Page 16 of Forgive Me, Father (Don #1)

FIFTEEN

THE WHITE RABBIT

The private jet sliced through the afternoon like a blade through silk, but the calm around me was a lie. A luxury. The kind of silence that made monsters think.

Polished mahogany glinted under the soft cabin lights. Leather seats wrapped around me like a noose, suffocating in their perfection. The cabin was spacious, but I felt boxed in. Trapped.

I sat with my laptop open on the small conference table, fingers stiff over the keyboard as the Deluca case glared back at me.

I was supposed to prepare, to focus. Instead, my thoughts spiraled, tangled in Camilla’s voice, her stare, the way she looked at me last night like I was both the storm and the shelter.

I knew what my temper meant. What my legacy came with. What it cost?

They called me the White Rabbit like it was a stroke of luck. But it was madness wrapped in a suit, control balanced on a blade's edge. They didn’t know what I had to do, what I still did, to keep the chaos inside from eating me alive.

I wrecked my mind trying to figure out how to tell her. How to make this thing between us real? Camilla deserved better than shadows, but I wasn’t sure I could be anything else.

The screen blurred for a second. I blinked hard and exhaled, dragging a hand down my face. One more hour till landing.

The plane touched down, wheels kissing the tarmac with a jolt that pulled me back into the present. I stepped out into the open, and the air hit me—thick with sun, dust, and memory. Italy. No matter how long I was gone, this place would always be home.

Not always in a comforting way. Sometimes, home was just where your ghosts knew where to find you.

This was where I was raised. Where I learned what it meant to carry a name like ours. Where I became the man I am—for better or worse.

A buzz in my pocket pulled me out of my head. Sarah. Just her name on the screen made something twist in my chest. I had to get my demons in check.

I stared at the message for a second longer than I should’ve, then slid the phone back into my coat.

* * *

The blood seeped from the thin cuts just below Sarah’s breast. It was one of many marks I’d left on her body. She flinched.

She was a goddess, gagged, collared, her wrists bound in shackles, legs held open by a spreader bar. She thirst the pain just as deeply as my darkness craved giving it.

My darkness reveled in it, fed and satisfied, already beginning to retreat, slipping back into its cage.

Sarah’s breathing is heavy, almost like a bull’s, and I can feel her silently begging for release.

It’s one I would’ve given her long ago, if not for this thing growing inside me.

Something I hate, something unfamiliar. I’ve never cared about anyone before.

But for some reason, I want to keep the vow I made to Cami.

So I finger fucked Sarah instead of using my cock.

Her sharp noises filled her play room, and she came beautiful. Sarah made orgasms look like art.

I wasn’t always like this.

At first, killing was enough to satisfy the darkness in me. But over time, it grew restless, like it was bored. It wanted more than just blood. It wanted everything.

So I tried giving it what it wanted.

I even turned to coke and heroin, hoping to numb it, but that only made it worse.

Then one night, while I was enjoying the girls at the club, the urge hit me, stronger than ever. The need to cut her, to watch her bleed, it drowned out everything else.

Obviously, I didn’t act on it. But the more time I spent with someone, the stronger the urge grew.

Until one day, I gave in. And when I did, it was like pouring water on fire, calming, complete. A soothing burn put to rest.

I got banned from more clubs and bordellos than I can count. The girls said I was too rough, they couldn’t handle the blood. And the few who did get off on it? Somehow, they always ended up in the hospital as my darkness didn’t like no. Didn’t like the word stop.

My father was furious. He didn’t understand any of it, and neither did my mother.

One night, a girl got seriously hurt, and for once, my better judgment kicked in. I rushed her to the hospital.

My father had to pay a small fortune to keep her from pressing charges. Lucky for me, she needed the money more than revenge.

That night was also when I met Sarah. She was the nurse on duty, and she recognized all the signs.

She pulled me aside, wanting to know what had really happened. I lied, of course, but she saw right through me.

She told me she could help. Saying I wasn’t curious would be a lie. With Sarah, a whole new world opened up as we began to trust each other.

She had a dark past. I didn’t know all the details, just that her mother had owed money to dangerous men, and Sarah was their collateral.

She was barely thirteen when it happened, fucked her up big time.

