Warning: This chapter gets dark, and there is reference of rape, nothing too detailed.

Let me love you like a woman
Let me hold you like a baby
Let me shine like a diamond
Let me be who I'm meant to be
Talk to me in songs and poems
Don't make me be bittersweet
Let me love you like a woman
Take you to infinity
Let me love you like a woman (let me hold you like a baby)
Take you to infinity

Let me love you like a woman by Lana del rey

Chapter 28 - Legacy - 1998

As soon as you step into your father's office, you can feel the tension in the air. The heavy silence that greets you is punctuated only by the sound of your father's glass as he takes a slow sip of his whiskey. His face is stern, etched with worry lines that seem to have deepened since the last time you saw him.

You know something is wrong, but you can't quite put your finger on it. Your father is a creature of habit and a man of tradition, so when he skipped dinner and kissed your mother on the forehead before heading to his office, it's a clear sign that something is amiss.

"Mia figlia, come," he says as he waves you over with a half-hearted smile. You can't help but feel a sense of trepidation settle over you. "Let's play tonight," your father says, gesturing towards the bookshelf where the chess set is normally kept.

The glass chess set on the bookshelf gleams in the dim light, beckoning you to come and play. Despite being exhausted from a day spent hiking with Daryl, you agree, hoping to please your father.

"Not that one," your father's voice interrupts your contemplation, as he points up towards the top of the bookshelf. You follow his gaze and feel your eyes widen in surprise. Way up high, on a shelf, is a framed World War II uniform, and your grandfather's chess set sits next to it in a small leather wooden box.

As a child, you had begged to play with the chess set, but your requests were always denied. You were told that it was a family heirloom and too precious to be handled by clumsy young fingers. As the years went by, the set became little more than a forgotten relic, gathering dust on its shelf.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pick up the box, before blowing off the dust. When you place it carefully in front of your father, he hums thoughtfully, studying it as if it holds some sort of hidden meaning. Instead of reaching for it, he picks up his glass and downs the alcohol like a shot before turning to his small golden metal box, where he keeps his well-rolled Cuban cigars.

You watch with fascination as he brings the cigar cutter to the tip of the cigar and cuts just enough of the cap to allow for a smooth draw. With his cigar lit and more liquor poured, your father gingerly lifts the leather lid of the wooden box, revealing the old, worn chess set within. The intricate pieces look gloomy in the soft light, with delicate carving and fine details dulled by obvious wear and tear. The painted black and white squares have faded to a dull gray, barely distinguishable from one another.

As your father carefully removes the pieces from their velvet-lined compartments and lines them up on the board, you watch his expression change. His face darkens, and his eyes seem to glint with a hidden emotion, unlike anything you have ever seen before. It's clear that this chess set holds some sort of deep, personal significance to him, and you wonder what secrets it holds.

As you make your first move in the chess game, you can feel a sense of unease settle over you. Your father's eyes are distant, and his movements seem almost robotic. And as the game progresses, it becomes increasingly evident that something is off with him. His once-calculated moves are now careless and haphazard as if he were absentmindedly playing. The way he taps his fingers on the wooden board and takes long sips from his glass of whiskey only adds to the sense of unease in the room. You can't help but wonder what is troubling him so much that he seeks solace in alcohol and an old family heirloom.

Halfway through the game, you suggest, "Maybe we should play something else tonight or finish this tomorrow," hoping to give your father a chance to get some sleep.

"We will finish this," he insists, determined to see it through to the end.

As you open your mouth to speak again, your father interrupts with a deep voice, "Do you know why we play chess?" Before you can answer, he continues, his words laced with bitterness, "Like life, to win, you have to make a move. And we do NOT lose." His words hang in the air, heavy with an unspoken meaning that you can't quite grasp.

Leisurely reclining on his chair, he taps his fingers on the wooden pawn piece. "Have I ever told you the story of a lamb who became a lion?" he questions, and you shake your head in response, perplexed as to where this conversation is heading.

"Well, there once lived a lamb who was born in a quaint little village in Italy. He spent his childhood tending to his family's goats or frolicking around in the rolling hills," he begins, deftly maneuvering the pawn back into place. "But fate had other plans. When he turned eighteen in 1941, his life took a dramatic turn. The world was in the throes of World War II, and he was soon drafted to war." With a nod, he signals that it's your turn.

"Imagine a young lamb, who had never even ventured beyond his own town, being thrusted into war in a foreign land where he didn't even speak the language," he says, pausing to reflect on his words. "But amidst the chaos and destruction, he found friendship in a commanding officer who took a liking to him and began mentoring him."

