Don’t Lie to Me
Luca stood in the hallway with his bunny under one arm and a juice pouch in the other, bare feet padding softly on the cool tile. Marco wasn’t in the kitchen, the office, or the den. A whisper of sound caught his ear—the murmur of a voice, low and sharp.
It was coming from behind the locked balcony door off Marco’s study. A door Luca never opened. Curious, still soft in the head from nap haze, he crept forward and pressed his ear to the wood.
“...If they make another move, we preempt. I want the younger Scarpelli watched—don’t touch him unless he steps near the florist again. If they lay a finger on Luca, you put them in the ground.”
Luca froze. His juice pouch slipped from his fingers and hit the hardwood with a soft splat. The voice inside went silent.
Then: “I’ll call you back.”
The door creaked open slowly. Marco stood there, his expression unreadable, but his shoulders were tight, his lips pressed thin.
He took one look at Luca’s face and went still.
“…Baby.”
But Luca wasn’t soft anymore.
Something inside him had snapped.
“I asked you,” he whispered, “if something was wrong. I felt it. And you—lied.”
Marco stepped forward carefully. “I didn’t want you to worry—”
“I’m not a child, Marco.”
That landed like a bullet in the air between them. Luca wasn’t in little space anymore. The comfort had been ripped out from under him. His hands were shaking—not from fear but from rage.
“I’m not your porcelain doll. I’m not something you tuck away while you clean up my messes. I’m the fucking Don.” His voice cracked. “And you—you made me feel like I was just imagining it.”
Marco took another step. “Luca—”
“Do you trust me or not?”
“I do.”
“Then treat me like it.”
There was silence. Raw, thick silence.
Luca’s chest was rising and falling fast. Tears stung at the edges of his eyes, furious and humiliated. He’d been coloring sea otters and drinking juice while someone out there watched his every move. Marco had been preparing for war. Alone.
“I hate being lied to,” he choked out. “Even if it’s to protect me.”
Marco looked shattered. Then, slowly, he dropped to his knees. His hands came up, empty, trembling slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice breaking. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I was trying to let you breathe. You were happy. You were safe. And I’ve never—” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen you like that. I didn’t want to take it from you.”
Luca stared at him, fury trembling just below the surface. But underneath that— Was grief. Grief for the childhood he never had. For the way Marco was trying to give it back piece by piece, even if it meant shouldering every threat in silence.
“…I’m scared,” Luca admitted finally. “That you’ll always try to handle it alone.”
Marco rose slowly. “I won’t anymore. I swear.”
“I need you to let me in. Even when I’m little.”
“I can do that,” Marco said gently. “I will.”
Luca looked at him for a long moment. Then stepped into his arms. The hug was desperate. Shaking. A silent apology both ways, and when Marco held him—tight and trembling—it wasn’t as a Daddy or a subordinate. It was as a man who loved him more than anything.
“I’ll keep you safe,” Marco whispered, voice raw. “But not by keeping you in the dark. I get that now.”
Luca buried his face in Marco’s neck. “Good. Because I’m never going back to the dark.”
Marco’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Neither of them moved at first.
It buzzed again—longer, insistent.
Luca pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes still wet but sharper now. “Answer it.”
Marco hesitated. “It might be—”
“Exactly,” Luca said, stepping back, squaring his shoulders. The Don was back in the room. “If it’s about them, I want to hear it.”
Marco sighed, then fished the phone out, putting it on speaker.
“Marco,” the voice on the line said, urgent. “Two black sedans just pulled up at the Siren’s Call. Not Scarpelli’s old guard—young ones. And… Emilio’s with them.”
Luca’s gaze sharpened. Giancarlo’s second son. Reckless, arrogant, and just stupid enough to be useful.
“Where inside?” Marco asked.
“VIP lounge. Drinking like they own the place. Only four bodyguards.”
Marco’s eyes met Luca’s. “Four’s light. Feels like a trap.”
“Or an opportunity,” Luca said evenly.
A muscle ticked in Marco’s jaw. He hated when Luca got that tone—half ice, half fire. “You’re not coming in yourself.”
“Yes, I am.” Luca’s voice was quiet but absolute. “We’ve been waiting for a move. Now we make one.”
The Siren’s Call smelled of expensive liquor and desperation. The bassline from the dance floor thumped through the walls as Marco led Luca through the back corridors, both dressed in suits sharp enough to pass for patrons. Marco gave two short hand signals. Their men fanned out—one toward the kitchen, one toward the emergency exit, two up to the mezzanine.
A broad-shouldered man in a too-tight suit guarded the VIP lounge door. He barely had time to blink before Marco’s fist met his jaw. The guard dropped like a sack of flour. Inside, Emilio Scarpelli was mid-laugh, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, one boot kicked up on the table like he owned the city. His smirk faltered when he saw Luca.
“Well, well. If it isn’t the boy Don himself—”
“You're not much older than I am, but you are stupider. You're just mad. I actually have power, and you are under your father's finger.” Luca says, moving toward the guy. Marco moved like a shadow, sweeping one of Emilio’s bodyguards off his feet and slamming him into the wall. Luca’s men closed in on the others before they could reach for their guns.
Emilio’s glass hit the carpet. “You wouldn’t—”
Luca stepped closer, his voice calm. “I would.”
The cold click of handcuffs snapped shut around Emilio’s wrists.
Marco’s grip tightened on the younger man’s arm. “You’re coming with us.”
As they dragged Emilio out through the back hall, Luca leaned in just enough for only Emilio to hear:
“Tell your father,” he murmured, “that the Valeri don’t wait for trouble to come to them.”