Chapter 24: Sticky Secrets
The scent of rain on hot concrete hung in the air, a promise unfulfilled. The downtown sidewalk was a river of midday bustle. Marissa kept a firm grip on Ella’s hand, the child’s small fingers sticky from a pretzel she’d already consumed. This weekly trip to the park was a ritual, a slice of normalcy she guarded fiercely. Ella chattered about a cartoon bird, her voice a bright counterpoint to the low urban hum.
Marissa’s eyes, ever scanning, caught on a figure leaning against a wrought-iron lamppost half a block down. Her pulse, a steady drum, stuttered into a frantic tap. He was unmistakable even in the dappled shadow of an awning. Black jeans, the same motorcycle jacket, head bowed as he lit a cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated the scar, turning it into a gash of molten gold.
“Look, Mama! Ducks!” Ella pointed toward the park entrance, tugging her hand.
“In a minute, sweetheart.” Marissa’s voice was tight. She tried to steer them across the street, but it was too late.
Ella’s gaze, following the trajectory of her own pointing finger, swept past the pond and landed on the lamppost. Her entire face lit up with uncomplicated joy. “Uncle Luca!”
Before Marissa could react, the small hand slipped from hers. Ella was a dart of yellow sundress, weaving through the crowd with the fearless agility of a five-year-old.
“Ella! No!”
But Ella had already reached him. Luca startled, straightening up as the small missile launched herself at his legs. He looked down, confusion smoothing into something painfully soft. He dropped the cigarette, grinding it under his boot heel as he crouched to her level.
Marissa reached them, breathless, her heart hammering against her ribs. She saw his hands, the long fingers with their heavy silver rings. They were trembling. But they came up with a surprising, deliberate gentleness to encircle Ella’s back, accepting the hug.
“Hey, kid. Fancy meeting you here.” His voice was rough from smoke, but warm.
“We’re going to feed the ducks! Do you like ducks?”
“Sure. Ducks are alright.” His eyes flicked up to Marissa, a silent apology and a challenge all at once. He reached into his jacket pocket, his movements careful. He pulled out a cherry lollipop, the cellophane crinkling. “Here. For being the best duck-feeder.”
Ella took it, reverent. “Thank you!” She studied his face, her head tilted. Without a hint of hesitation, her small, sticky hand came up. Her index finger traced the silvery line from his temple down the slope of his cheek. The tremor in his hands spread, a slight vibration Marissa could see in his jaw. “Your scar is cool,” Ella announced, her tone matter-of-fact. “Daddy says scars mean you’re brave.”
The air left Luca’s lungs in a punched-out huff. It wasn’t a laugh. It was the sound of something breaking inside a cage. His eyes, glistening, found Marissa’s over the child’s head. The raw, unfiltered anguish in them cut deeper than any blade.
“Does he,” Luca whispered, the words not for Ella.
Marissa couldn’t breathe. She saw the little girl’s innocent touch, the man’s shattered response, and the ghost of Adrian’s lie—a lie meant to comfort, but one that now festered between them. She swooped in, grabbing Ella’s hand again, this time with too much force.
“We have to go. Now.”
“But Mama, Uncle Luca could come feed the ducks with us!”
“No.” The word was final, cold. She yanked Ella back, breaking the contact. “Say goodbye.”
Ella, confused but obedient, waved. “Bye, Uncle Luca.”
He didn’t speak. He just stayed crouched, a statue of grief and ruin, as Marissa hurried away, Ella’s confused questions a buzzing in her ears. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.
Adrian was waiting in the villa’s grand foyer when they returned, his posture deceptively relaxed against the marble console. He’d been on the phone, but he ended the call the moment they entered. His eyes took in Marissa’s flushed face, Ella’s preoccupied expression.
“How were the ducks?”
“They were hungry!” Ella said, holding up her empty bread bag. “And I saw Uncle Luca! He gave me a lollipop!” She brandished the half-eaten candy.
The temperature in the foyer dropped ten degrees. Adrian’s pleasant mask didn’t slip, but his eyes turned to chips of glacial ice. “Did he.”
“He was by the park. It was a coincidence,” Marissa said, her voice sounding thin.
“Coincidence.” Adrian tasted the word, found it poisonous. He smiled at Ella. “Go show Nanny your new drawing from the park, darling.”
The moment Ella skipped away, the smile vanished. He closed the distance to Marissa in two strides. “You let her approach him.”
“I didn’t let her. She ran.”
“You were in charge. You failed.” His hand shot out, grasping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “What did he say? What did he do?”
“He gave her a lollipop. He hugged her. That was all.”
“He touched her.” Adrian’s voice was dangerously quiet. “With his hands. After where those hands have been? The things they’ve handled?” Revoltion twisted his features. “He touched my daughter.”
“She touched him,” Marissa whispered, the image burning. “She touched his scar. She said… she told him what you said. That scars mean you’re brave.”
Adrian froze. The anger morphed into something more complex, a fleeting shadow of guilt swiftly consumed by defensive fury. He released her chin as if burned. “Get cleaned up. We’re dining in tonight. I’ll deal with this.”
His “dealing with it” was a silent, violent pressure that built through the evening. He was meticulous during dinner with Ella, asking about her drawings, listening to her songs. The perfect father. But his foot tapped a relentless rhythm beneath the table. His knuckles were white around his wine glass.
