DELUCA
I sat in the driver's seat, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. The engine hummed beneath my hand, a steady vibration that did nothing to ease the knot in my chest. The house stood ahead, dark and lifeless beneath the gray sky. It hadn't changed — not the tall iron gates, not the ivy curling up the stone walls, not the heavy silence that seemed to seep from its bones.
I didn't want to be here. I never did. Every time I crossed that threshold, it ended the same way — harsh words, cold stares, and the bitter reminder that no matter what I built, I'd always be a disappointment to him.
My hand hovered over the ignition. I could drive away. Pretend I never came. Lucas would probably tell me that showing up was the right thing to do — that answering the old man's call, even when I didn't want to, was some twisted show of strength. But Lucas didn't know what it felt like to stand in this house. To face him.
And yet, despite every instinct screaming at me to stay away, I showed up. Because that's what you do when the devil who made you calls your name.
I killed the engine and opened the door. A cold wind whipped through my coat as I stepped out, gravel crunching beneath my shoes. My eyes lifted toward the windows. The curtains were drawn, but I could feel his gaze through the walls. Waiting. Judging.
I hesitated at the gate, my hand curling around the iron bars. The chill bit into my skin. I had left this place the moment I could take care of Colton and myself. The house had been nothing but a constant reminder of the day I watched my mother get shot in the head — twice — by my father's rival. I was just a kid, but I remember the blood. The sound of the gunshot.
My stomach twisted. I forced myself forward.
The gate groaned open beneath my hand. The brass door handle was cold, the weight of the door too familiar as I pushed it open. The scent of aged wood and stale cigar smoke hit me like a fist to the chest. My gaze drifted toward the staircase. The ghosts were still there — they never left.
"DeLuca."
The voice was sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade. My head lifted toward the parlor.
He stood there, framed by the dim light filtering through the tall windows. Vito DeLuca. My father.
Time had thinned him out — his shoulders less broad, his hair more gray than black — but his eyes… his eyes hadn't changed. Cold and sharp as glass. The same eyes that had watched me grow up with barely disguised disappointment.
"Surprised you're still breathing," I said, stepping further into the room.
His mouth curled at the edges. "And I see you're still as disrespectful as ever."
"Only when it's deserved."
He stepped closer, his gaze running over me like he was weighing the value of my success. I knew what he saw — the tailored coat, the custom shoes, the sharp edge of my jaw hardened by years of survival. And still, I could feel his judgment crawling beneath my skin.
"You've built yourself an empire," he said, his tone flat. "But power without honor? Without legacy? That makes you nothing more than a thug with expensive taste."
My jaw flexed. Same game. Same tired insults. "And what exactly would you know about honor?"
He smiled thinly. "More than you ever will."
My hands curled into fists at my sides. I didn't know why I came here. Every visit was the same — the same condescension, the same emptiness. But maybe some part of me still wanted to prove him wrong. Or maybe I just needed to hear him admit that I had built something better than the empire he let rot from the inside out.
He stepped toward me, his gaze cold and cutting. "You'll never be like me."
"That's the point," I said, my voice sharp.
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes — something softer, almost human — but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
"Hope your brother turns out nothing like you." His tone was casual, but his eyes told a different story. He knew he had no control over Colton — and it killed him.
Without another word, he turned and walked toward the study.
I stood there for a long moment, my breath tight in my chest. Then I turned toward the staircase, my eyes lingering on the spot where my mother had fallen — where her body had gone still after the second shot.
The ghosts were still here. And I had walked right into them.