The Slave of Pleasure

Vincenzo

The cell was cold and silent, but for the first time in a long time, Vincenzo didn't feel like a prisoner of his surroundings. The gloom around him seemed less oppressive as he leaned against the concrete wall, his gaze lost in some undefined spot on the ceiling. The cell was small, but not claustrophobic. The gray concrete walls bore the marks of other lives that had passed before me engraved scratches, faded words, small traces of existences that time had not managed to erase completely. There was a bunk bed against the far wall, the mattress thin and misshapen, but it worked. It wasn't the comfort that bothered me, it was the silence.

The window, a small rectangle with iron bars, was too high for me to see anything other than the sky. But it was enough. During the night, the stars appeared like tiny sparks, reminding me that the world outside still existed. During the day, the light that entered didn't bring warmth, it just outlined the shadows in the corners of the cell.

In the left corner, a metal sink with a built-in mirror-cracked. My reflection was distorted, and somehow, that seemed fair. I wasn't the same man who'd come in there. Every time I looked at that broken glass, I saw pieces of a past that now haunted me.

There was also a small concrete table, attached to the wall, with a fixed bench. I spent most of my time there. I thought. I wrote on the small pieces of paper I could find. When the words didn't come, I drew abstract shapes, meaningless lines that, somehow, seemed to organize the mess in my head.

The iron door, with a small opening through which meals were served, was the only thing that separated me from the rest of the prison. Beyond it, echoes of distant voices, footsteps of guards, the sound of the world continued. But here inside, everything was different. It was a place where time slowed down, where each minute stretched out, forcing me to face the choices I had made.NôvelDrama.Org owns all content.

This cell wasn't just concrete and iron. It was a reflection of my own mind. And while I was here, each wall told a story that I needed to hear.

His mind, however, was far away. The news still echoed inside him like distant thunder, a sound that, although frightening, brought with it the promise of rain after a long drought. He had a son.

The idea seemed absurd-a lie created by Veronica to manipulate the situation, to get another reaction out of him. But it wasn't. The confirmation from the police officers and the serious look Rachel gave him left no room for doubt. The child existed, and fate had decided that Vincenzo should know about it at that exact moment in his life. As if it were a second chance.

He closed his eyes and ran his hands through his dark hair, laughing softly. A son. A boy who, somewhere, was living a life that was possibly not very different from the one he himself had lived as a child. But this similarity frightened him. Vincenzo had grown up surrounded by the luxury that his Mafia family's dirty money could provide. An elite education, prestigious schools, expensive clothes. All of it to mask the truth that ran through the family's veins: they were criminals. "And I became one of them," Vincenzo muttered to himself. No matter how hard he tried to distance himself, he had been sucked into that world. The life he had always believed was inevitable. Now, with the knowledge that he had a son, fear settled in his chest. What if the boy followed the same path? What if, no matter how hard he tried, Vincenzo could not spare him from this fate?

He did not know the boy's name, and this lack of information bothered him more than he could admit. Vincenzo wanted to call him by something more than "my son." He wanted to meet the child, to look into his eyes and see some similarity, some spark that could confirm that they were indeed related by blood. Maybe there was a chance to prevent the cycle from repeating itself.

Sitting on the cot, Vincenzo crossed his arms and tilted his head back. He began to imagine. What would the boy's face be like? Would he have the same thick black hair he had as a child? The same deep, serious eyes that reflected the world with suspicion? Or maybe he would be more like Veronica, with her delicate features but the intensity of spirit inherited from her father.

"What if he doesn't want to see me?" The doubt arose suddenly. Vincenzo knew that his history was not the best. He couldn't blame the child for harboring resentment, even if he was still too young to understand the complexity of it all. "What if he hates me for what I did or didn't do?"

But there was another possibility, one that warmed his heart. What if the boy wanted to meet him? What if, somehow, the boy was waiting for a father, even if he didn't know who he was? Vincenzo wanted to believe this version of the story. PrecHe was going to believe it. Because otherwise, there would be no point in that late discovery.

Time passed slowly as Vincenzo allowed himself to imagine the possibilities. He saw himself holding the boy in his arms for the first time, seeing a naive smile that lit up his face. Maybe they could go to a park together, watch a football game, or simply take a walk, far from the shadows that had always accompanied him.

"I'll teach him to read like my grandfather taught me," he thought. His grandfather had been one of the few positive figures in his childhood, the only one who tried to show him that there was something beyond the criminal life. He was a cultured man who saw books as a form of escapism and a way to cultivate the mind. Vincenzo wanted to offer this to his son, a gateway to a better world.

But there was also fear. Vincenzo knew that the mafia would not leave him alone so easily. There were doubts about whether Veronica had really cut all ties or if this story about her son was part of some bigger plan. He knew he couldn't trust her completely, even with Veronica in prison.

"I won't let anything happen to him," Vincenzo thought, feeling his blood boil in his veins. "If necessary, I'll face everyone again. He won't be a pawn in this game."

The cell was silent, but Vincenzo's heart was racing. He knew the path to his son wouldn't be easy, but for the first time in years, he had something to fight for that wasn't stained with blood. The chance for redemption he never thought he deserved, but that was now before him.

And when they finally met, he promised himself he would do everything differently. He wouldn't just be Vincenzo, the ex-mobster. He would be a father.