Blame it on the shame Part 1

Prologue (Ricardo)

 

Shame. It wounds us. It damages us.

Or, for the few poor souls out there like me...it defines us.

I'm the son of the devil, himself—the most feared mob boss who ever lived.

I was cursed from the moment I took my first breath.

I hate him—but I have his blood pumping through my veins, feeding the darkness within me.

His blood ensuring my fate—to become him.

“There are only three great loves in a man's life, son—money, control, and the greatest one of all; Power,” my father said. “And you need the first two to earn the last.”

Those were the first words my father, Bruno DeLuca had ever spoken to me.

I looked up at him in a combination of awe and fear, the light from the moon made his dark features even more threatening.

Even at 11 years old, I knew my father was a force to be reckoned with.

How I had the misfortune of ending up his only son was beyond me. Especially since it took him over 11 years to claim me.

Although, looking back- that probably had more to do with the fact that I was what was known as a 'half-breed.'

In other words, I was not full-blooded Italian.

My mother was 100% Puerto Rican and my father was 100% Italian.

And as a member of the mafia working his way to the top, having a son that was less than perfect simply wouldn't do.

I knew from the first second his dark eyes met mine that he didn't like me.

And I knew without a shadow of a doubt, there was no way he would ever love me. I didn't think he was capable of loving anyone.

The only reason he was here now, claiming me; was because of the DeLuca superstition- 'il malocchio', or as some called it 'the maloik', also known as the 'evil eye'.

Or, as I would believe it to be- a curse.

In simple terms, 'il malocchio' meant that you were jealous of someone. To get rid of it, you performed a ritual with olive oil and water. To be honest, I didn't know the exact mechanics of it. I wasn't interested, and I certainly didn't believe in it.

Surprisingly, that was the only thing I said that made my father's eyes light up during our first meeting.

I soon found out why.

Apparently the DeLuca 'il malocchio' was very different from any other curse of its kind.

Unlike others, the DeLuca men didn't fear the evil eye...quite the opposite. They relished it, they loved it. They didn't hide the fact that they bathed in their own greed and they wanted nothing more than to witness other people's jealousy over their money, control, and power.

They also didn't believe in stupid curses causing misfortune.

Although, everyone who knew about the DeLuca's knew it wasn't just a mere coincidence that the DeLuca men had a problem with infertility.

Don't get me wrong, they weren't exactly shooting blanks. It was more like they could only hit the target once and only once in their lifetime.

And more often than not...the offspring were female instead of male.

Some said it was God's way of controlling how much evil was unleashed into the world.

But now, my father said; the DeLuca's were officially on the upside because I was the third male in the line of DeLuca's to be born.

DeLuca originally thought he was immune to the curse. He thought he would strike it lucky and breed a bunch of children.

No such luck for him, though. Or me for that matter.

I was his one and only and I was stuck with him. He called it my salvation...I called it my damnation.

My mother begged him not to take me that night, claimed I wasn't his, said it was a mistake...but when the results came back- the odds were not in my favor.

And even at a young age, I knew something bad would happen to her if I didn't go with him willingly.

What I didn't know, was the next and last time I would see my mother again would be when my father was injecting her with a lethal dose of heroin, leaving her to die.

To teach me a lesson about denying who I really was.

I hated Bruno DeLuca.

 

The really tragic thing about hating someone? You have to love them first.

After Bruno claimed me as his son, I went to live with him.

For the first few years, he left me to my own devices, since I was still too young.

However, when I was 16, he started to take an active interest in my life. I guess he was preparing me for when I would officially become a man.

He also gave me advice on women. His first words of advice?

“All women are whores. Be sure to take what you want from them before they take everything from you.”

And with those words, his Ferrari pulled up to some kind of club.

The room went silent and everyone stopped to look at us when we walked in.

I looked around wide eyed and my heart rate sped up. The fairly large room was full of at least 25 beautiful women scantily clad in various forms of lingerie.

My father brought me to a fucking brothel.

I didn't know how he knew I was still a virgin. But then I thought about it.

Of course, he would assume I was.

Despite being Bruno's son, I took my education very seriously. I paid attention in class and I worked hard. My gpa was a 4.0 and I was in the national honor society. Something my father, of course, mocked me for. He called me a nerd and said my education was a waste. He also threatened to pull me out of school unless I spent my free time doing something manly.

That's when I took up boxing.

I took every ounce of aggression I felt out at the gym.

The physical results took awhile to take effect, but the mental was instantaneous. Every jab I dealt, I imagined his face as the target. A face that I was fortunate enough not to resemble, with the exception of my eyes.

They were all his.

A few months after taking up boxing, my father started to take even more notice of me. Only this time, I saw something in his eyes that I'd never seen before.

Pride.

He was proud of how I handled myself in the ring. He was ecstatic when my trainer said I had the makings to go pro in a few years. I soon found out that Bruno himself had loved watching boxing matches, mostly of the underground variety. It was one of his favorite pastimes. The fact that his very own son was good enough to turn pro in a few years was music to his ears.

Despite being looked at as a nerd, boxing had transformed my once very lanky 6'2 frame into something that had the football team coaches trying to recruit me.

Regardless of all that, I still kept my nose in the books and stayed to myself.

Of course, I thought about girls, but I was always too nervous to approach them.

Too afraid of rejection.

I'd suffered enough of that from my father already.

Which was why I suppose he thought bringing me to a brothel was something he needed to do.

“Pick any whore you like, son,” he said. “Hell, pick any two you like if you think you can handle it.”

The women were gorgeous, no doubt. But something about it all didn't feel right to me.

Like the fact that he was addressing these women as mere objects.

And no matter how stu