Not So Vibrant, Not So Dull (draft) ✔

Chapter Three: A Steaming Cup

My father wasn't just any criminal; he was a man who held power in places where most people didn't even know power existed. Saying 'no' to him was like playing Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded. I was born to the devil, and being called back to hell was unavoidable. His presence was a force, a shadow that swallowed up every inch of space in my small studio apartment, making it feel claustrophobic.

"This is what you've made of yourself?" he asked, his voice light but dripping with disdain. His fingers trailed along the back of the couch facing the bed, the soft leather making a faint sound under his touch. He lingered there for a moment, looking out through the tall glass window at the city beyond, before turning his attention back to me.

"You're living like... what? A monk?" He gestured to the apartment with a sweeping motion, as if the carefully chosen monochrome aesthetic was some sort of childish rebellion.

My heart pounded, but I stayed quiet, trying not to flinch as he walked over to the bed. He sat down heavily, his hand knocking on the bed frame. "Cheap. You could've done better, but I guess this is what you settle for when you cut ties with the family." He laughed softly to himself, a low chuckle that sent a chill down my spine.

The black-and-white aesthetic of the apartment didn't seem to impress him. It was simple, minimal, everything in its place—the opposite of the chaos that surrounded him. His fingers trailed along the back of the couch facing the bed, the soft leather making a faint sound under his touch. He lingered there for a moment, looking out through the tall glass window at the city beyond, before turning his attention back to me.

He ran a hand over the white duvet, his fingers brushing the fabric like he was testing its quality, but it was all a game. He didn't care about the sheets. He cared about control. His eyes drifted to the glass window once more, the rain tapping lightly against it. The city lights glimmered outside, but inside, it was just me and him—locked in this invisible battle.

"Did you use any of the money I sent you?"

I didn't respond. He wasn't interested in an answer anyway.

He stood up suddenly, crossing the room with a predator's grace. He paused near the piano in the corner, running his fingers along the black lacquered finish. "This," he said, with a slight nod, "is more like it."

He touched the keys softly, playing a single note that echoed through the room. "I remember when you used to play for me. You were good." His voice was soft, but there was a sharpness to it, a reminder of who he was, and what I used to be to him.

"Why are you here?" I asked, my voice more strained than I'd hoped.

He gave a slow, almost theatrical smile, his face like a mime—mask-like, exaggerated, and yet completely void of real emotion. "Well, Castsey told me you were so upset that I hadn't come to see you," he said, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. I watched as he walked up to the bed and collapsed onto it with casual arrogance.

"I thought I made it clear to you that I want nothing to do with Matteo Lombardy anymore," I said, my voice steady, though my body remained stiff by the door. I couldn't move. My defiance felt like it hung in the air between us, weak and irrelevant.

"Do you still play?" Instead of answering my previous question he tossed another question my way. But there was no real interest in his expressions for an answer from my end. It was more of a taunt.

I stayed silent, my muscles tight, watching him as he surveyed the room again, as if cataloguing every flaw, every weakness. I could feel the weight of his gaze, even when he wasn't looking directly at me. He paused near the window again, his reflection blurred by the rain running down the glass.