TEARS OF A BASTARD SON.

Armando Bastiano was a ruthless man who spent most of his days wasting what little money he earned from fixing cars in brothels, betting houses, and bars.
And his ten-year-old son, Luciano, became the helpless victim of his wrath.

"What did I tell you about leaving this house, you filthy little rat?" he barked, his voice slurred and cold.
Luciano flinched in fear, shrinking back.
"But Papa, Antonio was sick. He had the flu, and I had to..."
He was silenced with a brutal slap, sending him crashing to the floor.
Luciano's ears rang, and above him, his father began to rant.

"Useless piece of trash, that’s what you are! You think I want people seeing you out there, making me look bad?"
Armando’s dark eyes locked on his son's bruised face.
"Jimmy said he saw you snooping around Niccolo’s shop today. Do you know how humiliating that was for me? My friends mocking me, saying they saw you... you pathetic bastard... sniffing around like a stray dog."
His bloodshot eyes blazed. "What the hell were you doing near that pastry shop?"

Luciano tried to sit up, his small frame shaking, his hunger gnawing at him despite the pain.
"A-after I checked on Tonio, I passed by Pa Nicc’s, and the croissants smelled so good. I didn’t go in, I promise. I just stopped to look."

All he'd eaten since yesterday afternoon was a small bowl of watery oats.
Nothing more.
Armando let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "You want croissants now? Then go get a damn job and earn them, you worthless little bastard!"
Luciano could smell the strong, foul scent of alcohol on him... like an entire bar had spilled onto his breath.
He knew that smell too well. It always meant there was no escape.
Not tonight.

His face throbbed. His ribs ached. His elbows were raw and bleeding from the fall.
And there stood his father, looming before him with a bottle of booze in one hand.
"Every day I ask myself why that whore didn’t get rid of you the second she knew she was pregnant," he spat, slamming the bottle onto a stool as he began unbuckling his belt.
The glass shattered into a million pieces, flying every which way.

"Papa…" Luciano’s voice cracked in fear.
He knew what was coming.
"Please. I won’t leave again. I promise. I won’t ever stop to smell the croissants again, I swear... just please!"
"I AM NOT YOUR PAPA!"
The belt came down hard across his neck.
Luciano screamed.
Trapped in the corner, there was nowhere to run. No one to help.
His heart pounded wildly.
His body trembled without control.
Terror coursed through his veins.

In that moment, he thought only of one person.
His mother.
He wanted his mother. He needed his mother.
He needed her throwing herself in front of him to shield him from the beast that was his father.
Another lash landed on him.

He yearned for her wrapping her arms around him and comforting him.
He longed for her to stand up to his father to protect him.
Another lash landed on his side.
He needed her to tell him he wasn't a bastard and that he was her son.
Her baby boy.
Her little Lucian and not some Bastiano bastard.
Another lash.

But his mother was dead.
She’d brought him into this world, then abandoned him... first in life, and then in death.
And in that moment, Luciano hated his mother.
The belt came down again, this time drawing blood from his neck, and the sheer agony of it cut through his thoughts.
"Ahhh! Per favore, papà, per favore! It hurts! It hurtsss!!!"
He cried out with all he had.
Because despite everything, he knew no other name for the man before him.
He had only ever known him as Papa.

©️ Riley Ruth