Page 59 of The Italian Reckoning
My attention dips to the off-white cast thickly wrapped around my broken arm. I’ve broken limbs in the past, but this was different. This was done on purpose by my own father, andthen I was denied medical treatment for hours so he could get his point across. As sickening as the pain was—and still is—nothing hurt quite like my father pinning me by my broken arm on the floor of the limo while he detailed all the twisted things he’d do to Sarah the next time I step out of line.
I learned a lesson, alright.
My father is unreachable. He’s an archaic figurehead from a time when respect was beaten out of people, not earned. I hate him.
I hate him.
“You know…” Standing, I straighten my shirt and look him dead in the eye. “You accept modern solutions to things like our organ shipments. I respect that. But what I don’t respect is how you fail to see that we can do more for our people, and build a stronger family, by being out there among our people rather than dictating their lives from stuffy offices.”
My father’s face darkens like a sky consumed by a rolling storm and he slams his glass down so hard that his precious Scotch sloshes over his fingers. “Rocky?—”
“Goodnight, Father.”
The word tastes like ash and I hold my head high as I exit the meeting hall. I know I shouldn’t taunt him. Knowing my luck, I’ll eat shit tomorrow as punishment or, God forbid, Sarah will end up in harm's way because I can’t keep my mouth shut.
But I’m tired. I’m in pain. And I’m defeated.
What more can I do but poke the bear until he ends my life? I have no power here, not really. He made that abundantly clear. I’m just his son, a bag to kick around when he wants to send a message. What kind of life is this?
Even leaving bears the risk that Matteo will just go straight for Sarah. The thought of anything happening to her turns my stomach and I ache just to hear her voice. To know that she’s okay.
Fuck.
How did things get so fucking complicated?
I wander the manor until the estate falls silent as those with responsibility retire to bed, leaving no one awake but me and a handful of guards who pay me no mind. Most won’t even look me in the eye because they fear my father, and I can’t blame them.
My wandering eventually brings me to the kitchen where I stand near the fridge and wrestle one-handed with the bottle of painkillers. My broken arm throbs like a bruise under constant pressure and several small spots hidden under the cast itch like ants dancing across my skin. I hate it.
“Let me.” A warm hand reaches over my shoulder and takes the medicine bottle from me. Domenico pops the cap with ease and tips a couple of pills onto the palm of his hand. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say gruffly, taking the offered pills and swallowing them dry. They catch in the back of my throat and I cough slightly while Dominico hands me a glass of water.
“Drink.”
I almost tell him to fuck off but in the end, I chase the pills with several gulps of cool water and they slide down without issue. “Thanks.”
“How’s the pain?”
“How do you think?”
“Rocky.”
“What?”
“I’m not your father.”
“And?” Irritation swells up like a balloon in my chest and I face Domenico with fire in my eyes, but there’s nothing but calmness in his.
Because that’s what he’s always been. Calm. Maybe that’s how he’s survived being my father’s advisor for all these years.Even now, he looks like we’re discussing something as simple as the weather, and my stomach flips.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” Domenico takes the empty glass from me. “I’m asking because I need to know if you need an adjustment in the pain medication. It was a clean break but it was tormented.”
“Because that’s what he does,” I mutter softly. “He torments.”
To Domenico’s credit, he has been there for me over the years. Always a silent, calm shadow to take care of me after my father’s outbursts, and even to take a few blows himself. One thing I’ve never been able to work out, though, is why he stays. And why my father hasn’t killed him. They’re cut from similar cloth and were raised together as children, so that has to influence him sometimes, but I can’t connect how two men from the same walk of life turned out so differently.
