Page 11 of Luciano

Adjusted his clothes. Rolled down his sleeves.

His breathing was steady—like he hadn’t just painted the room with someone else’s blood.

His gaze flicked to me.

He didn’t say a word. Just held out his hand.

I took it.

He led me out. Past the stunned faces. Past the whispers.

His car was waiting at the curb.

He opened the door for me.

The leather was cold against my skin.

He didn’t talk.

Just drove. Keeping bruised knuckles on the wheel.

And for once since the night my momma died, my mind wasquiet.

Not racing. Not spiraling with anxious thoughts.

Just still. And I wondered why.

We pulled up to an ice cream shop. An older lady with brown skin and gray hair greeted us.

He told me to get whatever I wanted.

I didn’t even like ice cream. But I ordered butter pecan anyway. Then I sat there, pushing it around, watching it melt, waiting for him to tell me why I was there, with him. I wanted to ask but couldn’t find the words.

Luciano watched me.

Then, without a word, he reached over, took the spoon from my hand, and tossed it and the ice cream in the trash.

Outside, the sun hung low, stretching long shadows across the pavement.

I don’t know why I did it—maybe it was the way he had my back, or maybe I just thought we both needed it.

The human contact.

I turned and wrapped myself around him.

He stiffened.

Like the touch caught him off guard.

I had heard he didn’t like to be touched. I almost pulled away.

But before I did, just for a second, his hand rested lightly on my back.

“Thank you,” I whispered against his chest.

He didn’t answer.

When I pulled back, his eyes were on me.

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