Cullen - Step Up
Cullen
Six Months Ago.
I was at home, barely functional after a rough night, flopped on the bed when the door suddenly burst open.
Before I could even sit up, a bucket of freezing water was hurled straight at my face.
“What the hell?” I shouted, gasping, soaked and furious. “God damn it, I’m moving out of this house!”
I looked up, blinking water out of my eyes—and there he was.
My father. Cedric Cincinnati.
Don of the Italian Mafia. Standing over me like I was nothing but a stain on his perfect floor. His eyes were full of disgust and something worse, disappointment.
“Yes,” he said, his voice sharp. “You are getting out of this house. But not before I straighten you out.”
I groaned, sitting up. “What is this? What the hell did I even do? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”
“You need to grow up,” he barked. “You need to start taking control of your life. I’m tired of trying to fix you. You’ve turned into something worse than useless. I thought you were going to be better than Cyrus but you're worse.”
There it was again. The comparison.
Cyrus. The golden child. The heir. The favourite. He was always supposed to be the shining example. He got everything he wanted and he just had to take the one thing I wanted the most in the world...
“You thought I’d turn out like Cyrus?” I snapped. “Please. Don’t pretend you ever wanted me to be anything more than his clone.”
He didn’t even flinch. “You’re a disappointment.”
That hit harder than the water.
I stood up, chest heaving. “Well, since I’m not the heir, since I’m nothing but your second son, your backup plan, I don’t see why I need to do anything for this damn family. So how about you just let me be?”
“Get dressed,” he ordered coldly. “And come into my office. We’re having a meeting.”
“Oh my God, another meeting?” I groaned, dragging a hand through my wet hair.
He shot me one of his looks, the kind that makes grown men sweat, then turned and walked out without another word.
A second later, my mother slipped in. She didn’t knock. She never does.
She stood in the doorway, soft and tired, but still treating me like I was her little boy. The only one in this house who looked at me like I mattered.
“Come on, baby,” she said gently. “Get up. Take a shower. Get dressed. Go see your father. I don’t want another shouting match in this house all morning.”
She walked over, kissed my forehead, and left.
And for a moment, I just sat there—soaking wet, seething, and so goddamn tired of everything.
I went to the bathroom, got dressed, and made my way toward my father’s office. The moment I opened the door and saw who was inside—my mother, my brother, my father, and his consigliere—I knew this wasn’t going to be a conversation I’d enjoy.
Whether it was an intervention, a lecture, or something worse, I could feel it in my bones that I wasn’t going to like a single word of it.
I stepped in, gave a small nod, and noticed the chair directly facing my father had been left vacant. Classic move. That seat was meant for me. So, I took it. Settled in. Braced myself.
"Glad you could make it," my father said, voice filled with sarcasm.
I smiled, resisting the urge to fire back with something sharp. The consigliere was present, and no matter how much my father pissed me off, I wasn’t about to disrespect him in front of the family.
“We’ve let you live your life the way you wanted for far too long,” he began, his voice firm. “But the time has come.”
“The time for what?” I asked, leaning back into the chair, acting unbothered.
He didn’t bite. “The Irish are getting impatient. Their daughter should’ve been married by now.”
I clenched my jaw.
“We changed the groom,” he went on, “had to jump through hoops to convince them to agree to you. And now, it’s done. You’re the one they approved. The deal’s sealed. It’s time you step up. Time you do something for this family for once.”
I bit my lip and stared at the floor for a second, forcing myself to keep calm. I didn’t want to explode, even though every nerve in my body screamed for it.
I knew this was coming. Of course, I did. I knew there was a girl. A marriage. An arrangement. A duty.
But knowing it and being ready for it were two different things.
And I just wasn’t ready. Not yet.Maybe ever.
“Like… right now?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“Yes. Right now,” my father said, his eyes locked on mine, watching me like a hawk. He was waiting for something...an outburst, a protest, a tantrum. He wanted to see if I’d crack.
I didn’t give him the satisfaction.
I took a deep breath, keeping my voice steady. “You told me I had more time. You promised I’d have time to enjoy myself. Time to actually live… before you tied me down to her.”
“We’ve already given you enough time,” he replied coldly.
“Well, not enough,” I shot back, unable to help the edge in my tone. “At this point, Cyrus was already living on his own."
" Your brother got married when he was twenty, just like you...” my father said, nodding slightly. “And the only reason you’re still here is because you chose to be. Do you think Cyrus asked for permission to move out? No. He made the money and found his own way. He told me he was leaving. You? You have the money. You have the means. But you stayed. That’s not on me. That’s not on your mother. That’s on you.”
I clenched my fists on my knees. I hated it when he was right.
“This girl... what is she? Twelve? Fourteen?” I snapped, grasping for anything, any reason to delay this.
“I’m not marrying an underage girl,” I barked. “I’m not looking for a child bride.”
And then, he smiled. The bastard actually smiled.
“She’s turning twenty,” he said with that cruel little glint in his eye. “So, no. You’re not marrying a child bride.”
He leaned forward, his voice low and final.
“Consider this your wake-up call. You’re getting married in six months. So, you better start putting your shit together.”
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