🧸 Flashback: The Worst Birthday Ever

The villa was too quiet again. Luca hated the quiet. He sat on the grand staircase, frozen, unable to move or cry or do anything. They said Scarpelli killed his father in cold blood. Servants whispered in the hallways. Somewhere outside, Vittorio barked orders like thunder, and then Marco came in. He was seventeen now, taller, broader, his dark hair damp with rain. He looked like a soldier, but his face softened the second he saw Luca sitting there alone.

“They told me…” Luca’s voice cracked. “Papa…?”

Marco crouched in front of him, silent for a long moment, just letting Luca look into his eyes. Then he nodded once.

“Your father’s gone, Luca.”

The words broke something in his chest. He clutched at Marco’s shirt, sobbing quietly, because he didn’t want the whole house to hear him shatter. Marco didn’t speak—he just held him. Strong arms, steady heart. He rocked him slightly, the way he used to when Luca was small.

“You’re safe,” Marco murmured into his hair. “I’ve got you. I always will.”

Marco sent Luca to bed. The storm outside pounded against the windows. Luca curled under his blanket, trying to be brave, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He felt the weight of the house pressing on him, the whole legacy of the Valeris, and he was just a boy without a father.

The door creaked open. Marco stepped in silently, carrying two mugs of hot cocoa.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked.

Luca shook his head. “…Will it hurt forever?”

Marco hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Not forever. But tonight, yeah… It’s gonna hurt. And that’s okay.”

He hesitated, then pulled a plushy from his pocket. It was that ugly duck plushy, Ducky. “I thought Ducky could help. I know Bunbun is your favorite, but I don’t know where you put it. Doesn’t Ducky look ridiculous? He has a big purple beak, a small blue head, and a tiny body with huge wings. I never ask where you got this weird Duck.” He didn’t tease. He just handed it to Luca and tucked the blanket tighter.

“My Nonna made it for me. It was the first time she screwed a plushy and messed it all up. BunBun was also one she made when she got better at making them. I miss Nonna, Nonno, and Papa. I guess they are all together now.”

“Get some sleep, piccolino,” he said softly.

“Can you sleep with me tonight. I don’t want to be alone. Why did he have to die on my birthday?”

“Yeah, I’ll sleep with you, scoot over.” Marco says, crawling in bed beside Luca, pulling him in to his arms, and for the first time since Adriano’s death, Luca let himself close his eyes, knowing Marco wouldn’t let the world take anything else from him.

The mansion was too quiet the morning of the funeral. Even with people inside—lieutenants whispering in corners, black suits passing trays of wine and espresso, old men offering condolences like currency—it felt hollow. The rooms echoed now. The shadows stretched longer. The air held its breath and Luca couldn’t breathe in it.

He stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking down at the crowd gathered in the sitting room below. Mourning his father, toasting him, and already scheming behind his back. Fifteen years old and already a Don-in-waiting.

He was wearing a suit he hated. His tie was too tight, the collar itched, and the polished shoes his mother insisted on made his toes ache. The pain helped. It gave him something to focus on other than the tears burning behind his eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t look weak. Don’t show them how scared you are.

He turned and walked away from the noise, down the far hallway that led to the wing no one used anymore. The door at the very end was old—white paint peeling, brass handle loose. It had been his nursery, once.

No one had touched it in years.

He pushed it open.

The scent hit him first—dust and sun-warmed wood, the faint trace of baby powder still clinging to the corners. The room was faded but intact. Pale yellow wallpaper. A tiny bookshelf. And in the center, a low twin bed with a pile of forgotten plush toys resting in the middle.

Luca stood there, trembling.

He took a step forward. Then another. Dropped to his knees on the floor beside the bed.

His hand reached out before he could stop it—drawn to the softest, most familiar shape in the pile.

The bunny Bunbun. Cream-colored. Worn thin in the middle. One ear was half-detached. He pulled it into his arms without thinking, and then it happened—like falling off a cliff in slow motion. The world slipped sideways. His breath shuddered. His body went soft. His knees folded under him, and he curled around the bunny, clutching it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Tears came—not hot, angry tears like before. But slow, aching ones. The kind you cried when you knew no one was coming.

For the first time since the bullet went through his father’s skull, Luca let go. He didn’t have to be strong in this room. He didn’t have to lead. He didn’t have to fight. He could just be… small. A boy. A scared, grieving, broken boy holding his bunny. A little while later, Marco came looking for him.

“It’s time for the funeral. Make sure you look strong. I will be beside you the whole way, along with your mom and Davide.” Marco says, looking Luca in the eyes, wiping away the tears.

The church was silent except for the quiet sobs of mourners. Heavy velvet drapes muted the daylight, casting long shadows over polished wood pews.

Luca sat rigid in the front row, the weight of his grief pressing down like a stone on his chest. His father’s coffin rested at the altar, draped in a deep red velvet cloth embroidered with the family crest. Faces blurred around him, but none reached out. None could reach him.

As the priest spoke, Luca’s world narrowed to a pinpoint of unbearable sorrow. His hands clenched the cream-colored bunny plush, BunBun — a gift from his father’s mother made years ago — hidden beneath his jacket.

He needed to be strong in front of many people who were watching, but how can he be strong when his father has just died? A wave of panic swept through him, breath shallow and fast. The room spun. His vision blurred, and the hard edges of reality softened. His body curled into itself as he squeezed BunBun tightly, rocking gently in the pew. Tears slipped free, unashamed and raw. For the second time today, he entered his little space, a secret refuge born from heartbreak, where he could be vulnerable without judgment.