Can you damage someone beyond repair?
Luca plays his role as the loyal underboss. Violent, lethal, flawless. The lapdog, the starboy.
On the surface, he maintains his facade of smirks and casual charm, but beneath the mask, thereʼs a profound dark...
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7 Years Ago, 18 years old
LIFE IS GOOD. TOO GOOD, maybe. The kind of good where you don’t ask questions, because everything falls into place. No need to wonder why or how. You just coast.
It’s summer break—hot days, long nights. I take Mickey and Phillip to the park when Ma’s too tired to deal with them. I hang out with the guys, and we fuck around just enough to keep it interesting but not enough to get hauled in by the cops.
Life is good.
I don’t think about the family business. I don’t need to. My old man handles it. Strong, silent type, but he makes sure we always have what we need. Granted, he leaves at odd times, and Ma gives him that look—brows pulled together, lips pressed tight—but she doesn’t say a word. She never does. She just keeps the stove on, the house warm, the table set.
Mickey, my ten-year-old brother, shuffles into the kitchen with a scowl that could curdle milk. He sits down at the table and glares at his plate like it’s personally betrayed him.
I toss a couple strips of bacon onto his plate. “Still pissed off, huh?”
He doesn’t even look up, just pokes at his food like it’s an enemy. I know why he’s like this. Caught him last night with his friends trying to smoke a cigarette.
“Maybe if you weren’t carrying on like some kind of badass, I wouldnʼt have flipped out on you.”
Mickey rolls his eyes, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. “You didn’t have to act like such a fucking asshole about it.”
“Michael!” Our mother yells from the kitchen. “You watch that mouth of yours or I’ll get over there and wash it down with soap!”
I glance over at Phillip, who’s happily making a mess of his high chair, eggs smeared across his chubby face. I drop a forkful of eggs into his tiny hands and he giggles.
“That’s right, Philly boy. Make sure you get it all over your face,” I drawl.
Phillip laughs like itʼs the funniest shit heʼs ever heard, and splatters eggs everywhere.
“Luca, quit messing around!” Ma calls out again.
I huff a little laugh and chew on my bacon.
Just then, the door creaks open and my father walks in. The dining table gets a whole lot quieter. Especially when the boys see who’s trailing behind our father—our good ol’ Uncle Sal.
Not the kind of guy you want showing up unannounced. Big, thick, and built like a tank, with a permanent scowl carved into his face like it was chiseled out of stone. He wore a gold chain thick enough to tow a fucking car, always visible against his half-unbuttoned shirt.
My uncle didn’t believe in subtlety. He was loud, brash, and when he walked into a room, the air got heavier, like even the walls had to adjust to his presence.
