing it after earlier saying she raised me a certain way. Fucking bastard.
“Yes,” I snarl. “The answer is fucking yes. I’m getting married. And just so we’re crystal fucking clear, you’renotinvited to the wedding.”
I know it’s childish to provoke him. But considering I live my life in control ninety-nine percent of the time, I’ve earned said childish behavior. Besides, it really brings me joy to piss him off and let him know exactly how little he matters.
Just. Like. He. Did. To. Mom.
“I should have had more kids,” he sighs, like I didn’t just say the same thing not too long ago. He pauses, a light entering his eyes. “But congratulations. And speaking of which, I have someone I’d like you to meet.”
Oh, fuck no… surely he’s not going to… the frame shifts as he beckons someone over. A woman slides into view beside him, and my stomach turns.
She can’t be more than twenty-five, with overdrawn lips painted a garish red and eyeshadow so heavy it makes her look bruised. Her dress, if you can call that scrap of fabric a dress, reveals more than it conceals, and her smile holds all the sincerity of a shark’s.
“This is Valentina,” my dad announces, his hand settling possessively on her shoulder. “My fiancée.”
The word hit me like a physical blow. I don’t move, don’t blink, my expression frozen in place as my mind races to process what I’m hearing.
“Ciao, Raffaele,” she purrs, her voice dripping with practiced seduction. “Your papà has told me so much about you.” She leans closer to him, her breasts threatening to spill from her neckline. “You’re even more handsome than he said.”
I say nothing, watching as my dad’s hand slides lower on her back, proprietary and smug. The whiskey in my glass trembles slightly as my grip tightens.
“We’re thinking of a May wedding,” he continues, as if my silence is acceptance. “In Rome, of course. It’ll probably be at the villa.”
Something inside me cracks. The villa. The fucking place Mom begged him to take her to one last time before the cancer made travel impossible. He denied her wish because he was too busy.
“Disgustoso maile,” I spit out, the Italian flowing more naturally than English in this moment.Disgusting pig.
My dad’s eyes narrow. “Careful, son.”
“Traditore,” I continue, not caring that Valentina is watching, wide-eyed at my outburst. I’m not wrong. My dad’s a fucking traitor. “Mom’s barely even cold in her grave and you’re already replacing her.” My tone drops lower with each word.
“It’s been six months,” he counters, his voice hardening. “Life continues, Raffaele. And your mom would want me to be happy.”
“Don’t you dare presume to know what she would want.” The control I pride myself on is slipping, rage rising like floodwater against a failing dam. “You didn’t know her. You were never there.”
“I built everything we have.” His composure cracks for the first time, real anger flashing in his eyes. “While you were learning to tie your shoes, I was building an empire that would keep you all safe, keep you powerful. Your mother understood sacrifice.”
“Her sacrifice. Always hers.” My knuckles are white against the edge of my desk, where I’ve reached forward to grip it. “And now what? You parade this… this child around in clothes my mom wouldn’t use to wash her car, and expect me to call her what? Mamma?”
Valentina gasps, offended, but my dad’s hand on her thigh silences whatever protest she was about to make.
“You will show respect, Raffaele,” he warns, his voice dropping to a dangerous register I recognize all too well. “To me, and to my future wife. Whatever your feelings, she will be family.”
“She willneverbemyfamily.” The words are quiet but final. “And you? You’re nothing to me.”
I slam the laptop shut with enough force that the screen might have cracked. I don’t care. The silence that follows is broken only by my harsh breathing.
My cigar has burned down to ash in the crystal tray beside me. The whiskey in my glass is warm now, unpalatable. I toss it back anyway, welcoming the burn as punishment for losing control.
