Enzo

All these days, Papa had always been in my room. He didn't let me stay alone for a second. He even talked to me if I was late for more than five minutes in the bathroom.

"Son, why are you late?" he asked, standing behind the door.

"God, Papa, what's wrong with you?" I replied.

"Just update me," he said.

"About what? How am I shitting?" I shot back, and I heard him laugh.

"Any update is okay," he said.

Finally, I understood why he was doing that. I had been depressed lately, and he was worried that I might harm myself. Oh, Papa!

"Papa, you don't have to worry about me. I'm not going to kill myself," I said as I came out of the bathroom, where he looked at me with wide eyes.

"Don't even think about doing such a stupid thing," he said angrily.

"I won't. I promise. You don't trust me?" I asked.

From his facial expression, I could tell he didn't trust me. I wasn't surprised; sometimes, I didn't trust myself either.

Manuel

A month passed, and Enzo was almost healed now. He was able to do normal things again. Gerado, Juana, Pedro, and Louis still hadn't returned from their vacations. I thought it might be boring to spend the whole summer in this house as usual, but it felt better when no one was around. This summer was actually better than the other summer vacations, as none of them were at home.

"Summer is better without them," Enzo told me as we sat near the pool.

"Yeah," I agreed. I didn't want to hide it anymore.

"As soon as I start earning money, I'll make my own house, and we'll move there," Enzo said.

"Okay, boss," I replied.

I looked at Enzo, who was gazing into the distance, lost in thought. He was becoming more and more handsome, just like his Papa. He even looked better than him. I could tell just by looking at him that he was going to be more handsome than Pedro and Louis. There was nothing wrong with his body; everything was perfect. I wondered if he knew how handsome he already was.

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"How many children do you have?" Enzo asked, still gazing into the distance.

"I have two sons," I replied, looking at him.

"You have two sons?" he asked, his tone tinged with jealousy.

"Don't be jealous, Enzo," I reassured him.

"Which one do you love the most?" he asked, looking away.

"My eldest son. He's actually a bit of a brat," I admitted, observing his reaction.

"Why do you love him more if he's a brat?" he questioned.

"I don't know. Maybe because he's the one who made me a dad for the first time," I explained.

"So, you love your first son the most, and what about me? Am I the last?" he asked, his tone tinged with anger. It made me chuckle.

"Why are you laughing?" he demanded.

"I always tell you that I love you the most," I replied.

"But you just said you love your first son the most. How old is he?" he inquired.

"He'll be 18 next year," I replied, and Enzo looked at me incredulously.

"Really, Papa? You have a son who's the same age as me?" he asked, and I nodded.

"What does he look like?" he asked, still a bit annoyed.

"Black hair, dark brown eyes, and he used to have fair skin when he was little. Now he has a kind of light tan tone because of the sun, I guess. He likes to stay outside now and make his skin tan," I described, noticing Enzo examining his own skin color.

"Like mine?" he questioned, and I nodded.

"Okay, so which one do you love the most? Me or your eldest son?" he pressed.

"Who do you think my eldest son is anyway?" I teased, amused that he still hadn't caught on.

"How the hell would I know?" he retorted.

"Oh, you silly. I thought you were smart," I chuckled.

"You didn't answer my question," he insisted.

"I'm talking about you, silly. Who do you think called me Papa for the first time?" I asked, looking at him warmly.

His dark eyes turned towards me, surprise evident in them. Then, he smiled and leaned back in his chair, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

"It's the best thing to hear when you call me Papa," I said, gazing at the sky and closing my eyes. A twinge of guilt nagged at me, knowing that I didn't love my own son as much as I loved Enzo. But I couldn't help it. My affection for Enzo surpassed anything else in the world. No one could tug at my heartstrings like he did. When I opened my eyes, I found him staring at me with his hypnotizing gaze.

—--------

Manuel

"Mr. Manuel, this is for Mr. Lorenzo," Mr. Garcia approached me one morning, handing over a key to a Jaguar car. I was surprised by the gesture.

"Who bought it?" I inquired.

"Mr. Gerado asked me to buy it for him," Mr. Garcia replied, and disbelief filled my mind. Was this Gerado's way of apologizing?

I went to look for Enzo and found him in the garden, plucking some flowers as if he had nothing else interesting to do.

"Did you pick and throw all these flowers?" I asked, surveying the ground littered with petals.

"Yeah, now I feel bad about it. They all looked so beautiful," he admitted.

"You should've thought about that before," I remarked. "You have a gift."

"From you?" he asked, surprised.

"No, baby. From your Papa," I clarified, and he paused, seemingly contemplating who his Papa was. His expression shifted.

"What was it? A gun or a leather belt?" he asked, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

I handed him the key. "It's in the garage," I replied.

"No way," he exclaimed, rushing to the garage. His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of his brand-new car.

"You like it?" I inquired, noticing the change in his expression.

"I like it," he affirmed.

"Then why do you look worried?" I pressed.

"I wish he'd said sorry instead of giving me this, though," he admitted, staring at the key in his palm.

It dawned on me what he truly desired. I hadn't realized he was yearning for his Papa's acceptance, and a twinge of jealousy crept in as he voiced it.

"You don't need his love. I love you more than enough," I declared, my words tinged with defensiveness.

He met my gaze, hesitating.

"Yeah, but..."

"What do you mean 'but,' Enzo? Am I not enough?" I demanded, my tone tinged with frustration.

"That's not what I mean, Papa. I just... I don't know," he said.

I didn't try to argue with him. Truthfully, I didn't want Enzo to love Gerado. I didn't even want him to call him Papa. I wished he were my own son, not Gerado's. I wished he were my own flesh and blood, not Gerado's.

"Are you okay, Papa? You look angry," Enzo asked.

"Just hurt," I confessed.

"I'm sorry, Papa. I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay, baby. Hurt me as much as you can. You can't stop me from loving you, no matter how much you hurt me," I assured him. He looked at me with disbelief, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

I entered my room with a sense of unease. I felt more jealous than ever, and I hadn't realized until now just how heavy that emotion could be. I reached for my whiskey bottle and poured myself a glass, deep in thought. Before I knew it, I had consumed more than five glasses. With each sip, the intensity of my emotions seemed to grow stronger. In a fit of frustration, I angrily threw the glass to the floor, where it shattered into countless pieces.

"Are you okay, Papa?" I heard Enzo's voice and turned around to see him leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm fine, baby. It just slipped," I said.

"You threw it on the floor," he pointed out.

I remained silent, looking at the floor and scratching my head.

"Don't dwell on it," I said, reaching out to him and gently holding his beautiful face in my hands.