Page 111 of Luciano

I came back from whatever haze I’d slipped into, and it felt like my world had tilted.

My father’s body was slumped forward, mouth still parted in shock. His eyes—cold, dead. Blood pooled beneath the chair like spilled ink.

He was gone.

Dead.

At her hands. My Ava.

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Something inside me cracked wide open, a soundless scream trapped in my throat.

Saint stood behind me, his gun still smoking from the guards he’d just put down. He looked at me once and understood everything I needed from him. He nodded.

“I’ll make sure no one comes in the house. I'll call the cleanup crew. Get the story worked out in our favor,” he said.

I took Ava.

I grabbed her by the wrist—rougher than I would have two hours ago.

I dragged her past Saint, past the dead guards, and up the stairs.

She didn’t resist. Not once. Her face was unreadable, eyes locked ahead like she was somewhere else.

I slammed the bedroom door behind us and let her go, pacing three steps before turning back.

“Explain.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Explain?”

I pointed a shaking hand at her. “Don’t play with me. How did you plan this? Was Aria involved?”

Her mouth twitched. “You think Aria helped me?”

“Didn’t she?”

“No, why would I involve a pregnant woman in this” she said indignantly. “She had nothing to do with this.”

My hands fisted at my sides. “Then who?”

She walked past me—calm, collected—and sat on the edge of the bed like we weren’t standing in the aftermath of her murdering my father.

“I finally stopped lying. I told my cousins my mother didn’t run away on our wedding night.”

My blood sped up.

“Dre came back from Cali to help me.”

I stared at her.

“He’s the reason the cars went boom,” she said. He did it when you followed Aria and I, like I knew you would. I needed a distraction to get your father alone.”

My head throbbed. “But you killed my father?” I couldn’t believe I was saying those words. I didn’t think she was capable.

“So?” she laughed, and it sounded cold. “So you can hunt down the people who killed your mother, cut off their heads, keepthem in glass cases and call it vengeance, call it grief—but I have to show restraint?”

I didn’t answer. She was right.

“Fuck that,” she snapped, her voice rising. “You loved your mother? Good. I loved mine too.”

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