Page 52 of Privilege

Simple as that.

Lucia just wasn’t in the mood today.

“Daddy, move,” she said.

He didn’t.

“Do you know,” he murmured, “that despite how much freedom I have given to all of my children over the years—including you, Lucia—that it is only an illusion for you bunch. Sure, I let you make your own choices, mistakes, and paths. I step back, and watch from afar as you fall, get back up again, and succeed the next time you try. I don’t hold your hand as you figure out life, or whatever else you need to learn. I’ve let you all do whatever you need to do to be happy, and to thrive.”

Lucia swallowed hard. “I know.”

“But the freedom you all think you have is an illusion,” Lucian continued, colder than ever. She didn’t think she had ever heard her father so cold, really. “Because no matter how you see me at the end of the day, whether it be just a man, or your father, or your mother’s husband … I will always be who I am, Lucia. And do you know who that is?”

“No.”

“A made man. A man who will forever have a target on his back because of the life I chose, and because of that, so will you and anyone else I have brought into this life. So, yes, I give you the illusion of freedom, but at the same time, when you think I am only watching from the sidelines, I am also keeping you safe in the best way I can.”

“I don’t under—”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” her father interjected sharply. “Because what good would the illusion be if you’re able to see right through it?”

Lucian let out a dark laugh, and softened his posture a bit. He scrubbed a hand down his unshaven jaw, and glanced back at the front door like he expected it to open up any second. Lucia wondered where her mother was in those moments.

“You have people who keep an eye on you,” her father said quietly, not looking at her as he spoke. “People who you don’t see, but that keep me informed when needed. You lost them last night—no, sorry, not you. You weren’t driving, were you?”

Lucia blinked, silenced.

Her father met her gaze, then. Seeing right through her shit, even if he wasn’t about to call her out on it.

“It’s not the first time they noticed the young man around, or that you had sought him out,” her father continued, unbothered. “Renzo Zulla, his name is. He’s got some ties to your brother, it seems. I figured I would let you work it out, you’d learn quickly enough that he wasn’t where your attention was best spent. You’re a smart girl—you know to stay away from people who might cause you unneeded trouble. And that, Lucia, is all Renzo is. Trouble.”

She stiffened as a hot shot of disbelief and anger rocketed through her spine.

“Why?” she asked.

Lucian’s gaze narrowed. “Why?”

“That’s what I asked, Daddy. Why is he trouble?”

“You’ve spent more than a few minutes with the young man to know who he’s hanging around, and some of the things he’s doing. You know exactly why he’s trouble, Lucia.”

Was that so?

“Like you, then?” she pressed.

Lucian straightened like someone had shoved a rod into his spine. “I beg your par—”

“Like John, too?”

“Lucia—”

“Uncle Dante, or Uncle Gio? Granddaddy, too? Andino, maybe? Like all of you, too? He’s like you, too, right? If you’re going to throw stones, make sure your house is not made of glass, Daddy. I hear that doesn’t work out very well.”

It took her father a second, and then two before he finally found his words to respond.

“That is not the same thing.”

“I think it is.”