Page 9 of Untamed

And there it is.

To Don Luciano Russo, I will always be his blade. “You don’t get to step back, Ares. Not when your name still carries weight. Not when men still flinch at the sound of it.”

“I didn’t come here to be dragged back in.”

“You never left,” he says, rising from his chair, voice low and final. “You just got comfortable pretending.”

I finally look at him. Not at the tailored suit or the gold ring he always taps against the table when he’s trying to prove a point. I look at his eyes. Cold and calculated. The same ones I used to flinch from as a kid.

I don’t flinch anymore. That particular fear got stripped out of me a long time ago.

“I didn’t pretend,Papà.”

The word tastes like rust in my mouth. I haven’t called him that in years, not like this. Not with this weight, this amount of bitterness laced in every letter.

I observe his reaction closely. He doesn't flinch. Of course he doesn’t. He just tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m some uncooperative asset that needs realignment.

“I survived.” I add.

That gets a pause.

He leans forward slowly, placing his hands on the table like we're just two businessmen discussing logistics. Not a father and son. Not a monster and thethinghe created.

“You think surviving makes you free?” His voice is calm, almost amused. “No,figlio mio. It makes you mine.”

There it is...the reminder. That godforsaken branding under my skin that never quite fades, no matter how many years pass, no matter how many times I try to wash my hands clean of the thingshemade me do.

I laugh once. Dry. Quiet. Like the breath before a gunshot.

“You don’t own me.”

He raises a brow. Just one. Like a man humouring a child.

“No?” he says. “And yet here you are. Sitting across from me. Wearing my name. Speaking my language. Handling my problems.”

“I didn’t come here for you,” I mutter. “I came for the sake of keeping the peace. I grew tired of killing the men you kept sending after me.”

He smiles, but it's not warm. It never fucking is.

“Peace?” he echoes. “You think this world allows peace, Ares? You think your little club and your silent rules make you clean?”he presses. “I let you play at freedom because I knew you’d eventually come crawling back. They always do.”

The muscle in my jaw twitches. I look away, just for a second, to keep from snapping, but inside I can feel my blood boiling.

My father doesn’t need volume to be dangerous. He doesn’t need threats. His power is in belief, he truly believes he owns me. That my pain is just proof of his fucking legacy.

“Do you see me on my knees?” I say flatly.

“Of course not,” he says. “Because you’re bleeding standing up. It’s the Russo way.” And then, softer...just for me. “I built you from bone and fire, Ares. You don’t get to decide when you're done being mine.” He straightens and readjusts his cuffs like the conversation is over. Like I’m dismissed. “Handle the situation in Messina.Quietly.” He pauses for a beat before speaking again. “Before someone else does itloudly.”

And then he’s gone. No goodbye. No gesture. Just that lingering scent of expensive cologne and a lifetime of control. I stand there for a long time, staring at the espresso I never touched. The ring of it staining the saucer like a blood mark.

I could ignore him. Walk away.Again.

But I know how this game works. In this family, walking away just means someone else bleeds for you.

They say blood makes you family, but in this one, blood makes youproperty.

I was born into a legacy of silence and obedience. Taught to hurt first, ask never, and bleed without question. My father didn’t raise sons, he bred soldiers. Tools. Weapons with his name engraved down the spine.

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