Chapter 90

NARRATOR

Sebastián De Luca clutched the steering wheel of his black Maserati, the headlights off so as not to betray his passage along the winding road. Each curve was a sharp reminder of the line he had crossed, an invisible border between the desire that consumed him and the guilt that tightened around his chest like a vise. Sofía Russo’s perfume still clung to his skin: jasmine and something darker, like the echo of a broken promise. Her lips, her whispered voice calling him amore mio, stabbed into his memory like a rusted dagger.

He loved her. And he hated her for making him feel that the world could burn for her.

He knew that love was a slow poison, a ticking bomb capable of reducing his family, his reputation, and the fragile control he still maintained over the organization to ashes. Sofía, the matriarch of the Russo family and his mother-in-law, was a whirlwind: beautiful, shrewd, with the eyes of someone who had buried her enemies and danced on their graves. She had survived the bloodiest wars of the Sicilian mafia, always emerging as an untouchable beacon in a sea of blood.

Sebastián had to tear her out of his soul. But every time he tried, her image tangled itself deeper in his gut.

While his heart fought that silent war, the De Luca mansion simmered on low heat, on the verge of exploding.

Valentina, in the main living room, drowned her fury in a glass of whisky that no longer hid the tremor in her hands. She had started the night with red wine, but the sweet taste wasn’t enough to extinguish the fire consuming her. Two hours waiting for Sebastián, two hours of silence that weighed like a sentence. Their last argument still burned her skin: his cold words, his gaze that cut through her as if she were just another piece of furniture, useful only for appearances.

Being the wife of a De Luca had reduced her to that: a decorative piece in a house that smelled of power and betrayal.

She poured herself another drink, the liquor burning her throat. In the bar mirror, her reflection challenged her: smeared mascara traced dark tracks beneath her eyes, her disheveled hair fell in rebellious strands, and her gaze burned with a mix of rage and desperation.

“You’re nothing but a shadow, Valentina,” she whispered, her voice broken by alcohol. “A shadow with a surname that doesn’t belong to you.”

She collapsed into the red velvet armchair, the rough fabric beneath her fingers. She closed her eyes and summoned the image of Carlo De Luca, her father-in-law. A monster, yes, but a titan who would have crushed any threat to his legacy. Sebastián, by contrast, seemed weak, a man who let the world slip through his fingers.

“Your father would never have allowed that priest to return,” she muttered, taking a long swallow of whisky. “And now Santiago, adopting some street brat… what a total humiliation.” A bitter laugh escaped her, harsh as shattered glass. “The De Lucas, reduced to cheap charity.”

The glass hit the table with a dry crack. She was about to pour another when a sound stopped her. A barely audible murmur, like a stolen sigh, from the kitchen. Then, a muffled laugh.

Valentina froze, senses sharpening, her pulse pounding in her temples. Her heels echoed like gunshots on the marble as she advanced down the hallway. She shoved the kitchen door open with a sharp movement, and the scene struck her like lightning.

Sofia, her barely fifteen-year-old daughter, was cornered in a nook, her lips pressed to those of the assistant chef—a nervous-eyed boy with clumsy hands gripping her waist. Their bodies moved with the awkward urgency of youth, oblivious to the world around them.

The whisky glass slipped from Valentina’s hand and shattered on the floor in a rain of glass.

“What the hell is going on here?” Her scream cut the air like a knife.

Sofia recoiled, pale, eyes wide with terror. The boy froze, his breathing ragged.

“Why do you have your hands on my daughter?” Valentina advanced, her gaze ablaze, fists clenched.

“Mom, let me explain,” Sofia stammered, her voice trembling.

The slap was lightning-fast. Valentina’s hand crashed against her daughter’s cheek, leaving a red mark that burned in the dim light.

“You’re a disgrace! A slut!” she roared. “Don’t you know who you are? A De Luca! That name demands respect.”

Sofia looked at her, tears spilling over, but her voice came out firm.

“He loves me, Mom. Don’t hurt him, I beg you.”

“Love?” Valentina let out a laugh that was more a snarl. “He’s a servant! A nobody who washes dishes!” She turned toward the door, her voice sharp as a razor. “Guards!”

Two bulky shadows burst into the kitchen.

“Take him,” Valentina ordered, pointing at the boy. “To the basement.”

“No, Mom, no!” Sofia screamed, throwing herself at her, but Valentina grabbed her by the hair and dragged her down the hallway into the living room. She shoved her to the floor brutally.

“Do you know what your father will do when he finds out?” she hissed, leaning over her. “He’ll lock you in a convent until you learn to respect this name!”

Sofia, her face streaked with tears, lifted her chin.

“My dad isn’t like you. He won’t force me to marry one of your associates, some shitty capo who only wants my last name.”

The second blow was crueler, its echo ringing through the room.

