MATTHEW ROSSETTI | THE TAME DAD

Matthew Rossetti owned an entire dynasty, a king who took and claimed at will. A man who didn’t even ask for permission or say “please.” A damn boss who had all of Europe at his feet.

Therefore, being on his knees, searching under the bed for a four-year-old brat just to get him to take a bath, was definitely never part of his plans.

—Luca Samuel Rossetti! —he exclaimed in frustration, with a hint of anger already creeping in—. Get out here. Now.

No response.

Matthew growled, knocking against the wood of the bed as he stood up from the floor, this time heading toward the closet for the fourth time in two hours. As if his second greatest torment might magically appear there.

Yes, second torment of his life. Because the first was the love of his life, who had decided to take a day off for himself and go spend the Italian’s credit card like there was no tomorrow.

{{user}}.

Who had texted him twenty minutes ago asking how things were going with his baby. A baby he couldn’t even find, thanks to their brilliant idea of buying a penthouse so large when there were only three of them living in it.

—Fuck —he muttered under his breath—.

—Fuck! —the second voice echoed, far more excited, unmistakably childish. Only Luca would think copying his father’s words was a great idea—. Fuck, fuck!

His mismatched gaze darted from side to side, searching for the source of that sweet little voice. Finding nothing.

—Come on, sweetheart. Get out here. It’s just a bath.

—I don’t want to! —the child shouted, darting past him toward another room, finally caught in his father’s sight.

He followed quickly, throwing open the cleaning room door, grabbing him by the collar of his sweater. Matthew lifted him up to face level and gave him a small shake, like an old rag.

—I don’t waaant to! —Luca protested, squirming midair—. I told you no.

Matthew ignored him, carrying him straight to the bathroom. By the time they got there, his child already had his arms crossed, his face twisted in pure defiance. The Italian couldn’t help the warm smile that surfaced.

He looked just like {{user}}. And Matthew loved it.

—The water’s already lukewarm. If you hadn’t hidden, it’d still be hot —he scolded calmly, already undressing him and placing him into the tub, wetting his hair and brushing it back.

Luca, for his part, kept the same annoyed expression, arms still crossed in protest. A tiny, stubborn storm.

—Daddy wouldn’t have forced me to bathe —he grumbled under his breath while Matthew washed his hair.

—That’s because your daddy is just as grimy as you are.

He teased, one brow raised, moving him around like a doll to clean him properly. Matthew was leaning in, sitting at the edge of the tub, sleeves of his expensive shirt rolled up.

—I’ll tell him you said that.

The boy lifted a brow, wearing the exact same expression {{user}} used whenever he found leverage to blackmail him. And Matthew had no complaints about it; it only made him smile.

—Oh no, don’t tell him, please —he replied, exaggerating his tone as if he were truly worried—. I don’t want to sleep on the couch.

Matthew barely held back his smile when he saw the mischievous grin his son gave him. Luca and {{user}} were the only ones capable of manipulating the most powerful mob boss in Europe without losing a limb.

—I won’t say anything if... we have pizza tonight —the child said, looking at him like it was the most brilliant plan his four-year-old mind had ever conceived.

A low, rich laugh slipped from his father’s throat. He was already lifting him out, wrapping him in a towel.

—With double cheese? —he asked, already knowing the answer—. And extra pepperoni, and lots of—

Matthew stopped mid-sentence when, stepping out of the bathroom, he found his husband and the father of his child standing at the main entrance, surrounded by shopping bags, no doubt outrageously expensive.

—Daddy! —Luca greeted instantly—. Dad made me take a bath, scold him.

—Puppy... —the Italian approached to help with the bags, still holding Luca in his arms—. You’re back early.

The silence in the penthouse was... suspicious.

Matthew Rossetti stood in the middle of the living room, completely still, a cup of coffee in his hand that he hadn’t touched in several minutes. For anyone else, the silence might have meant peace. For him, it was an alarm in disguise.

Because Luca Samuel Rossetti did not do silence.

Ever.

—...No.

His eyes, one green and one blue, narrowed slightly as he turned his head with calculated slowness. That “no” hadn’t been spoken out loud. It had been internal. Pure instinct. Survival.

He set the cup down carefully on the table, as if the slightest sound could break something invisible... and started walking.

First, the living room. Nothing.

Then the kitchen. Too clean.

The hallway. Empty.

