up at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck any of his life even meant anymore. He’d stopped trying, but then he was forced to wonder if he’d ever really even started.
And maybe his sad, sorry little life was his own fault. Pietro had taken what Rocco offered him and made something of himself. He used it as just a place to jump off and held his own, and his real wealth had come from his own hard work. And what did Lorenzo have? He was the patron of a handful of art galleries, he owned an expensive car, a posh condo steps from the water, and constantly entertained a crowd of so-called friends who were with him only because he was free with his time, and his cash, and his booze.
He was miserable, and he was lonely. But more than that…he was empty. While his siblings had worked hard for what they had, Lorenzo had simply allowed them to give—allowed himself to take—and that was where it ended. In the quiet moments, when he was alone in his condo with his too-expensive furniture, paintings he didn’t understand, and the bottles of wine more expensive than his college rent, he hated himself.
Deep down, he knew that made him more of a bastard, because there were so many people just blocks away that would have given a limb for even a fraction of what he had, and he somehow found it in himself to lie on his bed and stare at the ceiling and wonder how he could stop being such a shallow prick.
And it only got worse when Rocco abandoned his entire life, disappeared, and came home practically married to a small-town baker with a crooked smile and a sea of freckles across his cheeks. And Lorenzo wanted to laugh, at first. He wanted to pull his brother away from this man who clearly didn’t fit and ask him what the hell he was thinking. And he almost had, the first night Rocco brought Simon home for Sunday dinner. And then he watched Rocco watch Simon—like the man hung the moon and lit the sun, and he knew that whatever those two had was important. And he knew it was something he would never, ever have. Not as the person he’d become.
Two years passed, with Simon and Rocco together, and it killed him to watch a little bit more each day.
His envy was cruel, and it was vicious, with sharp teeth and jagged claws. He was grateful that they were in LA, that Simon’s schooling and Rocco’s work kept them busy and occupied. Lorenzo’s envy often felt too close to hate, and his brother deserved happiness without complications. It was easier to like his Tweets, and to send him the occasional texts, and to keep himself apart.
Lorenzo’s coping mechanisms had never been particularly healthy, and he was aware of that as he buried himself further into more bottles of wine and familiar arms belonging to people who would never truly love him and in throwing cash at people whose attention could distract him from the ache in his gut. He was well aware that no one in his life was permanent, and no one in his life cared about him for the person he was instead of the zeroes lining his pockets, but he’d take what he could get. But something had to give. He was feeling a desperation unfamiliar to him, and he knew if he didn’t address it soon, he’d do something reckless. That, he knew, was the last thing any of his family needed.
“Lor?” came a soft voice to his right. The room smelled like wine, sweat, and sex, and his body was deliciously sore from their late-night acrobatics. “Why are you awake?”
Gabrielle was probably his longest friend—or at the very least, his longest fuck-buddy. They’d been introduced at a gallery showing, and he was drawn in by her quiet snark about modern art, and they spent the night sitting in the rafters sharing a bottle of cheap gin and all the cheese he managed to sneak off the buffet table. At the time finishing up her undergrads with her sights set on grad school. She desperately craved rising above the expectation the world had for a daughter of immigrants—her sights set on Stanford, and Lorenzo had truly liked her. It was no trouble at all to pay the tuition, no trouble at all to make sure she didn’t want for much, if anything, while she worked