Page 33 of Luciano

“You know… what happened to you… your mother, what you went through… it doesn’t have to define you. You can be more than controlled, cold and analytical.”

The only reaction I saw was his fingers twitching where they rested against his thighs. He still didn’t speak.

I searched his face, feeling my own heart beat faster. “Something makes me think maybe… maybe there’s still a piece of you untouched by all of this.”

“Make no mistake, Uccellini. I am what they made me.”

I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around his glasses.

His fingers flexed at his sides before his hand lifted, hesitating for only a breath before he traced the curve of my jaw. His touch was surprisingly light, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do it.

“But if there is anything in me that is mine… anything worth salvaging… you are the only person who will ever get to see this. It will only belong to you.”

I felt my breath catch. What was I supposed to say in response to that?

His hand fell away, leaving behind a ghost of warmth.

For a moment, neither one of us spoke. It felt like we werein one of those TV shows moments, where two people reach that edge—where the air’s thick with everything. One wrong move and we’d fall into each other… or break apart completely. Neither happened.

He breathed out,straightened, adjusted his cuffs, and stood. “Your stylists will be here soon.”

I frowned. “Stylists?”

“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Hair. Makeup. Dress. Jewelry. I’ve arranged everything.”

He reached for his glasses, removing them from my hand, and put them on. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

Then he turned to leave.

“Luciano,” I called after him because I wanted to see something. I had noticed something when he’d seen me naked. Despite his bravado when he made sexually charged comments, he almost seemed shy about intimacy.

He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob, his back rigid. He didn’t turn around.

Slowly, I slipped out of bed, the sheet still wrapped around me. “Look at me,” I said, my voice softer this time, testing. This would be my olive branch.

He turned, our eyes connecting.

“You’re very handsome today.” He was dressed in a tailored three-piece black suit, the crisp white shirt beneath it highlighting the ink curling up his throat and peeking from his cuffs. His dark hair was neatly styled, a stark contrast to the sharp, calculating green eyes that met mine. He did look very handsome.

A flush crept up his neck, turning his face red.

Luciano Genovese was blushing.

I bit the inside of my cheek, suppressing the urge to laugh. He was the most unhinged, calculating, dangerous person I had ever met. And I’d met a lot of dangerous men. But a simple compliment had him looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“Describe it.”

“Describe what?”

“Describe why you find me handsome.” His voice was steady. Analytical.

I frowned, caught off guard by the request. “I don’t—”

“Ava.” It was a warning. What the consequences would be, I didn’t know—but I didn’t want to find out.

“You have good bone structure,” I said, shrugging. “Strong jaw, high cheekbones. Your face is symmetrical. Thick plush lips, pretty, expressive eyes. The suit helps make you look… expensive. And the tattoos under the suit make you look fuckable.” I licked my lips.

Luciano nodded once, and turned like he was ready to walk out. His face was redder.

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