Chapter 150: Two Outcasts, One Bed, and Too Many Unsaid Things

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[Alex]

After Lorenzo finished talking, I found myself at a loss for words. Honestly, that’s quite a feat considering I usually pride myself on my way with words, especially when it comes to irritating the everliving hell out of people..

It was a talent I had spent years polishing, and now, when it might have been useful for something other than annoying a mafia Don, it had packed its bags and left without so much as a note.

I lay there next to him in the tangled mess of sheets, feeling the warmth left from our morning together.

The soft sunlight trickled in through the curtains, casting gentle patches of gold across the bed, but the room felt anything but calm now. Somewhere outside a bird was singing with the confidence of a creature who had no idea what had just been said in here.

Today, though, something felt off with his scent, something delicate that he had been hiding away for so long had suddenly surfaced beneath the surface strength I’d always known him for.

I found my gaze tracing the scars etched across his chest, the truth hitting me squarely as I began to understand the weight of his past.

They weren’t just scars anymore. They were reminders of a teenage boy who had witnessed his mother’s murder, who had to endure the loss of a little sister who never even got a chance at life, and who learned far too early that the very people meant to protect you can vanish when you need them most.

And somehow, against all odds, Lorenzo was still expected to grow up into a respectable young man.

Well, maybe "respectable" was a bit much. But surely they could’ve hoped for someone who didn’t need to learn how to kill before understanding what a normal childhood was supposed to look like.

I would have loved to be there for that family meeting, if only to ask who exactly had signed off on that parenting plan.

I thought of Isotta, the woman whose face I had only glimpsed in pictures over the months in passing, I had never cared to ask what had happened to her...maybe because I was only interested in getting my divorce, money and I dunno, trying not to wind up dead.

It was a very reasonable list of priorities at the time, and it looked a lot less impressive now that I was staring at the consequences of never asking a single question.

I’d always known Lorenzo’s mother was gone. I knew his childhood probably wasn’t exactly a happy one, and I’d heard enough about the Castelli family to get that tenderness wasn’t exactly their specialty.

But knowing someone died and grasping the reality of a child forced to watch his world shatter were two very different things.

I had never envisioned it like this. I hadn’t pictured him begging for his mother’s life, bartering his own in exchange, or sitting in a cold room while adults decided how much pain a fourteen-year-old could withstand before he finally cracked. And the worst part?

He hadn’t cracked in the way they wanted. They turned him into something terrifying, something whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear, only to use that as proof that their beliefs about him were correct.

It was a perfectly circular piece of logic, and I wanted to find every person who had ever used it and introduce them to my shoe.

I understood what it felt like to be molded into something they wanted, not what you really were. My family had shown me how affection could come with strings attached, how belonging could vanish the moment you started being a hassle, and that sometimes the very people who should protect you could be the first ones to make you feel like a complete burden.

Lorenzo and I had both suffered, albeit in different ways and for different reasons, but there was a shared loneliness binding our stories.

We had learned what it meant to be misjudged by those who should’ve been our safe haven, and we both carried scars that we didn’t know how to explain.

I didn’t feel pity for him. Pity would’ve felt wrong, and I could picture him kicking me out of his room if I looked at him with that same sad face people made over a stray dog that got hit by a car.

I had no doubt he’d do it politely, too, and probably have someone carry my luggage out. But I recognized him, and that was possibly worse, because that recognition shattered any pretense I had of thinking that the man beside me entered the world fully formed, with his green icy gaze, ruthless reputation, and that frustrating habit of deciding what was best for everyone around him.

There had been a boy before the Don. A boy who tried to rescue a dying animal and was labeled a monster for it. A boy who lost the only person who truly understood him and then was handed a knife, told to become what everyone accused him of being.

I wanted to say something, anything, that would reach that boy, something that could take the sting out of all those painful years, but every line in my head sounded pitifully inadequate. "I’m sorry" felt far too small. "You didn’t deserve that" was painfully obvious.

