Twisted Obsession

39 - Breaking Point

Lorenzo Vincelli

I grip the edge of the nightstand for balance, my legs trembling under my weight. My mother hovers by the door, wringing her hands, her worry etched in every line of her face. I hate that I’ve become another burden for her to carry.

"Ma, please," I say again, softer this time. "Go rest. You’ve been fussing over me since we left Milan. I’m fine."

She waves me off, crossing her arms. "Fine? You call barely walking fine? Lorenzo, you're my son. I’ll stop worrying when you give me a reason to."

I don’t respond. What could I say? That I got shot because I trusted the wrong person? That Riccardo, my own blood, vanished when I needed him most? That Luciana, the girl my mother once called a ‘poor little baby,’ put me in this position?

I shuffle to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. My reflection stares back, pale and strained. The dark circles under my eyes mirror the storm brewing inside me. If only she understood that her "precious babies" were the reason I was here, alone in New York, licking my wounds.

When I return, she’s tidying up the room, humming some old lullaby she used to sing when we were kids. The nostalgia makes my chest ache. I sink into the chair by the window, the late morning sun casting long shadows across the floor.

"Ma, really," I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair. "You don’t have to—"

"Lorenzo, enough." Her voice is firm, cutting through my protest. "I’m not going anywhere, so stop trying to convince me otherwise." She crosses her arms, her no-nonsense tone leaving no room for argument. "Now, I’ve made you some soup. It’s hot and waiting on the table. Go eat—it’ll do you good."

I sigh, knowing better than to argue when she gets like this. The scent of the soup wafts through the air, faint but enticing. My stomach churns in response, reminding me I hadn’t eaten much since this whole mess began.

"Fine," I say, forcing myself up from the chair. The ache in my side flares, but I grit my teeth and push through.

She watches me carefully, her brows knitting together in concern. "Slowly, Lorenzo. You’ll tear the stitches again if you push yourself too hard."

"I’m fine, Ma," I reply, sharper than I intend. Her frown deepens, and guilt gnaws at me. "Sorry," I add, softer this time. "I didn’t mean it like that."

Her face softens, and she gives a small nod, stepping aside as I make my way to the dining table. The soup sits there, steam curling upward from the bowl. It smells like home—simple, comforting, familiar.

I lower myself into the chair with a wince and pick up the spoon. My mother hovers nearby, straightening already-neat items on the counter, pretending not to watch me like a hawk.

"You don’t have to stand there," I say, stirring the soup absently.

"I’m just making sure you eat," she replies.

I roll my eyes but take a sip, the warmth spreading through me. For a moment, the tension in my shoulders eases, and the room feels less heavy.

The brief peace is shattered by a knock at the door. Three sharp raps, deliberate and unhurried. My spoon pauses midair. My mother glances toward the door, her brows furrowing.

"I’ll get it," she says, already moving.

"Wait." My voice is firm, stopping her in her tracks. The knock wasn’t casual—it had weight behind it, purpose. My instincts, dulled as they might be, tell me to be cautious. "Let me check first."

But before I can rise, she’s already at the door, her hand on the handle.

"Ma, don’t, seriously?—"