Page 8 of Vicious Heir

Chapter 3

Adriano

Irip back the curtains. Sunlight spills into the room. It smells stale with sweat and urine. An enormous bed takes up most of the space while piles of books are stacked against the far wall.

“How are you feeling today, Papa?” I ask.

My father mumbles something from the bed. He squints at me, hand held up over his face. He’s been awake for an hour now, but every time he tries to get his day started, he ends up back in bed after forgetting what he was trying to do.

“One of those mornings,” I say softly, helping him shuffle off the covers. His arms are so thin, and his skin feels like paper. He grunts something at me, only somewhat verbal. There’s a glimmer of recognition in his expression, though, and I wonder who he thinks I am today.

I help him into the bathroom and guide him through his morning routine. With the proper nudges, he’s mostly self-sufficient, though I have to help keep him on track. Otherwise, he’d get lost brushing his teeth and fall into an endless loop ofrinsing, spitting, and starting all over again. I help him dress, humming some of his favorite music as I do, and get him into his wheelchair. It’s not strictly necessary, but I find he’s happier sitting down for some reason.

I watch him put on his shoes and take them off again for the next half hour while I read briefings at the small table near his TV. The nurse will come soon, and she’ll help him through breakfast.

My father, the great Don of the Marino Famiglia, hasn’t been seen in public for the last six months, ever since his dementia took a turn for the worse.

Before then, I could pretend. He was a sharp man before this ugly disease took him. I remember watching him when I was young and marveling at how he seemed to know everyone’s name. He could navigate a room like a shark through water, telling jokes that made violent mafioso laugh and blush at the same time while charming the hell out of their wives.

My father took the Marino Famiglia from a provincial little group known mostly for local bookmaking and turned it into a regional powerhouse.

“I met a girl last night.” He’s half listening, half trying to tie his shoes. He mumbles something, and I think he’s speaking Italian, but it’s hard to follow. “You would’ve liked her. Very pretty. Bold too. She thought she was being clever, but I saw right through her tricks.” I smile to myself, reliving that first moment when Lucille Willing-Morris appeared in my office looking like she just saw a ghost.

Or worse, like she just saw a bunch of kinky BDSM sex without the proper mental preparation.

“Women will be your downfall,” Dad suddenly says. It’s clear and sharp, and he’s looking at me with narrowed eyes.

I sit up straight and turn to him. “Papa, do you know me right now?”

“I always say it. Women, Bruno, women.” Then he mumbles something in Italian and frowns at his shirt, trying to unbutton one of the buttons.

I sigh and slump back. Bruno is his brother’s name.

And he’s wrong about women.

I have my vices. I’m a flawed, cold, ruthless man. But messing around with too many women isn’t one of them.

No, ever since my father took a turn, I learned an important lesson.

Life is fleeting.

Relationships will fail.

One day I’ll be just like my old man, stuck in a chair, unable to fasten a simple button.

There’s no reason to ever get attached to anyone—much less to let them get attached to me.

I turn to my briefing again, distracting myself with the Famiglia’s work. Though my father’s technically still the Don, I’ve taken over all his duties. Only the most trusted and important members of the Famiglia hierarchy know, and I suspect most of them don’t realize just how far my father has slid in recent months.

It would break their hearts, seeing him like this. And he’d hate me if I ever let them.

Which is why I spend half my days taking care of him and protecting him the best I can.

There’s a knock at the door. Dad’s nurse is waiting on the threshold. “How is he today?” she asks, wheeling in a cart with his breakfast: soft scrambled eggs, a little bit of coffee, some yogurt, and a smoothie in case he has trouble eating.

“He thought I was Bruno again. Mostly, I can’t tell what he’s saying though.”

She pats my arm. Donatella’s a good Italian woman with connections to the Famiglia. She knows how to keep a secret, but more than that, she cares about my father. I’d never trust anyone else to take care of him.

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