As you make your move, you find yourself getting drawn into the tale. "The officer was a master at chess, and he introduced the lamb to the game. Soon enough, the lamb was completely consumed by it, spending all his free time playing against his superior, who always seemed to win," he says.

"But as time went by, the little lamb started to understand that the officer wasn't as kind-hearted as he seemed. The officer took pleasure in defeating the lamb in the game, treating it as a means to demonstrate his superiority and control over the lamb," he remarks, a sense of darkness falling over his eyes.

"One day, the little lamb was injured in battle and forced to watch helplessly as his comrades fell to their deaths. The officer, noticing the lamb's vulnerability, offered to keep him from the front line, and the lamb, in desperation, accepted the offer. It was only later that he understood that it came with a cost - a quid pro quo arrangement that left him forever scarred." The weight of the story hangs heavy in the air as he continues.

"Soon, the officer started to visit the lamb in his bunk, demanding sexual favors in exchange for protection," his voice is rough, and his eyebrows are pinched in anger as he recounts the disturbing tale. "The little lamb felt trapped and ashamed, powerless against a man who held his fate in his hands. He knew that the officer could easily ship him off to the red zones or worse, and he didn't know how to escape the situation."

As you listen to the story, your heart sinks at the thought of the horrors that the lamb must have endured to survive. "That man hurt him in ways that no one should ever be hurt. He violated and traumatized him," your father says, his voice dripping with anger.

There is a pause as your father makes a move on the chessboard, perhaps trying to regain his composure. Meanwhile, you struggle to find the right words. The story has taken a dark turn, and you aren't sure how to respond.

"Like everything in life, it all ended, and the lamb found himself back home, but he was never the same again," your father continues. You make a half-hearted countermove with your queen, your mind still reeling from the disturbing tale.

"Did returning home help him heal?" you ask tentatively.

"No, it didn't," your father replies somberly. "With the fall of Mussolini, Italy's economy was in shambles. His family lost the farm, and with no job prospects and no way to support himself, he turned to the mafia, putting his military skills to use as a security enforcer."

"What about the officer? Did he pay for his crimes? Did the lamb report him?" you ask, your curiosity piqued.

"He paid for it, but not in the way you might think," your father says, leaning over to refill his glass with more whisky. "One day, the lamb saw the officer stumbling drunkenly down the street. All the pain and anger he had been carrying inside of him boiled over, and he followed him into a dark alleyway. In a fit of rage, he attacked him, beating him mercilessly until there was nothing left of the man."

You sit in stunned silence, part of you pleased that the lamb had fought back against his oppressor in a way that was both tragic and heroic.

"Fearing for his life, the lamb fled to America, hoping to start anew. The only possession he brought with him was this very chess set - the same one the officer used to play with," your father says solemnly, and his words hang in the air like a thick, heavy fog.

You gaze down at the chess piece in your hand, and just like that, it all begins to click into place - this isn't just any story or lesson your father is sharing with you. With a newfound realization, you slowly turn in your seat to face the framed World War II uniform that has always been a fixture in your father's office, something you have never given much thought to before. Your finger shakes, and there is a clinging sound as you toss the chess piece onto the board as if it had burned your skin.

He doesn't need to say it out loud - the little lamb is your grandfather.

Your father continues, "The lamb arrived in New York in 1947 and turned to the only job he knew how to do, working for the mob."

But then, your father does something unexpected. He smirks - a twisted, dangerous expression that sends a chill down your spine. "This time it was different, you see. He knew the lamb must die, and in its place, a predator was born. Like a phoenix, he rose from the ashes of all his trauma and applied everything he learned in those chess games. Because chess means power and war, he learned to think five steps ahead, and he became the puppet master, manipulating everyone around him until he gained power."

"In 1950, his wife gave birth to a son. As he held the little boy in his arms, he made a vow to protect him from the dangers that had haunted his own life. He knew that he had to teach his son the game of chess, the value of power and manipulation, and how to stay five moves ahead. This was his way of ensuring that his son wouldn't have to suffer the same fate that he had endured. In doing so, he found a measure of redemption by passing on the lessons of his own life," he says, looking at you with sudden warmth in his eyes.

As you look back at your father, you see him in a new light. The man sitting across from you is not just your dad, but a product of a legacy of violence and manipulation. He is the reflection of his father, a modern-day mobster, who had inherited a generational trauma. Despite all that, he is still a family man who has done everything in his power to protect and provide for his own family.

