Page 46 of Luciano

“You think I’m afraid of that little psychopath?”

I smiled, feeling blood paint my teeth.

“You should be.”

“Luciano is not God, Ava.”

The words slithered from his lips like a taunt.

I licked the blood from my split lip and stared back at him.

“I know. God is merciful.” My voice was calm, quiet. Absolute.

The second slap came faster and more brutal than the first. A fresh wave of pain exploded across my cheekbone, my ears rang. My breath hitched, but I didn’t cry out this time. I wouldn’t give him that again.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head back, forcing me to look up at him. My scalp burned, my neck straining, but I held his gaze.

“I plan to call him and tell him exactly where I’m keeping you. I want him to come,” he crooned, voice thick with something dark, breath rancid. “I want him to walk through that door, thinking he’s some fucking savior. I want to watch his face when he sees what I’ve done to you. And then—” his grip twisted harder, sending sharp pain through my scalp, “I’m going to kill you slow. Right in front of him.”

His lips curled.

“It’ll splinter the little mute freak. Rip him apart from the inside out.” He chuckled, deep and vile. “And maybe, just maybe, I’ll let him live after. Let him walk away with another woman he couldn’t protect to mourn. Just like his mother. Just like before.”

I wanted to spit in his face.

“Enjoy breathing while you still can,” he snarled.

Then he was gone.

I waited. Counted to ten. Then twenty. Listened.

I shifted in the chair. Twisted my wrists, ignoring the bite of the rope.

I barely got one wrist free when the door creaked open.

I froze.

A woman stepped inside—a Black woman, my age. Then I realized it was Saint’s wife. Luciano had introduced us at the beginning of the reception. She said she would talk to me later. She was gorgeous, plump but a size or two smaller than me, skin a shade or two lighter. She was wearing a flowy blue dress with a split up the side.

I tensed. My eyes fell to her belly. I remembered—she was pregnant.

I opened my mouth to tell her to leave.

She brought a finger to her lips.

“Shh.”

My words caught in my throat.

She stepped closer, crouching down, eyes scanning the room.

Then, softly—

“I’m Saint’s wife. Aria.”

My brain stuttered.

I blinked at her, struggling to process why she was there.

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