Page 90 of Luciano

I hated it.

I hated the heavy quiet that hung over this place, it made mw feel like the walls themselves were listening. I hated the way everyone tiptoed around his father like he was some fucking king.

But mostly—I hated that Luciano was out there.

Hunting. Being hunted.

I ran my fingers over the edge of the page I wasn’t reading, trying not to let my mind spiral. But it did anyway.

Four days had passed since he’d left. He hadn’t called since yesterday morning. I had spoken to Aria, though. She said he and Saint were moving in phases, orchestrating calculated hits. She assured me they’d be fine, and I believed her. But it didn’t stop me from worrying.

I thought about calling Dewanda but didn’t want to involve her in anything dangerous. Last time I spoke to her, she said she had been dodging Brooker. My cousin was a commitment-phobe, and that worked out for her because she liked gangbangers and fuckboys—they didn’t care. But despite Brooker running a criminal organization, he didn’t seem like either. She might have a problem on her hands, especially when it came to men in this town—it seems they’d kidnap a bitch quick.

A breeze shifted the sheer curtain beside me, and I looked up.

I watched Vito Genovese walk into the library. I felt my nose flare but didn’t curse and tell him to get the fuck away from me like I wanted to—curiosity got the best of me.

He was big and heavy but always moved with the kind of calm, lightness that came after too many years of watching people bleed at your command. He felt untouchable. I would too, I guess.

“I don’t want trouble,” he said, lowering himself into the chair across from me like this was just another conversation between family. “I want understanding.”

“Do you?”

He nodded. “I know you’ve drawn your conclusions,” he continued, voice low. “About what happened with your mother. But we need to move forward.”

I tilted my head. “Do we?”

“Yes. For Luciano’s sake. Don’t you think he’s lost enough?”

There it was. The plea dressed up as strategy. He had a lot of fucking nerve.

I nodded and folded my arms. “You want peace. For Luciano’s sake, I can give you peace. But you have to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t say anything. I continued.

“Say it. Out loud. Admit it to me.”

Silence.

“Admit that you killed my mother,” I said, voice calm though I was feeling anything but. “And then explain why.”

Saint’s father met my eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Just a little. Just enough for me to see part of the truth in him. He had loved my mother. I assumed that.

He studied me, then exhaled like he’d been holding something in for a long time.

“Your mother came to me,” he said. “After your father got himself killed.”

My fingers curled around the edge of the cushion.

“He fucked the wrong woman. I know you know of their infidelities—you lived with them, everybody knew.”

I nodded because he was correct. They fought all the time, and I’d listened to my mother cry night after night, rode with her to other men’s houses—men who gave her the attention she wanted, or men she used to make my father jealous—just for them to end up back together.

He continued, “A Colombian’s wife. They were going to wipe you both off the map after they killed him. No witnesses. No mercy. She came to me because she knew I had weight. Becauseyour father and I were cordial. Because she knew I’d protect you both.”

I didn’t speak. Not yet.

“She offered herself to me, then you as collateral,” he continued. “She knew I wanted her. I’d made no secret of it over the years. I had one caveat—don’t embarrass me. Don’t take what I offer and spit on it in public. And she agreed.”

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