Running from the Don: Too Late for "Papa"

In this house, my son isn't allowed to call his father "Papa."

Vincenzo Marchesi is a mafia Don. He doesn't do fatherhood. He didn't even look at Leo the day he was born, simply because he never wanted us. He forces the boy to exclusively call him "Sir."

But tonight, Vincenzo broke his own rules. He stumbled through the door, chuckled, and scooped Leo into the air. "Mama, look!" Leo gasped, his eyes lighting up. "Why is Sir so happy?"

I walked close enough to smell the whiskey. But beneath it was the sickeningly sweet scent of vanilla perfume. Isabella's perfume.

His first love—the woman he actually wanted to marry—was back.

I pulled Leo out of Vincenzo's arms. Vincenzo didn't even try to stop me. He just rubbed his temples and walked past us to his bedroom.

"Sir is happy because a very special woman came back to town today," I said, putting both hands on my son's shoulders. "He finally got what he wanted. We have to pack, Leo."

Leo furiously wiped his tears away with his sleeve. He stood perfectly still before looking up. "Mama, can I give Sir three more chances before we run away?"

"Yes," I answered.

I will let Vincenzo have his three chances. But once my son's heart is completely broken, we will walk out the door.

Clara

After I tucked Leo into bed, I went straight to my study. The house was dead quiet. I opened my laptop, created a new document, and typed out the header for my divorce agreement.

Seven years of marriage. Seven years of playing the invisible, unwanted wife. I was finally done.

A knock broke the silence. The door pushed open. Leo stood there in his pajamas. He was clutching a heavy, die-cast toy revolver. Vincenzo had tossed it to him earlier tonight like a bone to a dog.

"Mama, are we really leaving?" Leo asked. His dark eyes matched his father's perfectly. "But Sir hugged me tonight. Doesn't that mean he likes me now?"

I stopped typing. A bitter exhaustion hit me right in the chest.

Vincenzo never let his own son call him "Dad" or "Papa." It wasn't to protect him. Vincenzo just hated the intimacy. To him, we were nothing but a burden.

When Leo was two, he made a mistake. Vincenzo had reluctantly brought him to a brief meeting at a restaurant. Leo smiled and babbled, "Papa!"

Vincenzo's face went dead. He was visibly annoyed by the word. He dropped his two-year-old son right there on the sidewalk. He told his men to walk the kid home. Leo tripped and fell the whole way back. He arrived with bloody knees and scraped hands, completely abandoned by his father.

Two years later, it happened again. Leo begged to go to a street festival. Vincenzo finally took him. But in the middle of the crowd, Leo slipped up again and called him "Papa."

Vincenzo instantly let go of his hand. He was so irritated that he just turned around and walked away. He left his own kid in a crowd of total strangers. It took the guards two hours to find a four-year-old Leo. He was hiding behind a dumpster, having a massive panic attack.

From that day on, Leo learned the brutal truth. He called his father "Sir." And our family became a pathetic joke.

The memory made my chest ache. I pulled my son into my lap. "Leo, listen to me. Sir's old friend is back. We can't stay here anymore."

Panic hit Leo's face. He shoved the toy gun into my hands. "But Mama, Sir got me a gift! Why would he give me this if he didn't want me?"

He was desperate. He just wanted his father to care.

The words died in my throat. How could I tell a seven-year-old the truth? Vincenzo was only in a good mood because Isabella was back in New York. The toy gun wasn't a real gift. It was just the overflow of his joy for another woman.

I couldn't do it. I swallowed the bitterness and lied to protect him, just like always.

I kissed his forehead and forced a smile. "Leo... if I decide we need to leave, will you come with me?"

He went totally stiff. His little fingers gripped the cold metal of the toy. "Do we have to go?" he whispered. "I haven't even gotten to call him Papa out loud yet."

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. "Leo, Sir doesn't need us here anymore. Let me take you away. Just you and me."

Leo slowly lowered the toy gun, clutching it against his chest like a shield. He didn't speak for a long time. When he finally looked up, heavy tears were tracking down his cheeks.

"Mama, can we try three more times?" he asked, his voice cracking. "I'll give Sir three chances. If he pushes us away again... I won't ask anymore. We can go."

I closed my eyes, heartbroken. "Okay."

Three chances, Vincenzo.

After that, you lose us for good.