After Ella was in bed, he followed Marissa into their bathroom. She was brushing her teeth, her reflection pale in the mirror. He came up behind her, his body crowding hers against the vanity. He didn’t speak. He pushed her silk robe off her shoulders, baring her. His hands were rough on her hips, spinning her around to face him. His kiss was a demand, his tongue forcing its way past her lips, tasting of mint and expensive cabernet.
“He doesn’t get to be brave,” Adrian snarled against her mouth, his hands squeezing her ass, pulling her hard against the bulge in his trousers. “He’s a coward. A fucking addict. A mistake.”
He turned her back around, shoving her forward so her hands were splayed on the cool marble counter. He kicked her legs apart with his foot. She heard the tear of foil—he always used protection now, a clinical barrier despite the pregnancy. The sound was brutally efficient.
He shoved her panties aside and drove into her from behind with one brutal thrust. She gasped, her forehead pressing against the mirror, fogging it with her breath. He was huge, unyielding, filling her with a stretch that bordered on pain.
“This is what he wants,” Adrian hissed, setting a punishing pace. Each slam of his hips jarred her teeth. “He looks at you, at what I have, and he wants to fucking ruin it. He wants to put his filthy hands on what’s mine.” He gripped a handful of her hair, yanking her head back. “But you’re not for him. You’re my wife. My cunt. Tell me.”
“Yours,” she choked out, the pleasure a dark, shameful wave rising to meet his anger. “Only yours.”
“You’d never let him fuck you, would you?” The words were vile, meant to degrade them both. “You’d never let that shaking, junkie wreck between your legs?” He punctuated each question with a deeper, harder thrust.
“No! God, no, Adrian.”
“You’d never spread these pretty legs for him. Never let him come inside this perfect pussy I own.” He was fucking her with a furious, rhythmic violence, the vanity rattling, bottles clinking. “This is my claim. Every fuck. Every come stain. Me. You understand? You are a DeLuca. He’s just the ghost of one.”
She was coming, her orgasm ripped from her by the sheer, overwhelming force of his possession, by the taboo of his words. She cried out, her body clamping around him in frantic pulses. He growled, his rhythm faltering, and with a final, shuddering plunge, he spilled into the condom, his hips grinding against her as he emptied himself.
He collapsed over her, his sweaty forehead against her back, his breath hot and ragged. The anger had been spent, for now. He pulled out, disposing of the condom with a cold detachment. He ran a bath without looking at her, pouring in salts. A peace offering.
“Get in,” he said, his voice flat.
She lowered herself into the steaming water, feeling raw, used, and impossibly complicit. He sat on the lip of the tub, watching her. The fury was gone, replaced by a hollow exhaustion.
“She can’t see him again,” he stated. “It’s not a discussion. He’s unstable. He’s a trigger. For me. For all of this.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing their life, the villa, the unseen threats.
Marissa nodded, too weary to argue. The water stung where he’d been rough. But a seed of defiance, small and hard, had been planted. Adrian saw Luca as a contaminant. But she had seen the man’s face when Ella touched his scar. She had heard the sound he made. That wasn’t the face of a monster. It was the face of a man in a hell Adrian had helped build.
Across town, Luca stood under the spray of a cold shower, trying to wash the feeling of that small, sticky finger from his skin. It burned hotter than any craving. Daddy says scars mean you’re brave.
The lie was exquisite. It was the kind of lie you told a child to protect them. Adrian was protecting Ella from him. The truth.
The tremor was bad. He braced his hands against the tile, watching the water swirl around the drain. He saw Marissa’s terrified eyes, the way she’d ripped Ella away from him like he was a rabid dog. He was. He knew it. The craving, a low, familiar thrum in his veins, whispered that there was an easy way to silence the pain, to blur the memory of that innocent touch.
He turned off the water. He didn’t reach for the hidden pill bottle. Instead, he pulled on jeans and went to the single shelf in his barren living space. He picked up the framed photograph he kept turned face down. He turned it over.
It was faded. Their mother, beautiful and smiling, had an arm around each of her sons. Adrian, at fifteen, looked solemn, already shouldering the world. Luca, at twelve, was grinning like a fool, mid-laugh. No scar. No shadow. Just a boy who adored his big brother.
Luca traced the glass over his own youthful face. “He’s right, you know,” he said to the ghost in the photo. “I’m not brave. I’m just what’s left.”
He placed the photo back on the shelf, face up this time. The craving hadn’t left, but it had been joined by something else—a clearer, colder resolve. He couldn’t be the ghost at the feast. He couldn’t be the uncle who caused whispers and panic. He either had to disappear completely, or he had to become something else. Something that didn’t make mothers snatch their children away in fear.
He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over his brother’s number. He put it down. Words were Adrian’s weapon. Luca needed action. A different kind of proof.
He knew then what he had to do. It was reckless. It would likely get him killed, either by his brother’s men or by the wolves in the city’s underbelly. But if he succeeded, maybe, just maybe, he could look at his reflection without seeing a coward. He could earn the right to that lie.
He grabbed his jacket and left, the door clicking shut on the quiet room and the smiling ghosts within. The night outside was vast and uncaring, and he walked into it, not towards solace, but towards a different kind of ruin.