Page 18 of Luciano

He raised an eyebrow.

“Of course,” he said. “But I’ll be right outside the door.”

When I stood, his eyes stayed on me, tracking every movement, like he was planning five steps ahead, ready for whatever. He didn’t even blink, and his body was coiled with a tension that made it clear he’d be on me in an instant if I tried to run.

In the bathroom, I locked the door behind me, my heart pounding. This part of the house was unfamiliar to me—I’d never been in this wing during the years I lived here. Vito had kept me confined to specific rooms, always under his eye. But I knew the window faced the back of the estate, overlooking the woods. If I could just get through it, I’d have a straight shot. US-19 was about half a mile through the trees. I could flag down a car, maybe disappear before Luciano even realized I was gone.

I moved quickly to the toilet, not really focusing, just going through the motions. After I was done, I flushed, washed the blood from my face, then turned the shower on. I tossed a towel into the tub to muffle the sound of the water hitting the tiles sohe would think I was in it. I pulled up the hem of my dress, tying it high around my thighs to keep it out of my way. The window was my ally—it didn’t make a noise as I shoved it open. I pushed the screen out. I grabbed the trash can and used it to lift myself. I climbed out, my feet hitting the damp ground outside with a thud.

I ran.

Branches lashed at my face and arms, tearing at the fabric of my dress. Not a minute later, my breath came in ragged bursts, and my lungs screamed for air. I hadn’t run like this in years. But I had to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between me and that house. Heart pounding. Legs cramping. After about five minutes, I heard him.

“Ava.”

He wasn’t yelling—just calling out, almost conversationally. He sounded close. Too close. I pushed harder, my feet stumbling over uneven ground. Then came the sound of the four-wheeler—a low, mechanical hum that made my stomach drop. I kept running, but my legs were already ready to give out.

I was out of shape, and the distance between us was closing fast. The hum stopped abruptly. I turned, and Luciano sat casually on the four-wheeler, one hand resting lazily on the handlebar. His eyes were dark, locked on me like I was the prize he’d won. He didn’t seem angry.

“Come on, Ava,” he said. “Get on, or I can make you get on…”

His threat was calm, almost casual.

I squared my shoulders and stared him down. “Then do it,” I dared him. “Make me.” I knew I wasn’t going to beat his ass likeI wanted to; I had seen him fight, there was no chance, but I was so angry for having to even be there, I was willing to try.

Something flashed in his eyes—pleasure, or something close to it. Or maybe hunger. And that gave me pause. Because why did he look like he was about to enjoy whatever came next?

He swung one leg over the side of the four-wheeler and dismounted slowly. He made his way over to me, crowded my space, towering over me. “You sure you want me to make you?” he asked, as if giving me a final out.

My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I stepped back and swung, my fist cutting through the air toward his face.

He ducked easily. His demeanor didn’t change; he was so unbothered, and that pissed me off more.

“You’ve got a good right hook. But you’re too slow.”

He blocked my next swing too, then caught my wrist. “Don’t wind up so much,” he said. “You telegraph your punches.”

I yanked my arm free and swung again. Missed.

“Keep your elbows in,” he added, sidestepping. “Your stance is too wide—you’re off balance. And your breathing’s off. You’re holding your breath when you strike.”

I saw red.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him just once. I kept swinging—wild, messy. My only goal was to take his fucking head off. I knew better. My daddy had taught me how to fight. My cousin had sharpened that foundation. I knew how to plant my feet, how to breathe, how to wait for the opening.

But none of that mattered in that moment.

Rage hijacked my body and made me clumsy, made my vision tunnel. I kept swinging.

And he kept dodging.

He was toying with me.

“You aren’t done yet?” he asked, his tone condescending.

He didn’t wait for an answer or another swing.

He grabbed my wrist, twisting it behind my back. I gasped in pain as he forced me down, pinning me to the ground with his weight.

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