Page 3 of Luciano

Sometimes I wondered who I would have been if it hadn’t come to this. If I’d grown up in a world where my mother had lived. Where she hadn’t been taken by cruelty. Would I be capable of softness? Would I have dreams? Would I thrive outside this world of cold, focused violence?

I was still washing the blood from my hands when my father entered the room, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He glanced briefly at the crumpled, bleeding man in the chair, then shifted his gaze to me.

His indifference when it came to seeking vengeance against the men who killed his wife and stole his son's soul angered me. When the families negotiated a truce to stop a war, he agreed out of fear of retaliation. I did not. You can’t fear retaliation if the entire bloodline is gone. I made sure there was no one left to carry the names of the men involved, let alone seek revenge. It was a point of contention between us that I had bandaged over for the sake of peace, because he was the only parent I had, but it never stopped festering. One day, I knew that difference would matter more than blood. But not today.

“She didn’t show up,” he said, his voice gruff. “Ava. She’s at her mother’s house. Been there for hours. She’s going to run.”

Everything inside me went still. My heart dropped. I knew she wouldn’t just come—she had no reason to—but it still felt personal. Like she was rejecting me by not showing up.

My father watched me closely through the mirror, trying to read me.

“I’ll send someone for her,” he offered when I gave him nothing.

I shook my head immediately. “No. No one touches her but me. Warn everyone,” I said, my voice harder than I intended.

“I’ll get her myself.”

His eyes narrowed. “You sure about this?”

“Yes.”

I pushed past him and returned upstairs to my room. I stripped off my blood-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water burn over my skin. I scrubbed hard, washing away Tomaso’s blood, feeling the heat seep into my muscles. I wanted to be clean for her—at least physically.

I repeated the same strokes long after the water ran clear. I had to force myself to step out.

When I did, I went straight to the closet. Black shirts. Black pants. Black shoes. All identical. I picked one, then another, until finally settling on the right set.

I took my time dressing. Buttoning my shirt. Smoothing my hands down my chest. Adjusting the cuffs. Every detail mattered. Everything aligned. Precise. Perfect.

Before leaving, I paused in front of the mirror. Adjusted my glasses.

I thought about what Saint had said about Ava.You deserve her. After everything, you deserve to have something of your own.

I did.

And after everything she’d been through, she needed me. She didn’t know it yet—but she needed me. Even if she didn’t realize it at first. She needed someone who could see in the darkness. Someone who would burn the world down to keep her safe. Someone who understood what it meant to be shattered.

I had been watching Ava. Studying her for years. We fit.

She was too afraid to live, and I was too haunted live. We had both been shaped by the same thing—carved into what we were by the men who killed our mothers.

Ava thought she could run from this life. That she could pretend to be normal, build something clean, untouchable. But there was no leaving this world.

She belonged to it. Just like I did.

Blood in, never out.

I just needed to figure out how to get her to see things my way.

Leaning close, I traced the outline of my mouth with my tongue before attempting to speak. I blocked out the noise in my head and practiced greeting her.

“Hello, Ava. How are you doing, Ava? You look good, Ava,” I said slowly, my mouth shaping each syllable.

It felt strange. Foreign. I didn’t speak often anymore.

I repeated each phrase again and again, until my voice didn’t sound foreign to my own ears. Until my words came out as close to normal as they could.

I straightened, smoothing a hand over my shirt again. Making sure everything was perfect.

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