Chapter 094

Matteo's Pov

I sit beside my son, holding him close as he trembles in my arms. The party chaos fades into the distance, leaving only the two of us in this quiet room.

Minutes tick by, and I search for the right words to say. But what can I say to ease his pain? To make him feel safe again?

I look down at him, his eyes still closed, his small chest rising and falling with each breath. My heart swells with love and compassion.

"Mariano, mio figlio," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "My son, I'm here for you. I'm always here for you."

He doesn't speak. The silence stretches out, but I don't fill it. I let him know that I'm present, that I'm not going anywhere.

Slowly, his trembling subsides, and he opens his eyes. They're red-rimmed, but they lock onto mine, searching for reassurance.

"I'm sorry, Papa," he whispers, his voice cracking.

I pull him closer, my heart breaking. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Mariano. You're perfect just the way you are."

"Papa. . . but I don't know what's wrong with me," he says, his voice cracking.

I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "Mio figlio, there's nothing wrong with you. It's indeed funny because now that I think about it, I was just like you when I was your age."

He looks up at me, surprised. "Really?"

I nod. "Yes, really. I used to get overwhelmed too. Too many people, too much noise. . . it was too much for me."

His eyes widen. "What did you do?"

I smile, remembering. "I found my own ways to cope. I'd take breaks, go to quiet places. . . and I truly was lucky to have had parents who supported me just the way your mother and I support you."

He nods as he pops his bottom lip into his mouth as though in contemplation.

"You're not alone, Mariano," I continue. "I'm here to support you, and your mother too, and your sister, uncles, grandmother, and aunt. . . we're all here to support you."

We sit there for a long time, surrounded by silence, but filled with love. I stroke his hair, and he nuzzles into my chest.

In this moment, I know that I'll do anything to protect him, to help him navigate this world that can be too much for him sometimes.

"I hurt someone today," he whispers, sniffling.

I heave out a breath, "you did so because you felt the need to protect your sister."

"Still. . ."

I cut him off, not wanting to listen to him while he puts himself down. "I've been wanting to put off this conversation for a while now, son, because we truly don't see eye to eye on certain things, but you're six now, gradually growing into a man. You understand what that means for you, don't you?"

He nods his head. "That I have to embrace this life, protect my loved ones with all I've got."

I hum in agreement, my heart swelling with pride. "Embracing this life is not a must; I wouldn't want to force it upon you. But protecting your family, your mother and sister and your sibling on the way, that's something you have to dedicate your life to."

"Did you?" He asks.

"What?" I question.

"Did you protect your mother, your father, your siblings, and your wife?" He pushes, his voice stern.

For a moment, my heart runs cold with shame and regret. I look away from him when I murmur, "I didn't."

"Why?"

"Because I was a coward and a stupid man who only knew how to obey commands and not have a voice of his own. My siblings and parents paid for that. And then I grew up and got married to the most beautiful, amazing woman, and yet, I couldn't be a man for her."

"Why not?" Mariano implores, his tone of voice condescending as though he's been wanting to have this conversation with me for a while. As though trying to let me know that this is the reason for our constant struggle with our relationship. "Why couldn't you be a man for my mother?"

"I don't know." I answer, my brows creasing. "I made mistakes in the past and I honestly hope that you, my son, will not make those mistakes, hence you live with regret for the rest of your life."

"Do you live with regrets?"

"I do," I affirm, "but don't tell your mother I said so; I don't think I'm ready for her lectures."

Once again, silence takes over. We sit there, in the comfort of the silence. Me, deep in thoughts, and him. . . well I don't know for sure the things that go through his head.

But I'm startled when a strained sob erupts in his throat.

"What's wrong, Mariano?" I ask, my tone soft.

"There's a voice in my head, pà." He cries, his voice shaking with sorrow and fear. "It sings deadly songs to me, always pushing me into a state of numbness. And then I start to imagine things, dirty things."

I nod my head in understanding, because I truly understand the feeling-I understand his situation perfectly. I myself struggled with such imaginations for years. "Dirty imaginations like watching life leave a person's eyes and being responsible for it?" I question. "And you've become so obsessed with the idea of being capable of causing so much damage to a person? You obsess over the look on a person's face when you hunt them down and take life from them?"

He nods, his cries turning into sorrowful whimpers.

I feel a pang of pity and guilt in my heart. I didn't know my son inherited my psychopathic tendencies. And now he's suffering mentally because he was born to a man like me.

"How do you know all these details, papá?"

"Like I said, my boy, I was just like you when I was your age." I stay silent for a moment as I stroke his hair until he's soothed into calm. "But tell me, have you ever had a subject in recent times?"

"Si." He answers.

"Who?"

He hesitates for a moment before his eyes lock with mine. "You."

I have to hold myself back from gasping out of surprise. "Me? As in me, your father?" I ask, hoping that I heard wrong, that this is all a mistake.

He answers, "yes," his tone low as though he feels regret for imagining such things about his own father.

Understanding dawns on me. I know it's normal for people with the kind of mind my son and I have to pick a random subject for their wild imagination. We have no choice in it. "Can you tell me why and how I became a subject for your wild imaginings?"

He heaves out a breath. "Well, because you made my mother hurt so much. And then you were absent for five years, and when you came back into our lives, you looked so put together, and so good looking. I resented you for having your life put together while my mother cried herself to sleep every night."

"So why have you chosen not to act on your desire to take life from me?"

"Because. . . because I have done a good job at controlling it."

"And that's your answer, son." I praise him, ruffling his hair. "Your head is in the right space. I am a subject for your desires because I hurt your mother and you strive to protect your mother and that's commendable. You have been able not to hurt your mother even worse than I did by not acting upon your desires because you don't just wish to protect her, but you are mastering the act of control. That too is commendable."

"So I'm not a bad child? A bad person?"

"No, you're not." I affirm in a matter-of-factly tone. "You're absolutely perfect, and this drive and desires of yours, they'll serve you a lot in the future. Especially considering the power you come from and the power you'll hold when you're old enough."

"Okay. . ." He says on a whisper, bobbing his head in a nod.

"I apologize for how things went down between your mother and I, and I promise that I'm working it out, I'm doing my best to make her as happy as she deserves. And I hope that you will see the better side of me soon. Okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you, son."

"I love you too, papà."