The Don Didn't Recognize His Own Son

Lorenzo kicked the table over. Bottles smashed everywhere.

The floor was sharp with broken glass, like everything we used to be.

His face was twisted. "Yeah, I know you love money. I know it better than anyone."

He opened his mouth unconsciously, gasping heavily for breath.

He was remembering.

He was remembering when he ripped his heart out for me, and I traded it in for a million bucks.

I looked at him and smiled weakly.

My stomach was on fire. My head was floating off my shoulders.

"Fifty..."

I didn't finish. My knees gave and I was on the floor before I knew I was falling.

Then I was off the floor again. He'd scooped me up.

Lorenzo had me in his arms. He kicked the door open and walked straight out, like some cowboy.

People in the club turned to stare. I tried to push him off, told him to put me down.

He leaned down and bit my mouth. Hard.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a ferocious bite as if he wanted to devour me whole, yet also a painful kiss born of overwhelming longing.

"Don't move. You'll do what I tell you. We're going to the hospital."

He carried me out to the Cullinan and put me in the passenger seat.

He reached over to buckle me in and his hand brushed the cut on my shoulder. I gasped.

"Oh, now it hurts? Where was the tough act two seconds ago?"

His voice was furious. His hands were gentle.

I bit down and kept quiet.

He frowned and dug a painkiller out of the console.

"Take this. It'll get you through."

Seeing I didn’t respond, he clicked his tongue, pried my mouth open with his fingers, and pushed it in.

Then he drove.

I sank into the seat and stared at the dashboard ornament.

Two little cartoon people, smiling, holding hands, heads bobbing left and right.

I gave it to him a long time ago.

He said he was the boy and I was the girl, and we'd be just like them — always holding hands.

We'd be just like that, smiling at nothing, watching the world go by.

I felt the tears come.

Seven years. He never threw it away. He kept it where he had to look at it every day.

Life's a glass of something bitter. We all have things underneath the surface.

I turned away from him and wiped my face fast.

I took a breath and forced a smile.

"Lorenzo, why are you doing this? I let you go a long time ago."

"I can't believe you waited this long to get married. I've been married for years. My son's almost seven."

"Don't tell me you were holding out for me. Don't be stupid."

The brakes screamed.

The car jolted to a stop. The way we did seven years ago.

He unbuckled and turned, leaning over me. Pinned me between him and the door.

His hand came up around my throat. Slow pressure. He was speaking through his teeth.

"Liana. I don't believe you."

"You’d better not push me. I have a gun on me. Don't make me keep that promise about killing you."

His hand held my throat just tight enough. Left me just enough air to breathe.

I stared back at him. Got the words out.

"I will. Prove it."

He let go. Smiled, ugly.

"Fine. Get yourself patched up first. I'll wait for the proof."

He floored it. The Cullinan tore down the road.

After the hospital bandaged me up, I took him to the children's ward.

I stood outside the glass, pointed in at a small boy playing with toys.

"That's my son. Damian."

Damian looked like me. But he had Lorenzo's softness. Lorenzo's stubbornness.

He was my last ray of light in this world.

And he was dying. Almost seven years old, and so small it broke my heart.

Lorenzo stared at him. The light in his eyes went out inch by inch.

He slammed his fist into the wall. Pressed his forehead against it. Didn't move for a long time.

I think a tear fell. I think it hit the floor and bloomed and disappeared.

When he finally lifted his head, his voice was empty.

"Alright. I'll remember this. You'll pay it back, with interest."

Then he stumbled away.

He didn't ask about Damian's last name. I didn't tell him.

Damian's last name was Moretti.

Lorenzo Moretti's Moretti.