Tear Me Apart (An M/M Dark Romance)

I, Alejandro Cortes, did not believe in fear. Not when I pulled the trigger on my first man at sixteen. Not when I buried my father and took the throne, and he drenched in blood. And certainly not when entire families tried to erase my name from Italy. Fear was a currency and a weapon. A language I spoke fluently. But never something I felt. Until Lana. My phone buzzed quietly against the dark wood of my desk. The screen lit up with a message from one of my men. Unknown activity near the southern estate. I stared at the message for a moment before locking the screen again. Threats were not unusual. In my world, enemies breathed in the same air as allies. Someone was always watching. Always waiting for weakness. But weakness was something I had erased from myself long ago. Or so I believed. "Papa, you're not listening." I blinked at the voice, the sweet, soft little voice that carried all the weight of my fragile world. Lana stood before me, hands planted firmly on her hips, eyes narrowed in exaggerated annoyance. She looked far too small, far too delicate for the intensity I carried in my veins, for the violence I had learned to command effortlessly. And yet, even so, she owned my attention fully. As I looked at her, I thought of my wife, still resting in our bedroom. Camila’s eyes would always meet mine with warmth I did not feel I deserved. She saw something redeemable in me, something gentle beneath the darkness I had cultivated. And now, in Lana, that same spark lived again, concentrated into a smaller, livelier, infuriatingly fearless form. I felt something twist sharply behind my ribs, something dangerously close to softness. I buried the sensation, as I always did. Leaning back in my chair, I studied her with calculated patience before speaking in an almost gentle voice—almost. "You haven't said anything worth hearing yet." Her gasp was immediate. Tiny, indignant, as if I had personally wronged her. She looked like she might cry, but anger held her firm. I almost smiled at her reaction, though I barely allowed it. I do not smile without reason. I do not smile unless I have bathed in the blood of my enemies, unless the world itself bends to my will. And yet, here I sat, suppressing the warmth that rose unbidden in my chest. "Well," Lana huffed, climbing confidently onto the chair across from my desk, "I was telling you about my school project, Papa." I sighed, a long, deliberate exhale that carried more weight than the words themselves. "The one involving glitters?" "It's not glitter, silly Papa," she corrected sharply. "It's decorative material." I pinched the bridge of my nose, half amused, half exasperated. "Decorative material is glitter, angel." "It is not." "It absolutely is." For a moment, silence fell between us, and I watched her, captivated, as she leaned forward conspiratorially. "Papa, you're being very disrespectful for someone who's supposed to help me." I stared at her for a long time. This tiny creature. This impossibly fearless, infuriatingly perceptive child. She understood more than she should, saw more than she should, and yet, she dared to challenge me. And for reasons I could not decipher, nor would I ever confess aloud, I obeyed. "Fine," I muttered, and the instant I did, her eyes lit up like stars, victory written across every line of her face. Every. Single. Time. "What is this project about?" She beamed at me, a devastating weapon of innocence and confidence. "It's about family." I froze. Not visibly. No. Never visibly. "Family," I repeated carefully, tasting the word as if it were dangerous, as if it might tear through the armor I had spent decades cultivating. "Yes," Lana continued, leaning back proudly, entirely oblivious to the war she'd just triggered inside my mind. "I have to describe what my parents do." My jaw locked. There it was, the complication I had anticipated but not desired. I was Alejandro Cortes, owner of the Cortes Empire, feared across nations. But here, my child forced me to see myself not as a predator, a king, a devil in a tailored suit, but as a man. A father. And my world did not leave room for that vulnerability. "And," she added cheerfully, "I told them you're in business. Oh well, everyone knows that anyway." I exhaled slowly. "Smart girl." "I know," she said, and I studied her. Her easy confidence, her untainted innocence, the complete absence of fear in her eyes. She carried Camila's strength, my wife’s enduring fire, but none of my darkness. Thank God. "And Mama?" I asked. Lana grinned. "I told them she's the boss." I was stunned, and I barked a laugh before I could stop myself. A rare, unguarded sound. Her eyes widened. "You laughed!" she accused. "I did not," I replied immediately. "You absolutely did, Papa." I straightened instantly, returning my face to its usual, impassive mask. "You imagined it." She leaned back smugly. "I'll tell Mama." I narrowed my eyes. "You wouldn't dare." She smiled. And my heart sank a little. Because we both knew. She would. She absolutely would. I loved this child with a violence that rivaled anything I had ever felt for power. She was my greatest weakness. My single crack in an otherwise unbreakable empire. I rose from my chair and rounded the desk, and she watched me with curiosity, unafraid, unshaken. For a long moment, I simply looked at her, memorizing the details of her small face, her eyes, her expressions, as if some instinct deep within me knew what my mind could not: nothing this pure ever survived in my world. "You'll win, you know," I murmured. She tilted her head. "Win what?" "Your project." She smiled softly. Certain. Unshaken. "I always do." I believed her. She had never known defeat. And I had never allowed it.