I could tell what she’d been through was more than just physical. But she refused to say anything more.

Sarah needed the pain, the more, the better. It was what her darkness craved. The exact opposite of mine.

She introduced me to tools, things you can find easily online at any BDSM shop. But what we did was anything but BDSM.

BDSM came with rules, with safe words.

But we had none of that, no safe words, no rules, not even aftercare. Sarah didn’t need it. Her pain was her care. She needed it to survive, just like I needed to inflict it to cope. I think it was why she became a nurse.

She gave me her body to do with as I pleased. It was my canvas, and the masterpieces we created together were art.

It tamed both our demons, both our darkness.

Ninety percent of the time it ended with fucking. Mind blowing fucking, and it was enough to seal the lid, at least until the next time.

I’d be okay for two, maybe three weeks, before I’d have to lock the box shut again.

It was something that I had to get my new bride to accept, to look the other way, the way Simi would. She had to, she had no choice.

* * *

I felt like a new man as I glanced down at my watch.

One more hour to pull myself together before facing the DeLucas, and whatever judgment my father and the elders had waiting for me.

“You think she’d be okay with this?” Sarah asked.

“Right now, she hates my guts, so… I don’t know. But I’ll find a way to make her understand.”

“When will I see you again?”

“Probably in two weeks.”

“Am I coming to you, or are you coming here?”

“I’ll let you know.”

I gave her a small smile and walked out.

What we had wasn’t love, it was survival. And it was something I’d always need.

The driver waited for me in front of Sarah’s building. A tall man in a pressed suit standing beside the black SUV like a statue. I nodded at him and climbed into the back, the scent of cold leather and faint cologne wrapping around me like an old coat. I didn’t bother with small talk.

The drive back home took just under an hour, long enough for my mind to wander back to everything I didn’t want to think about.

I hoped I’d have time to see Nonna. She always had a way of cutting through the noise.

Sharp tongue, sharper wisdom. And I was still her favorite, no matter how many cousins swore otherwise.

Then, just past the curve in the hill road, it came into view.

My father’s house, our family’s stronghold, stood like a beast carved from stone and shadow.

The mansion sat atop the hill, silent and domineering, like it had been watching the valley for centuries.

Three stories of sun-kissed limestone and deep terracotta roof tiles, the kind that turned blood-red at dusk.

The facade was a blend of old Roman lines and Baroque detail, arched windows with dark shutters, hand-forged wrought iron balconies, and marble statues that lined the path like silent sentinels.

The central courtyard was paved in cracked granite, the same one I used to tear across on my bike as a kid, before someone always yelled that I was being too loud.

Vines of wild ivy clawed up the south wing, wrapping around columns that stood stubborn against time.

The front doors, double oak, scorched with sun and age, still bore the family crest, carved deep in the wood like a warning and a welcome all at once.

Inside, I knew the floors would gleam black and white, cold marble echoing under every step. Chandeliers like frozen rain would still hang from vaulted ceilings, and oil paintings of men who looked like me but never smiled, watching my every move.

I leaned back in the seat, watching the mansion grow larger in the windshield. Bigger. Heavier. Just like the weight on my shoulders.

It wasn’t just home. It was the battlefield I grew up on.

My gaze caught the big haunting windows of the dark room. I could feel the shadows already trying to welcome me home.

I climbed out before the driver could open the door, the weight of the place already pressing into my chest. He rushed to the back to get my bag, but I barely noticed.

The air was thick, heavy with old stone, dust, and something unspoken that always seemed to hang in the halls.

Inside, the mansion smelled like polished wood, waxed marble, and history that refused to die.

The walls seemed to close in with every step.

It clawed at my lungs, familiar and suffocating.

This house had always done that to me, wrapped around my ribs like a vice.

Mother’s heels echoed down the hallway, sharp clicks against the Italian tiles that reminded me of church aisles. Her presence came before her, perfume, tension, control. She moved fast, but her grace was intact, her silk dress catching the light like water.

I braced myself.

She cupped my face in her slender hands, her cheek brushing mine with two practiced kisses. Not too soft. Not too long. Measured. As always.

“Welcome home,” she said, her voice smooth but edged. “Where is your new bride?”

“Left her at the hotel,” I said. “You’ll meet her soon.”