The papalship wasn't all it was made out to be. The title of leader was little more than gilded text scrawled on a chunk of rotten wood. While he could make certain decisions and fulfill certain wants, Primo felt anything but control over his situation.

He was twenty-seven, and already Papa, already basically fathering his three younger brothers in every way except for title. To say he wanted more was an overstatement. In fact, he prayed to Satan for less.

Aside from his secluded bedroom and private bathroom, you were the only peace he found in the ministry. You and your gentle hands, your endearing smile and charming voice. They worked wonders on him, especially now, when your fingers were caressing his head before trailing further down his back, separating his dampened hair into thirds.

He was the most mature out of anyone in his family. Still, that didn't mean he hated care.

"I appreciate the help," he tells you. You'd come to accept that a concise thanks was as close to I love you as you'd get from the man. You found that it had started to warm your heart in the very same way.