The high tables

Death

He let out a low, humorless chuckle, his hand finally releasing my wrist. He leaned back in his chair, the tension in his body slowly easing as the coughing fit subsided. His eyes, though still sharp, were tired in a way I hadn’t seen before. "You think I don’t know that?" he said, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. "I know what’s happening to me, Isabella. I’m not blind. But I won’t let it be the end of me."

There was a stubbornness in his words, a fierce refusal to accept the reality of his condition. It was the same stubbornness that had built our empire, one that I inherited, the same stubbornness that had kept our family on top for so many years. But now, that same stubbornness was blinding him to the truth. Death

"Papa," I said, trying to keep my tone steady, "you’re not invincible. You’re only human."

His eyes flashed at that, and for a moment, I thought he was going to lash out at me. Instead, he simply sighed, his shoulders slumping further as if the weight of the world had finally caught up to him. "I can’t afford to be human," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I knelt beside his chair, my hand resting on his knee as I looked up at him. "We can handle this," I said softly. "We’ll find a way to keep this quiet. But you need to get better. You can’t lead this family if you’re dead."

That last bit hung in the air like poison, and I could see the way it hit him. He was scared, scared of Death. He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off the reality I had just spoken into existence.

"I’m not dead yet," he said after a long pause, his voice rough. "And I’m not going to be anytime soon."

"At least not with a cough and a few bits of blood. A bullet will probably do it through," he said, and we both let out a silent chuckle.

I stood up, my hands resting on my hips as I stared down at him, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Then act like it," I said, my voice firmer than before. "Stop pretending everything’s fine and let me help you. We can figure this out, and we will but not if you keep pushing me away."

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just sat there, staring at the floor, his breathing still labored but no longer as ragged as before. When he finally looked up at me, there was something in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in a long time vulnerability. It was fleeting, barely there before he masked it again, but I caught it. And in that brief moment, I realized just how scared he was.

"Fine," he said quietly, his voice hoarse. "Call the doctor. But only someone we trust."

"We don't have a lot of those, now do we? " I said in an attempt to get a laugh out of him.

He let out a hearty chuckle

I nodded, relief flooding through me as I pulled out my phone again, already dialing the number of one of our family’s private physicians. It wasn’t the solution to everything, but it was a start.

As I made the call, I couldn’t help but glance at my father again. He sat there, still as a statue, staring into the distance as if lost in thought. His once-imposing frame seemed smaller now, as though the weight of his illness was pressing down on him more than any rival or enemy ever could.

When I hung up the phone, I stepped closer to him, my voice softer now. "The doctor will be here in an hour."

He nodded in approval, still not meeting my gaze. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t looking at Matteo De Luca, the feared mob boss. I was looking at my father, a man who was grappling with his mortality, and it scared me more than I was willing to admit.

I sat down in the chair opposite his desk, the room suddenly feeling too large and too quiet. The tension that had filled the air earlier was gone, replaced by something else something heavier. I didn’t know how to talk to him at that moment. I had always known him as the unshakeable patriarch, the man who never showed weakness, never let anyone see the cracks in his persona and. But now, those cracks were beginning to show, and I didn’t know how to handle it.

Countless thoughts flooded my mind: what if something were to happen to Papa? Was I ready to take on the De Luca name, carry our story further?

"I’m sorry," I said after a long silence, as I had gotten lost in thought my voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up at me, his brows furrowed in confusion. "For what?"

"For pushing you. For..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "For not realizing sooner how bad things were."

His lips curled into a faint smile, and he shook his head. "You’ve always been headstrong, Isabella. It’s one of the things I admire most about you. But don’t apologize for caring. You’re doing exactly what you should be doing."

I nodded, though I still felt the weight of guilt pressing down on me. "I just want you to be okay."

"I will be," he said, though his voice lacked the certainty and assurance it once had. "We’ll figure this out. Together."

I didn’t know if I believed him, but I nodded anyway. "Together."