"In the late 60s, when New York declared war on the Mafia, he decided to get out. He collected all his wealth, changed his name to Hart - a metaphor for 'having a heart of a lion' - and started a new life. He lived a normal life and passed away in his sleep 20 years ago today," your father says, lifting the chess piece that you had tossed earlier.

You hesitate when he tries to hand you the old wooden piece, feeling the weight of its dark history. However, your father leans over and places it in your hand regardless. "Mia figlia, this is not just a game. It's a tool, and I want you to be able to protect yourself and your loved ones one day," he says.

Your throat feels dry as you swallow hard, taking in the gravity of his words.

"What do I always say?" he whispers as you lean forward to finish the game you had started.

"Never blink, not once, not ever," you murmur, realizing the full weight of his lessons. "Always stay five moves ahead."

"Exactly," he nods proudly. "That's your legacy. Now, play like your life depends on it."

As your father makes his move on the chessboard, a move that seems almost too calculated and precise, you realize that he had applied all the lessons he had learned from the little lamb; he had become the predator he was born to be.

With newfound determination, you take hold of the chess set and begin to play. Each move is calculated and strategic, always thinking five steps ahead, just like your father and grandfather before you. The game is not just a game; it's a legacy, a tool, a way of life, and you are ready to carry it forward.

The atmosphere in your bedroom feels heavy, even with the steady humming of the ceiling fan above your head. Each passing second feels like a struggle, as sleep seems to be slipping further and further away.

Your thoughts wander to your grandfather, a man you've only known through the faded family photographs that adorn the walls of your home. The weight of his legacy, the pain, and trauma he endured, weigh heavily on your heart.

But your contemplations don't stop there. They shift to your father, a towering figure who seems to conquer the world with effortless grace. But you know that behind his towering success is a foundation that was laid brick by brick by his father. Suddenly, how your father takes on the world with an unwavering gaze makes perfect sense.

As you lay there, you ponder the unbreakable ties that bind these two men - your grandfather and father, and now this thread is reaching for you, weaving is into the very fabric of your being.

But amidst the weight of their history, you feel a sense of possibility and hope, and you yearn to break the pattern, to forge a path, one that is rooted in kindness and generosity. You want to be the one to break the chain while still honoring the strength and resilience of those who came before you.

Abruptly, a tap on your window interrupts your thoughts, and you know exactly who it is. You rise swiftly, and you eagerly make your way to the window. Daryl stands below, his head shrouded by his hood, and you wave at him, though you know it's a bad habit you're starting.

He visits you two or three times a week, disappearing before your alarm goes off. Sometimes you feel the brush of his lips against your forehead as he leaves, but you're too drowsy to respond. With your wave as confirmation, he retrieves the ladder and quickly climbs through the opening, sliding into your room with ease.

As he stands before you, your heart races with desperation, and you reach out to him, pulling him into a tight embrace and burying your face in the crevice of his neck.

"I'm so happy you're here," you whisper, your breath warm against his skin as his scent engulfs you.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his fingers tracing soothing circles up and down your back.

"Nothing that can be fixed, but I just need you to hold me," you beg, knowing his arms will provide the comfort you crave. And he doesn't disappoint. You let out a muffled yelp, holding onto him even tighter as he scoops you up by your thighs, wrapping your legs around him. He gently walks toward your bed, before he places you on the soft mattress. You settle in and pull the opposite side of the comforter for him.

It's only once he's kicked off his shoes and tossed aside his hoodie, settling in bed beside you, that you notice the dark blue and purple bruise that litters the right side of his face, starting from his eye and trailing down to his cheek.

"What happened to your face?" you ask, leaning on your elbow to get a closer look.

"Nothin'," he says, avoiding your gaze. You had spent the afternoon with him earlier in the day, and this fresh bruise must have occurred after you parted ways. He had taken you on a ride, ending up back in the meadow where the forest had changed colors with the fall season. The brown, orange, and golden leaves had rolled under your feet like a flaming carpet, and you had contemplated the beauty even in death.

After hours of hiking through the dense woods, you finally reach the tranquil lake that Daryl used to frequent as a child. As you sit on a log, your feet submerged in the cool, refreshing water, you notice an old tire hanging from a tree, tethered to an old rope. Daryl tells you stories, reminiscing about old times, as you laugh at all the trouble he used to get into.

"It's not nothing, Daryl. What happened?" you ask gently, as the dark, purple bruise on Daryl's face looks angry under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. You lean closer, pushing his hair away and examine it closely.

