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Scared of Lost

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CHAPTER 2

Small Things

After breakfast, Alessandro left with a kiss pressed to Giulia’s hair.

A hand on Lorenzo’s shoulder. Brief. Obligatory.

Nothing for Matteo.

Matteo watched the door close. He always did.

Only then did he breathe out.

He spent his mornings in quiet usefulness—organizing the house, managing charity accounts Alessandro never asked about, checking Lorenzo’s schoolwork, folding laundry that wasn’t his.

At noon, he ate alone in the kitchen.

Sometimes the cooks forgot his preferences.

Sometimes they forgot him entirely.

He never complained.

Afternoon Cracks

Giulia returned from school sharp-edged, irritated by something Matteo would never be told about. She passed him in the corridor and didn’t meet his eyes.

" father won’t be home tonight,” she said flatly.

Matteo nodded. “Alright.”

She hesitated. Just a fraction. Then:

“You don’t have to wait up.”

As if he ever did.

Night

Lorenzo knocked before entering Matteo’s room. Always polite. Always careful.

“Can I sleep here?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

Matteo smiled. “Of course.”

They lay side by side, the boy’s head on his chest, listening to a heart that had learned to survive too much.

“Papà,” Lorenzo murmured, half-asleep.

“Mm?”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Matteo closed his eyes.

Outside, Alessandro’s car returned late.

Footsteps passed Matteo’s door.

They did not stop.

One Evening — The Interruption

The De Luca study smelled of leather, espresso, and old power.

Alessandro sat behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled with mechanical precision. The city glowed beyond the windows like something he owned by birthright.

The door opened without a knock.

That alone said everything.

Mikhail Volkov came in first—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes sharp with the kind of loyalty that had survived wars and scandals. Behind him, quieter but no less dangerous, Sergei Antonov, hands in his pockets, gaze already dissecting the room.

Alessandro didn’t look up.

“You’re late.”

Mikhail laughed once. No humor in it.

“We didn’t come to talk about the company.”

That made Alessandro pause.

Sergei closed the door. Softly. Deliberately.

“How long,” Sergei asked calmly, “are you planning to keep pretending your house isn’t rotting from the inside?”

Silence thickened.

Alessandro leaned back slowly. “Careful.”

Mikhail stepped forward, palms on the desk. “No. You be careful. Because I’ve watched you destroy enemies with less patience than you’re using to destroy your own husband.”

The word husband landed hard.

Alessandro’s jaw tightened. “This is none of your—”

“How much time,” Mikhail cut in, voice rising, “do you need to tell Matteo that you love him?”

Alessandro stood.

The room seemed smaller suddenly.

“I don’t love him,” he said flatly.

Sergei’s eyes flicked—not to Alessandro’s face, but to his hands. They were clenched.

“Lie better,” Sergei said quietly. “You’re insulting us.”

Truth Pressed Open

Mikhail exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I see how he looks at you,” he said. “Like you’re still a possibility. Like hope hasn’t finished humiliating him yet.”

Alessandro turned away, staring out the window.

“You think I don’t know?” he said lowly. “You think I don’t see him flinch when I walk past? You think I don’t hear how the staff speaks when I’m not there?”

“Then why,” Sergei asked, voice sharp now, “do you allow it?”

Because if I acknowledge him, Alessandro thought, I’ll have to acknowledge what I did.

He didn’t say that.

Instead he said, “Because this marriage was a mistake.”

Mikhail slammed his fist onto the desk.

“No. The violence was a mistake. Matteo wasn’t.”

The name hung there. Warm. Human.

Alessandro swallowed.

“You forced him into a life where he waits for crumbs,” Mikhail went on. “And the worst part? He’d forgive you if you gave him anything real.”

Sergei stepped closer. “He’s not asking for weakness. He’s asking to be seen.”

Alessandro laughed under his breath. Short. Hollow.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “If I let myself—”