Like Father, Like Son
Description
She was traded to settle a debt. He is the one man she must never want. Lucia Santoro knows what it means to survive-working herself to the bone to hold her broken family together, until one reckless mistake binds her to a powerful dynasty that doesn't forgive, forget, or let go. Thrust into a marriage she never chose, Lucia learns quickly that wealth can be just another kind of cage... and that desire is far more dangerous than fear. Salvatore Caruso rules his world with discipline, control, and an iron grip on his emotions. A widower haunted by the past, he has buried longing as deeply as the bodies beneath his empire. But when Lucia enters his life, everything he's sworn to protect-his legacy, his authority, his restraint-begins to fracture. Their connection is instant, illicit, and impossible to ignore... and every stolen glance risks igniting a war neither of them can survive. As tension simmers and boundaries blur, Lucia and Salvatore are pulled toward a truth that could destroy them both. Dark, sensual, and emotionally charged, this is a forbidden love story where desire is dangerous, choices are costly, and wanting the wrong person might be the most devastating risk of all.
Chapter 1
Feb 19, 2026
POV Lucia
"You look like death warmed over, Lucia." Enzo's voice carries from behind the prescription counter where he's been pretending to sort pills for the last hour.
Really, he's been watching me with those worried brown eyes that remind me too much of my grandfather's.
The lights above me flicker like they're mocking my fourteenth hour on these cracked linoleum floors. My ankles throb with each step as I reach up to restock the aspirin bottles on the top shelf.
The irony isn't lost on me—surrounded by painkillers I can't afford to buy.
"Thanks for the confidence boost, Mr. Bianchi."
I straighten another row of bottles, making sure each label faces forward. Perfect alignment, perfect control—the only kind I have left in my life.
"Your father isn't worth this suffering, cara." His words land soft but deliberate. "The whole town knows what happened to the Santoro family. You don't need to kill yourself trying to fix what he broke."
The whole town knows. Of course they do. In a place where everyone's business becomes dinner conversation, our fall from grace still gets mentioned at Sunday dinners.
I force my shoulders back and turn to face him.
"I appreciate your concern, really." The smile I offer him costs me nothing—I've gotten good at those. "Actually, I was wondering if I could pick up extra shifts next week? Carla mentioned she needs coverage for her mother's surgery."
Enzo's sigh could inflate a hot air balloon. His weathered hands drum against the counter as he studies me, this seventy-year-old man who gave me my first job when no one else would hire a Santoro.
"You're already working sixty hours, Lucia."
"And I could work seventy." I move to the next shelf. Each bottle, each box, each minute ticking by is another dollar toward a debt that grows faster than I can shrink it. "Please, Mr. Bianchi. You know I'm reliable."
"Madonna mia, you're too young to be this old." He shakes his head but pulls out the schedule book. "Fine. Tuesday through Thursday, closing shifts. But if I see you sleeping standing up, I'm sending you home."
"Deal." Another practiced smile. Another small victory in a war I'm losing.
The hours blur together after that. By the time the clock hits eleven, the store is tomb-quiet. I count the register twice—$1847.62, same as the first count.
The displays get locked one by one, keys jangling like tiny bells announcing the end of another day I've survived. My reflection in the glass door shows a twenty-three-year-old who looks thirty, dark circles under darker eyes.
I'm reaching for the light switch when I hear the low purr of an engine. A black Mercedes idles at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the drugstore's neon sign.
The engine cuts off and three men step out first. Dark suits that fit too well to be off the rack, eyes that scan the storefront, the street, the shadows.
They're checking for threats.
Then a man emerges.
He's older, maybe mid-fifties, with silver threading through dark hair that's slicked back from a face that belongs on ancient coins. His suit is charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, and there's blood on it.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Power radiates from him the way heat radiates from flame. He walks through the door like he owns the building.
"I need clean water, bandages, and painkillers."
His voice is velvet wrapped around steel, calm and unhurried. Those dark eyes—brown or black, I can't tell in this light—fix on mine with an intensity that makes breathing complicated.
I glance at the blood again. "You should go to a hospital. That looks serious."
His expression doesn't change. "No hospital."
Two words. That's all.
This isn't a suggestion I'm allowed to repeat.
I move without thinking, gathering supplies with hands steadier than they have any right to be. Bottled water from the cooler, gauze from behind the counter, antiseptic that will sting like hell.
"Let me see the wound." The words surprise me as much as they seem to surprise him. "You're bleeding through your shirt. If you won't go to a hospital, at least let me clean it properly."
His men tense, but he raises his hand slightly and everything stops.
"You have medical training?"
"Two years of nursing school. Enough to know that wound needs attention before infection sets in."
He considers me for a moment, then shrugs off his jacket and unbuttons his shirt, revealing a gash along his ribs. His men look uncomfortable.
My hands move with remembered precision as I clean the wound with antiseptic. His skin is warm under my fingers, his eyes never leaving my face. This is insane—I'm playing nurse to a man who probably killed someone tonight.
"Hold this." I guide his hand to the gauze, and our fingers brush. The contact sends heat up my arm. "Keep pressure while I tape it."
"Bossy little thing, aren't you?" There's amusement in his voice now, and when I glance up, his mouth curves in what might be a smile. It transforms his face from dangerous to devastating.
"When it comes to wounds that could kill you, yes." I secure the bandage with medical tape, each piece placed precisely. "This needs proper stitches. Without them, it'll scar badly."
"I have plenty of scars." He buttons his shirt with practiced ease, and I feel oddly bereft watching his skin disappear. "One more won't matter."
The finality in his voice tells me our strange interaction is ending. He'll walk out that door, and I'll never see him again. The thought brings unexpected relief mixed with… disappointment? That's the adrenaline talking. Nothing more.
"Your name," he says, though it's not really a question.
"Lucia Santoro." No point in lying. In a town this small, he could find out in five minutes.
"Lucia." He tastes my name like expensive whiskey. "Thank you for the medical attention."
He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a wallet. The bills he lays down are all hundreds, enough to pay my rent twice over.
"That's too much for bandages."
"It's not for the bandages." His eyes hold mine, dark and unreadable. "It's for discretion. You didn't see anything tonight, Lucia Santoro. Understood?"
The threat is velvet-soft, but it's still a threat. I nod, quick and certain.
"Good girl."
The praise shouldn't make my stomach flip, but it does. He puts his jacket back on, every movement controlled despite the wound. His men fall into formation as he moves toward the door.
Then he's gone. The Mercedes swallows them whole and glides into the night. I stand alone in the fluorescent glare, surrounded by the lingering scent of his cologne and the ghost of his touch on my skin.
I grab paper towels and clean the blood from the floor, from the counter, erasing evidence of what happened here. The hundreds go in my pocket where they burn against my hip.
Blood money, literally.
When my phone shrills, shattering the suffocating silence, Dad's name flashes on the screen. I already know what's coming before I answer.
"Lucia, thank God." His voice is wire-tight. "Listen, baby girl, I need some cash for tonight. Is your emergency stash still behind the flour?"
That's my rent money. The only thing standing between us and eviction.
"Dad, no. Don't touch that money."
I can hear him moving through the apartment, the scrape of the kitchen chair across linoleum. He's already decided.
"Just a loan, sweetheart. I'll triple it tonight, I swear. This game is a sure thing."
There's never been a sure thing in Franco Santoro's life except disappointment. My fingers grip the phone hard enough to crack the screen.
"Dad, I'm coming now. Don't touch anything."
But the line's already dead. I slam the door locked and run.
Like Father, Like Son
30 Chapters
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