And if I assured him everything would be alright, Lorenzo would probably look me in the eye and remind me I was lying because neither of us lived in a world where kind words magically healed the wounds of dead mothers, murder, lost children, horrible people, greed and years of trauma.

He would be right, which was the most irritating part.

So I stayed quiet, hoping he might somehow sense what I couldn’t articulate. Unfortunately, Lorenzo wasn’t great at interpreting silence with generosity.

When I finally glanced at him, I found him studying me with an unreadable expression.

His face was composed, yet something had shifted in his eyes and a slight withdrawal that I might have missed if I hadn’t observed him so closely.

The vulnerability he’d allowed to surface during his story was gradually retreating behind the familiar mask of the Castelli Don, and I watched him carefully tuck away the pieces of himself, as if regretting that I had seen them at all.

It was like watching someone hurriedly shove laundry into a closet before guests arrived, except the laundry was his entire heart and I was the guest who had already seen everything.

"Alex," he spoke softly.

I faced him, grappling with finding the right words. My mouth opened, closed, and opened again, which I imagine made me look like a very confused goldfish.

He seemed to reconsider what he was about to say, a hint of a humorless smile appearing at the corner of his mouth. "You... don’t have to say anything."

That sentence felt dreadful. Not because it wasn’t kind, but because I could hear everything left unsaid beneath it.

"I understand if you happen to think even less of me now."

I hated that he was already preparing for rejection when I was sitting here just wanting to jump into his chest and fight off every person who ever made him feel unworthy of love.

The logistics of that plan were questionable, since I was naked, exhausted and roughly the size of a disgruntled houseplant next to most of his enemies. Before I could process how to do that, there was a knock on the bedroom door.

"Don Castelli?" a voice called. "Sorry to interrupt, sir. But there’s an update from the investigation and it’s urgent. The men are waiting for your instructions."

I glared at the door with enough hatred to melt the varnish. Whoever was on the other side had the worst timing in the history of the Italian mafia, and that was a competitive category.

Lorenzo’s demeanor shifted instantly, the change smooth enough that it might have been impressive if it didn’t make me want to lash out.

"I’ll be in my study shortly," he replied.

"Understood, Don."

Footsteps faded down the hall, leaving us alone again, but that moment had already lost its magic. Lorenzo tossed the blankets off and got out of bed, moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who learned to keep going despite what churned inside their head.

I watched him as he reached for his pants and then stood by the bed, pulling a clean shirt from the chair.

His scars were illuminated in the morning light, and I found myself unable to look away, thinking of the boy who bore those marks and the man who had learned to live as if they were just old memories on his skin.

He slipped his arms into the shirt and began buttoning it up, each button disappearing another piece of the boy I had just met.

"Try to eat something and drink a lot of water," he said calmly, adjusting his cuffs. "You should rest for a bit, especially after the days you’ve endured."

There was nothing overtly wrong with what he said. He wasn’t being unkind, and he hadn’t raised his voice, but the distance in his tone was clear.

It was the same polite detachment he adopted to make sure conversations stay impossible without outright refusing them.

Frankly, it was a skill, and I would have admired it if I weren’t on the receiving end. He was preparing to walk away before I could push him away.

And that was the exact moment my brain chose to check out.

"Oh, absolutely not," I grumbled.

Lorenzo glanced back at me. "What?"

I didn’t reply, because saying something would require thinking, and thinking didn’t seem to be on the agenda that morning. So instead, I threw the blankets aside and climbed out of bed.

My body immediately protested. Every muscle was in revolt against the movement, and the cool morning air felt sharply uncomfortable against my bare skin.

I nearly stumbled when my feet hit the floor, catching myself against the mattress, and decided dignity was a luxury for those not emotionally compromised and standing naked in front of a mafia Don.

Lorenzo barely turned when I crossed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind. He froze completely, like a man who had faced down armed enemies without blinking and had just been ambushed by a hug.

I pressed my face into his back, holding him tightly enough to feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my cheek.

His scent, familiar and grounding, wrapped around me, but it felt different now...quieter and more vulnerable, filling my chest with a heavy ache.

"I’m sorry," I whispered.