Page 40 of Forgive Me, Father

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.”

She gave a little huff, something between disappointment and disapproval.But the corner of her mouth twitched up—just barely.I saw past the gesture.She wasn’t afraid of me.She was afraidforme.

They were both right when they said Simi had been raised for me.Camilla was not.

“How is Sarah.”

“She sends her love.”

My mother smiled.

My sister’s voice cut into the moment before I could take another breath.

“Well, well,” she said, her tone sweet and barbed, “so, where is my new sister-in-law, brother?”

I turned slowly to face her.Great.

“I don’t have time for this,” I said, tired already.“Say what you want and let’s be done.”

She lifted her hands in mock surrender, but the smirk on her lips didn’t waver.My sister had a way with men.Some called her a viper, others a black widow.Dark curls framed her face, falling behind her back in layered waves.Her green eyes gleamed with mischief.That mouth of hers could talk a man into, or out of, anything.

She looked too much like Lori.That alone made me uneasy.

“It’s only you that gets away with this kind of shit,” she said, her voice low.“If it were me, Father would’ve had me sliced open and fed to the Adriatic.”

She turned on her heel, walking away like nothing touched her, but I knew better.She hated that I hadn’t married Simi.That I’d chosen someone else.

They were best friends once.

I didn’t care.

The air seemed colder as she left.The tension wasn’t just in my chest now, it was everywhere, settling into the walls, the silence, the very bones of the house.

This meeting had already put me on high alert.I could feel it building.Every step, every glance, carried weight.I just wanted it over.I just wanted to get back to Camilla.

Where the world made sense.

* * *

The doors to the Oval Room creaked open, just enough for me to step through.No fanfare.No acknowledgment.The meeting had already begun, Voices were low, eyes were sharp, and loyalties in place.As always, no one waited for me.

The air inside was stifling, thick with the scent of cigars, aged leather, and old blood.Generations of decisions had been made here, some written in ink, most sealed in silence.The walls were lined with dark walnut paneling, polished to a dull sheen, heavy with the weight of men who thought themselves gods.Above us, a carved ceiling loomed with frescoes of Roman triumphs, ironic, considering how much failure festered beneath all this tradition.