"It's nothin', had a fight with Merle over somethin' dumb, that's all," he insists, pulling your finger away from his face. He takes your hand in his and plants a soft kiss on your knuckles, the warmth of his lips sending shivers down your spine. Is that why he is here, you wander, seeking solace and comfort in your presence?

Remembering the argument you had on your first date, when he told you that no one knew about his scars or the abuse he went through, "Why haven't you told your brother about what happened with your dad?" you ask, wanting to understand more about their relationship.

"What the hell is he gonna do?" Daryl scoffs bitterly, disappointment evident in his eyes. "You saw what he's like. He's high off his own shit more often than not. Anythin' I tell him, he's just gonna start somethin' with the old man."

"Does your father still live alone?" you ask, Daryl responds with a hum, lost in thought.

"Have you considered that Merle could relate to you if he learned what happened?" You suggest, adding, "Perhaps he thinks you had it easy because he took all the abuse, and you didn't." After meeting the older Dixon, you can imagine him trying to toughen up his brother and assuming that Daryl had it easy. However, the scars on Daryl's back tell a different story, one of immense pain and suffering that perhaps Merle could easily understand.

"It don't matter no more, I'm old enough," Daryl responds, pulling you close to his chest. "Merle could never keep his ass out of jail long enough, and I ain't need him startin' trouble and then leavin' me to deal with shit alone." He says, his voice raw and gravelly. It becomes clear to you then with Merle frequently in and out of jail, Daryl must have had to return to his father's home often, especially since he was underage until just a few months ago. He resents his brother for never truly being there for him, for never getting his life together, but for only being a temporary shelter.

As you hold him close, you recall how upset he became when you first brought up the possibility of him spending time in juvie. Now, you begin to understand the depth of his struggle against his family curse. He longs to be nothing like his abusive father, neglectful mother, and drug-addicted brother. Despite his upbringing, he is kind, selfless, and generous – the sort of man who would go out of his way to feed a stray cat. In that moment, you feel an overwhelming desire to support and fight alongside him, to help him break free from the cycle of pain and dysfunction that has plagued his life.

Because you can understand and relate.

"Daryl..." you whisper, your throat tightening as you struggle to find the words to express the emotions swirling inside of you. After a deep breath, you continue, "My father has never been the warmest person, and when I was younger, I asked my mother why she chose him."

Pausing for a moment, you gather your thoughts before confessing, "She said it was because he was someone she could go to war with. At the time, I didn't understand what she meant. But today, I learned something dark about my family's history."

You rise from Daryl's chest and look into his swollen face, tears welling up in your eyes. "My father told me that I have all the tools to protect my loved ones someday, but in that moment, all I could think about was you." The depth of your feelings for him overwhelms you, and you struggle to find the right words to express them.

"I understand now what my mother meant," you say, your voice trembling with emotion. "You need to find someone you love enough to protect and do anything for, even die. Because if you go to war, that's someone you want standing behind you."

Looking up at Daryl, you see the pinched expression on his brow, but his eyes remain unblinking, fixed on you with an intensity that takes your breath away.

"I love you, Daryl," you state, your voice filled with conviction. "I would go to war with you, or for you, because you make me want to be a better person. With you, I feel like we can be better than the people who came before us."

The depth of your devotion to him is real, and you know that with him by your side, you can conquer anything. You can feel his hand flex on your back and the tension in his shoulders rise, so you press your hand to his cheek reassuringly, caressing it adoringly, "You don't have to say anything right now. You'll tell me when you're ready, because I already know how you feel about me." No one has ever looked at you the way he does, as if you are his gravity, and the center of his universe.

Despite his one eye being swollen and bruised, his gaze remains fixed on you, and you can still see the vulnerability in his expression. There's something desperate that tugs at your heartstrings, and in that moment, your heart thumps in your chest as you realize you love him more than ever before. You feel it deep in your bones.

Slowly, he reaches out to you, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheekbone. You close your eyes, surrendering to his touch, relishing the warmth of his hand against your face. With the gentlest of pressure, his lips brush against yours. As your tongues softly meet, you taste the familiarity of him, a taste you know so well. The kiss deepens, and you feel yourself getting lost in the moment, consumed by the fire he always ignites in you.

When he finally pulls away, you're left breathless. Your forehead is pressed against his as your mingled breaths fill the space between you. Looking into his eyes, you realize that he may not be able to confess his love freely like you have, but you know that it's there - unwavering and true. You press your cheek back against his chest and feel a sense of comfort and security wash over you, knowing that you belong to each other.