Chapter 1
Louis
"I want to go to her funeral," Enzo said to Papa, his voice heavy with grief. He was talking about his girlfriend, who had just died.
"No, you can't," Papa replied calmly.
"But I want to go," Enzo repeated, anger sharpening his tone. His eyes were filled with frustration and distress, but Papa didn't seem to care about his request.
"Enzo, there's no need for you to go to the funeral of a useless girl," Papa said, his voice still steady, his gaze fixed on his laptop screen as he puffed on a cigar. If I was reading him right, Papa looked almost pleased.
"She's not useless. She's my girlfriend," Enzo snapped, his voice rising as tears he had tried to hold back spilled down his cheeks. His lips trembled, turning red, like Valentino's do when he cries—my baby boy, who shares Enzo's dark hair and eyes.
"Enzo, it's good she died. She wasn't good enough for you," Papa said, finally looking at him. "Don't worry. I'll find you a rich, well-bred girl."
Papa looked indifferent, still oblivious to the depth of Enzo's pain. I couldn't understand how he missed it, especially when he had suffered for years after Mama's death.
"It's not good that she died. I loved her," Enzo choked out, finally breaking down. His sobs were raw and real, a painful reminder of his loss.
"Come on, Enzo. What do you know about love? You're just 17. And how long did you date that girl? One year?" Papa scoffed. "You're just upset because you won't be getting those benefits anymore—the kisses, the hugs, and all those silly little talks."
"There's no such thing as love. If you had dated her for over three years, you'd have been the first to stop loving her and want to break up. That's just how men are," he added with a smirk.
"No, I love her. What the hell do you know about love?" Enzo shouted, tears streaming down his face.
"Enzo, you don't have time to waste on love," Papa said firmly. "You need to prepare for joining the company next year. Stop crying like a child and act like a man. And no—you're not going to that funeral."
Enzo stormed out of the office, leaving me alone with Papa.
"Papa, that was too harsh," I said, feeling a pang of sadness for Enzo. "You didn't have to talk to him like that."
"He's too soft, always talking about love. What nonsense," Papa muttered, irritation evident in his voice. "I hate that he's so soft, just like his Mama." A sudden awkwardness crossed his face. Did he hate Mama too? Is that why he always ignored her?
As I grew older, I realized they never shared a strong emotional connection. Mama had wanted that closeness, but Papa dismissed her, focused only on his own desires. After she died, he grieved in his way, but he also blamed Enzo, punishing him for something that wasn't his fault.
I used to think Papa loved Mama, but he rarely showed it. The company was his priority. He would even forget her birthday, their anniversary. Mama would prepare everything herself—baking a cake or making a special meal—hoping he'd come home. But many times, he wouldn't, claiming he had sudden work. The servants respected her deeply; she was a kind, gentle woman. But anyone could see the hurt in her eyes each time Papa ignored her like that.
"I'll take him to the funeral if you let me," I offered.
"Then both of you can end up on the front page of a newspaper, and I'll have to double the guards to protect you from the police, enemies, and everyone else," Papa replied coldly.