“Shut up! Respect me!”

“Respect is earned, Mom,” Sofia replied, her voice broken but defiant. “And you don’t have it.”

Valentina’s face twisted in pure fury.

“Go to your room. This week you’re going to a convent. And that miserable boy…” her voice turned icy, “is already dead.”

Sofia screamed, but Valentina was already heading for the basement, her footsteps pounding like a war drum.

In the basement, the young man was tied to a chair, his face swollen, a thin line of blood running from his split lip. The guards had beaten him to the brink of unconsciousness. When Valentina entered, her presence cut the air like a guillotine. The men stepped aside, lowering their heads.

“You thought you could touch my daughter?” Her voice was slow poison, each word distilled with contempt. “You’ll pay with blood.”

“Ma’am, please…” the boy babbled, barely conscious. “I didn’t mean to offend you… I love her.”

“You love her,” Valentina repeated, a cruel smile curving her lips. “How lovely. You’ll die with that love in your chest.”

She raised a hand, and the guards resumed their task. The sound of blows became a dull rhythm filling the basement.

Then the roar of a Maserati engine burst into the courtyard. Sebastián stepped out of the car, his face hardened by a storm no one could see. A guard intercepted him at the entrance.

“Sir, there was a problem with Miss Sofia…”

Sebastián didn’t wait. He took the stairs two at a time, the echo of his steps resounding through the mansion. He found Sofia in her room, curled on the bed, clutching a pillow soaked with tears.

“Dad, help me,” she sobbed when she saw him. “Mom is going to kill him.”

He sat beside her, his large, rough hand stroking her hair with a tenderness that contrasted with the fury in his eyes.

“Tell me what happened, piccola.”

Through sobs, Sofia told him everything: the furtive meeting, the stolen kisses, the love she felt for a boy who didn’t carry her surname. When she finished, Sebastián sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry the weight of an entire life. He held her tightly.

“Don’t worry, daughter. No one will die tonight. But you’re young. You can’t play with things like this.”

“I swear I’ll study, I’ll be better,” she begged. “Just save him, Dad.”

Sebastián kissed her forehead, a slow, almost sacred gesture. Without another word, he left the room.

The smell of blood hit him like a punch when he opened the basement door. He descended the steps with deliberate strides, each one heavier than the last. There was the boy, bound, broken, an echo of what he himself had once been. And in front of him, Valentina, whisky glass in hand, her face lit by a fury fueled by liquor and betrayal.

“Let him go,” Sebastián ordered, his voice cold as steel.

Valentina turned toward him, eyes narrowed.

“No. I’ll handle this.”

“I said let him go.” Sebastián’s tone was a wall—unyielding, final.

Valentina pressed her lips together, the glass trembling in her hand. For an instant, their gazes clashed, a silent duel where power changed hands. Without a word, she spun on her heels and climbed the stairs, the echo of her steps fading like distant thunder.

Sebastián approached the boy, whose head hung, barely held up by the little strength he had left.

“Do you love my daughter?” he asked, his deep voice resonating in the basement.

The young man raised his gaze, eyes glassy but firm.

“Yes, sir. I didn’t mean to disrespect you. She… she came to me.”

Sebastián watched him in silence, and for an instant, time stopped. In those eyes he saw his own reflection—a young man who had once loved someone he shouldn’t have. The memory of that maid, pregnant with his child, murdered on his father’s orders, cut through him like a blade. The blood from that day still stained his hands, though no one knew it.

He would not be like his father. He would not repeat that story.

“Listen carefully,” he said, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. “I’ll give you a chance. You’ll leave. You’ll study. You’ll become a worthy man. If in a few years you succeed, you can come back for her. If not, disappear forever.”

The boy cried, a broken sob that was more relief than pain. He nodded with what little strength he had left.

Sebastián signaled the guards.

“Take him to the infirmary. Then get him out of the country. If anyone touches a hair on his head, they’ll pay with their lives.”

The men obeyed without blinking.

Outside, the cold air of the Sicilian dawn greeted him with the salty scent of the sea. Sebastián lit a cigarette, the smoke mingling with the mist rising from the valley. He walked through the garden, footsteps crunching on the gravel, the weight of the De Luca name crushing his shoulders.

He would not be like his father. He would not let cruelty dictate his legacy. He would protect his daughter, even if it meant standing against Valentina, against the entire world.

In the distance, inside the mansion, Sofia cried silently, hugging her pillow, grateful for a father who still had a heart.

Valentina, locked in her room, poured herself another glass of whisky, her nails scraping the glass as she plotted her revenge.

And Sebastián, beneath a star-filled sky that seemed to judge him, exhaled cigarette smoke and closed his eyes. He had saved a life that night.

Maybe—just maybe—he had also saved a piece of his soul.