Page 87 of Luciano

She didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame her. We’d built something real, but it was laid over ruins—on top of betrayal, blood, and secrets.

“No more lies, Aria,” I said firmly. “No more manipulation. No more secrets. If this is going to work, it has to be honest. I don’t care how ugly the truth is—just give it to me straight.”

She nodded slowly, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

“And you need to start listening to me,” I added. My voice didn’t rise, but I sharpened it. “You keep putting yourself in danger.And I know you think you’re invincible, but you’re not. You’re my wife. You’re the mother of my children. I need you here—alive.”

“I just be trying to help—” she started.

“I don’t need you to help like that,” I snapped. “Not when it means risking your life. Not when it means showing up where you don’t belong and meddling in shit that can turn fatal in a second.”

Her gaze dropped.

I wasn’t done.

“And stop with Luciano,” I said. “Stop poking at him. I know you think he’s cold and calculated, and needsto show emotion,but that man will kill for his wife. And I won’t let my wife get killed over a jab that didn’t need to be said. So that would mean a bloody fight I might not survive. Don't push us there.”

Her chin trembled.“Okay,” she whispered. “No more games. No more jabs. I’ll listen. I’ll try.”

“Don’t try, Aria. Do.”

She nodded her head.

I nodded.

I reached for her face, brushing my knuckles down her cheek. “I just want us to be better. Start fresh. Start over.”

She pulled back just enough to look at me. “Okay,” she whispered again. “Then let’s start now.”

She held out her hand. “Cora Arial Charles,” she offered. “Nice to meet you.”

“So I’ve earned your last name,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up, like you didn’t already know it.”

I had known it—ever since I found out her father was still alive. Her mother told me, but that was our little secret.

“Hi,” I said softly. “I’m Saint Valentine.”

Her lips curled upward.

And just like that, we started over.

Chapter 39

Luciano

My father’s study reeked of power and rage.

I stood off to the side, watching him pace behind his desk like a caged wolf. His cigar had burned down to ash between his fingers, untouched. That told me everything I needed to know. He was furious. He wouldn’t waste a good cigar on any other emotion.

“They hit one of the trucks,” he said finally, his voice like gravel dragged through glass. “Six dead. Two of ours, four civilians.”

Saint leaned against the wall near the liquor cabinet, arms crossed, expression blank but alert. Brooker stood near the window, hands in his pockets, quiet and calculating as usual. None of us spoke. We were all waiting for the part that came next.

My father turned to face us fully. His eyes locked on mine first. “I want them gone. All of them.”

“Define all,” I asked, becauseallto me meant bloodlines.

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