Page 35 of Luciano

We stared at each other, the room thick with the kind of tension that made lesser men nervous, made them sweat. But Saint and I weren’t most men. We had both seen too much, done too much, to blink first.

The door opened.

My father walked in.

We both separated as if we were kids caught fighting in the schoolyard.

Saint rolled his shoulders, like he was shaking off the moment, slipping back into his usual air of careless arrogance.

I adjusted my cuffs, smoothing them down as if I hadn’t just been a breath away from pulling the trigger.

My father stopped just inside the doorway, eyes volleying between us. He looked vaguely irritated.

“Do I even want to know?” he asked, voice flat.

Saint smirked, finally holstering his gun. “Just a friendly disagreement, old man.”

My father’s gaze landed on me.

I said nothing, slipping my gun back into place.

He sighed. “Luciano, we need to talk.”

Saint took the hint. He gave me one last look, then turned and strolled toward the door.

Just before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder. “Remember what we talked about. All of it. See you there, friend.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

The door clicked shut behind him.

My father exhaled through his nose, stepping further into the room. “Are you sure about this?”

I straightened. “Yes.”

He studied me for a long time. “You can let her go back to California. We’ll find someone more suitable.”

I felt something in my chest go tight. His words were making me angrier.

“No,” I said simply.

“She shot you, Luciano.”

I inclined my head slightly, considering his words. “Yes. But I forgive her because she wanted to shoot you.” I met his eyes evenly.

A muscle in his jaw flexed. “And you’re fine with that?”

“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “Given the vengeance I sought for my own mother’s murder, it would be hypocritical of me to condemn her for attempting the same.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, watching me the way one observes something that doesn’t quite make sense, something that should fit a pattern but doesn’t.

“You can’t compare the two. Her mother was not innocent.”

I adjusted my cuffs. “That may be… but the parallels are evident.” I met his gaze, unwavering. “A child left behind, forced to survive in the absence of justice.”

“She’s unpredictable.”

I nodded. “So am I.”

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