A Bratva princess in every sense of the word. She’ll make a fine wife for the man my father thinks I am.
“If that is what serves the family,” I say, forcing a smile.
“It is,” my father says. “You will give her sons, and further the line.”
He says it like it’s a fact, not a question. That’s how it always works. The future isn’t discussed with me, it’s announced.
“Then I’ll do my duty.”
That’s the answer he wants; the answer I am trained to give him. Men like my father call that obedience; women in church call it sacrifice. I call it another nail in my coffin.
He nods, satisfied with my answer. “Good. Finish with the Vieri heir cleanly. I don’t want sloppiness born from indulgence.”
The wordindulgencealmost makes me laugh.
As if having the man you’re betraying look at you like you’re the only quiet space in his world counts as indulgence.
As if guilt eating through your stomach every time he touches you, isn’t punishment enough.
Instead, I tell my father I’ll be careful. I tell him Salvatore remains useful, and I know exactly how to keep him that way. Isit there looking every inch the son he wants, when in reality I feel skinned alive.
After the meeting, I leave the compound with the same easy stride I entered with, and spend the entire tide back to my apartment staring out at a city I don’t feel part of.
My apartment is too quiet when I step inside, and I know I should be thankful for that. Instead, the silence feels like punishment.
The rooms are expensive and impersonal, all dark wood, clean lines, and carefully chosen art that means nothing to me.
I keep the place because it’s useful, and my father approves of appearances. Men in my position are expected to have a place where women can be entertained, and deals can be made without scandal.
Most nights, it’s just a shell I return to when I need walls around me. Tonight, it feels unbearable.
I set my keys on the entry table and loosen my tie. The mirror in the hallway catches my reflection in passing, and for a second, I see both versions of myself. The one who has to be loyal to his family, and the one Salvatore touches.
I look away.
There are nights I can sleep through it. Nights I can pour whiskey until my body goes heavy and thoughts get soft around the edges. Nights I can fuck someone forgettable and convince myself the emptiness afterward is enough to drown out the rest.
Tonight isn’t one of them. Tonight, my father said he’s proud. Tonight I handed over pieces of the man I love and sat there, smiling as if I hadn’t signed my own soul away in installments.
I know exactly what I’m going to do before I head for the bathroom. That’s the part I hate admitting—I didn’t stumble into this, I chose it.
The little leather case is where I always leave it, hidden behind spare towels in the cabinet beneath the sink. It’s tucked far enough back that no guest would find it by accident.
I take it out and set it on the marble counter. My hands are steady when I take out everything I need to make myself forget.
Syringe. Spoon. Cotton. Tourniquet. Small folded paper packet.
People who have never had a habit think it’s all about pleasure or escape. They imagine weakness and shaking hands and desperate men in alleyways with hollow cheeks and filthy needles.
For me, it’s different. For me, heroin is silence, not joy. Not even oblivion exactly; just silence. A soft white curtain pulled over the part of my mind that won’t stop replaying his face.
The one thing that lets me sleep without dreaming of Salvatore and waking up sick with what I’m doing to him. I love that for a little while I’m not a son, not a traitor, not a man in love with his enemy. I’m just empty enough to rest.
I get everything ready, roll up my sleeve, and tie off my arm, watching the vein rise.
The guilt is worse right before, because I’m still sober enough to feel exactly what it means.
I’m the future Pakhan of the Dragovich Bratva, sitting on a marble toilet with a needle in my hand because I can’t survive my own conscience unaided.
