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I preferred to be left alone.
After Dad finished staring at my mother’s portrait, he strolled across the room, downing the rest of the scotch. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. I wondered if it were from the alcohol or if he’d actually cried over my mother. Not once in my life had I witnessed him showing a single emotion. On the day Luca found my mother on the floor of her studio, with her head turned to the side, her lips as blue as the ocean, my father shed a tear. Just one.
Dad glared at me, his mouth twisted into a scowl. “What do you think you’re doing, Marcello?”
Confused, I stared up at him. “I’m painting.”
He shook his head. “I told you not to come into this room.”
“Sorry, Dad. I just wanted to be closer to her.”
My hand trembled when he bent down in front of me, and I dropped the paintbrush on the tarp.
“She’s dead! You hear me, Marcello, dead. Nothing can bring her back. So when I tell you to stop with this nonsense, I mean it. No more painting. It’s time for you to act like a man and learn the business.”
He swatted the paintbrush from my hand. Paint splattered on his black Brioni suit, on my T-shirt, and across the floor. His eyes glazed over as he took in the sight of the red acrylic paint. I was trying to recreate one of mom’s paintings and failing miserably. My talent didn’t even compare to hers.
The empty bottle in his hand crashed on the floor, shattering into pieces. He reached down and gripped the collar of my shirt, choking me with the fabric as he pulled me up from the floor. I was a teenager, almost as tall as him, and gaining more muscle from playing football. Even at his age, the old man was still as strong as an ox.
He blew out a deep breath while I held mine, terrified of what he would do this time. His punishments were harsh and painful, reminders that were supposed to make my brother and me stronger.
“Look at what you did,” he shouted, his face inches from mine.
It was his fault, but I knew better than to talk back. I wasn’t Luca. I would never challenge my father the way my older brother did.
“I’m sorry, Father.”
He tightened his hold on my throat, and I gasped for air.
“Dad,” Luca said from behind him.
I had never been more thankful to hear my brother’s voice.
“Stay out of this, Luca,” he boomed. “This is between Marcello and me.”
Luca hated me until my mother died. For most of my life, he treated me like I was another responsibility. But after my mom was gone, he often stepped in front of me, defending me against my father’s attacks. I could handle the pain. It was something we had grown accustomed to over the years.
My brother moved toward us with a purpose, dressed in a navy blue Brioni suit and brown wingtips. For someone in high school, Luca already looked like a man, like the leader of our family’s company.
“What did Marcello do?” Luca said.
My dad spun around, pointed his finger at the paint on his clothes, then waved his hand at the mess on the floor. “Marcello was about to accept his punishment.”
“Dad,” Luca groaned. “Not today, of all days. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”
“Don’t challenge me, son.” He gritted his teeth, nostrils flared. “Your brother disobeyed my orders, and he will deal with the consequences of his actions.”
Luca stripped off his suit jacket and handed it to me. He held my father’s gaze as he unbuttoned his white oxford. “Then let me take it. Let this be an example for Marcello not to do it again.”
He was right. Every time Luca accepted the punishments on my behalf, I never repeated the same mistake. I didn’t want him to suffer for my actions.
“Marcello, you should go,” Luca said as he stripped off his shirt.
His chest and back was scarred beyond repair, much worse than mine.
“No,” my father said with a bite to his tone. “He has to watch. That’s his punishment.”
I took Luca’s shirt from his hand and sighed.
We should have been celebrating the life of the greatest woman who ever lived. Instead, my father was only proving how much he was fucking up our lives. He’d adopted Bastian and Damian, who were probably snapping the necks of rabbits in the backyard. They were just as fucked up as my father and Luca. The four of them were like peas in a pod. I was the one who didn’t fit into the equation.
As my father stripped off his Fendi belt, Luca got on his knees on the floor. I wished I could be as fearless as him. Luca looked up at me, his eyes never leaving mine as the belt cracked open his skin. He balled his hands into fists and clenched his jaw. Not even a single sound escaped his mouth, as if he had trained himself not to feel the lashes.
