Chapter 3 — Fathers and Sons

Zane

The moment I step into my father’s study, the air shifts, sharp and biting, like stepping into a winter gale. Dante Romano sits behind his imposing mahogany desk, a shadow carved into the golden light spilling from the window. Only his piercing blue eyes gleam through the half-darkness, cold as polished steel. The room smells of leather, aged scotch, and faint cigar smoke—an atmosphere both suffocating and meticulous, curated to remind anyone who enters that this is his domain.

“You’re late,” he says, his tone clipped, the accusation hanging in the air like a blade. He doesn’t look up from the papers on his desk.

I glance at the antique clock on the mantel. It’s not even a minute past the hour, but with Dante, time bends to his will. Every moment is a challenge, every word a calculated move to test my patience.

“I was settling Ella into her room,” I reply, stepping further in. My voice is even, my posture rigid. I don’t sit. Not yet. The door clicks shut behind me, the sound final, sealing me in.

Dante’s lips curl into a faint, humorless smirk. “How charming. Playing the doting husband already? Don’t let it distract you.” He leans back in his chair, resting one hand on the armrest, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm. “Weak men let women cloud their judgment. Strong men know their priorities. Remember who you are.”

The barb lands with precision, stirring something bitter in my chest. But I don’t flinch. Years of practice keep my expression neutral, my voice controlled. “She’s part of this family now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

His smirk deepens, but his eyes sharpen, a predator gauging the strength of its prey. “What I want,” he says, his voice smooth but laced with steel, “is for you to remember your place. This isn’t about her. It’s about the Romano name. Our legacy. Don’t mistake sentiment for duty.”

My jaw tightens, the tension coiling like a spring beneath my skin. I force myself to meet his gaze, though every instinct screams at me to look away. To yield would only feed his dominance. “Is that what you told yourself when you married my mother?” The words slip out, sharper than intended, and the room falls silent.

His tapping fingers still. Slowly, deliberately, he leans forward, his face emerging from the shadows. The air between us grows heavier, thick with unspoken threats. When he speaks, his voice is soft, venomous, each word precisely aimed to cut.

“Your mother,” he begins, his gaze pinning me in place, “understood what it meant to sacrifice. She knew her role, her purpose. That’s why she’s remembered with respect, not regret. Can you say the same for yourself, Zane? Do you think you’ll be remembered as a man who upheld this family’s legacy? Or will you be the one to let it crumble?”

The watch on my wrist feels heavier, the smooth metal biting into my skin. My fingers twitch at my sides, curling into fists I don’t dare clench. He knows exactly where to strike, dragging the ghosts of the past into the present to twist the knife. But I’ve learned how to endure. I’ve survived him before, and I will again.

“I think,” I say carefully, my voice cold and measured, “she deserved better than what this family gave her.”

The words land like a blow. For a fraction of a second, his expression falters—a flicker so minute, so fleeting, it could almost be imagined. Almost. But it’s there. The crack in his armor. The ghost of something he refuses to name. Then it’s gone, and he rises from his chair with the fluidity of a predator closing in.

“Careful, son.” His voice is low, dangerous, each syllable weighted with menace. “You sound like a man who resents the very foundation of his life. Without this family, you’re nothing. Don’t forget that.”

The retort burns on my tongue, its fire scorching, but I swallow it down. Arguing with Dante is like stepping into quicksand: the harder you fight, the faster you’re consumed. I offer a curt nod, letting the silence stretch between us. He’ll interpret it as submission. Let him. For now.

He steps closer, his shoes clicking softly against the marble floor. The air between us tightens, his presence a noose around my throat. “Dinner is at eight,” he says, and then, with a pointed look, “And keep your wife in line. The last thing this family needs is a weak link.”

The words linger, their weight pressing into my chest long after he turns and strides from the room. His polished shoes carry him out the door, and when it clicks shut behind him, I exhale slowly, the tension escaping in a measured breath. But the scent of leather and scotch remains, a reminder that his grasp extends far beyond the walls of this study.

I glance down at the watch on my wrist, its faint engraving catching the light: A.R. Alessandra Romano. The memory of her smile flickers in my mind, soft and fleeting, a rare moment of warmth in this frozen house. She was the only light here, a small beacon in the endless storm. And when she was gone, the cold swallowed everything.

I close my eyes, forcing her face from my thoughts. There’s no room for it now. Not here.

The estate is unnervingly silent as I walk through its halls, the marble floors reflecting fragments of light from the chandeliers above. Shadows stretch long and deep, pooling in the corners. My footsteps echo faintly, an intrusion in the stillness. I pass Ella’s door and pause, my hand hovering just above the frame. Light spills out from beneath, faint and warm, and the sound of hesitant movement filters through—soft, deliberate.

For a moment, I consider knocking. What would I even say? The weight of the day presses heavy on my shoulders, and the thought of facing her, of those green eyes meeting mine, makes my chest tighten. She doesn’t belong here. That much is clear. She’s too soft for this world, too fragile.

And yet… there’s something else beneath the surface. A spark. Resilience. I saw it at the cathedral, in the way she stood with quiet defiance despite the weight crushing her. I saw it again when she clutched her sketchbook, her fingers trembling but firm. She’s not what I expected. She’s not what I wanted.

It’s infuriating.

It’s intriguing.

My hand drops to my side, and I turn away, my steps carrying me down the hall. My room greets me with its familiar shadows, the darkness settling over me like a second skin. I don’t bother with the lamps. The darkness feels honest in a way the estate’s polished grandeur never will.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I unfasten the watch from my wrist, its weight leaving a faint indent on my skin. I set it down on the nightstand, and for a moment, I let myself feel the absence of its familiar presence. But the ache that replaces it is worse—a hollow tension I can’t name.

Ella’s face flashes through my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. Her hesitant movements, her quiet defiance. She doesn’t belong here. And yet she’s here now, tangled in a life she never chose, a life I’ve forced on her. That makes her my responsibility. Whether she wants to be or not.

The shadows shift on the ceiling as I lie back, the room settling into silence. Outside, the city hums faintly, distant and disconnected from this gilded prison.

But even here, in the quiet, there’s no escape. Not from this family. Not from him.

And not from the man I’m becoming.