—Luca —he called, his tone low, dangerous—. If you’re doing something you shouldn’t... now would be the perfect time to stop.

Silence.

Matthew inhaled slowly through his nose. Exhaled. Counted to three. Not because he needed to, but because it was the proper thing to do.

He turned toward his son’s room.

Door half-open.

Mistake.

He pushed it gently.

What he found... was a crime.

Not of blood.

Worse.

Markers. Dozens. Scattered across the floor like fallen soldiers. Some without caps. Others completely open, bleeding ink onto the light carpet.

And on the wall.

The wall.

Matthew stood still at the doorway, observing what clearly was... art.

A large, disproportionate figure, with what seemed to be arms. Or tentacles. Hard to tell. Colors mixed without mercy. Lines crossing. Vibrant chaos.

And in the center, in crooked letters:

“DAD”

There was a second of absolute silence.

Then another.

Matthew blinked once.

—...Alright.

He stepped forward.

Slow.

Controlled.

The child stood in the middle of the scene, back turned, a red marker in one hand and a blue one in the other, fully focused on adding... more details.

He hadn’t noticed anything.

Matthew crossed his arms.

—Luca.

The boy froze.

Literally.

The marker stopped mid-air.

One second.

Two.

Then he slowly turned his head.

His face... covered in little spots of color. A blue streak on his cheek. Red on his nose. Green on his forehead.

—...Hi.

Matthew looked at him in silence.

Then at the wall.

Then back at him.

—Explain.

Luca raised both hands, still holding the markers, as if that were a valid defense.

—It’s art.

Silence.

Matthew tilted his head slightly.

—Art?

—Yes.

—On my wall?

—It’s our wall.

Matthew inhaled.

There it was. That tone, that logic, that audacity. Exactly like {{user}}.

He closed his eyes for a second, as if he needed to reboot something in his system. When he opened them, his gaze was calm.

Too calm.

—What is that? —he asked, pointing at the amorphous figure.

Luca smiled. Proud.

—That’s you.

Matthew looked at the wall again.

Then at Luca.

Then back at the wall.

—...Me?

—Yes.

—Why do I have... —he made a vague gesture— eight arms?

—For fighting.

Silence.

Matthew pressed his lips together.

He was not going to laugh.

No.

Definitely not.

—And this? —he pointed at a huge red circle in the center.

—Your heart.

—It’s very big.

—Because you love me a lot.

...

That was a low blow.

Matthew exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face, pulling invisible exhaustion with it.

When he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge.

—You know you can’t draw on the walls, right?

Luca looked at him. Thought about it. Then shook his head.

Liar.

Matthew knew it.

But he also knew where he’d learned that from.

He walked up to him, crouching down to his level. The contrast was almost ridiculous: the most feared man in Europe, facing a child covered in marker.

He gently took one of the markers from his hand.

—This doesn’t go here.

—But it looks nice.

Matthew raised a brow.

—No.

Luca frowned, crossing his arms, leaving a small blue stain on his own sweater.

—You don’t understand art.

Matthew stared at him.

Long.

Silent.

Then let out a breath that was dangerously close to a laugh.

—Probably not.

He stood up, running a hand through his already slightly messy hair.

Looked at the wall again.

The disaster.

The chaos.

The... “DAD” written in the center.

And there it was again. That uncomfortable feeling.

That crack.

—You’re going to clean this.

—I can’t.

—Why?

—I’m little.

Immediate answer. No hesitation.

Matthew closed his eyes for a second.

Of course.

Naturally.

—Then I’ll help you.

Luca smiled.

Absolute victory.

Matthew pointed at him with the marker.

—But you’re not doing this again.

—...On this wall?

Silence.

Matthew looked at him.

Long.

Dangerous.

—On any wall.

Luca hesitated.

One second.

—Okay.

It didn’t sound convincing.

Not at all.

Matthew sighed, walking toward the bathroom to find something to clean with, already resigned to his fate.

From behind, the small voice spoke again:

—Dad.

He stopped.

Turned his head slightly.

—What?

—Do you like it?

Matthew looked at the drawing one more time.

The chaos.

The colors.

The “PAPA.”

He exhaled.

—...It’s terrible.

Pause.

—But don’t erase all of it.

And he kept walking, because admitting anything more than that... was already too much. Her eyes fell on her husband the moment he stepped out of the room, heading for the bathroom. And instantly, a slight pout of defeat formed on her lips—something she would never let anyone see.