Page 23 of Luciano

His sobs turned to screams as the blade bit into flesh. My injured arm burned with effort. But I kept going, even as sweat dripped down my forehead, even as my breathing grew labored.

The saw teeth caught on his vertebrae. I adjusted my grip, putting weight behind each pull. Cartilage popped. Tendons snapped. The hacksaw carved into Tomaso’s neck, turning his screams into short, wet gurgles. Blood pattered on the concrete like slow rain, triggering a memory.

And for a moment—

the room disappeared.

The scent hit me first. Gardenias, pennies, and the smell of rain in the air. It was the smell of my mother’s perfume mixed with blood. Her fingernails were dragging against the concrete, trying to hold on. They’d yanked her around, passing her from man to man. Like she was nothing. But she wasn’t. She was my everything.

"Shh," she whispered, voice shaking. "Close your eyes, cover your ears, and don’t make a sound,amore." That’s what she had told me just before they came in that last time.

I hadn’t made a sound—just watched as they drained the life out of her.

The memory snapped like a rubber band, yanking me back to the dungeon, to the blood under my boots, to Tomaso’s body twitching.

I exhaled through my nose.

He was dead. He was the final ghost I had to chase.

A chilling silence filled the room as I pulled his head free from his body. I lifted it, blood dripping onto the floor in thickstreams. I walked it over to the table in the corner of the room. I placed it into a custom trophy case I’d designed myself, then carried it to the refrigerated room at the end of the basement.

Inside, there were eight other heads, each one neatly preserved in its own case. I placed Tomaso’s beside the others, closing the glass door.

Ava would never know about this room. But it was part of me, part of who I was. It was my legacy. My father had built his empire on violence and fear, but I would build mine on justice and vengeance. Everyone would know not to cross me.

I thoroughly cleaned my hands and face, scrubbing away the last traces of Tomaso’s life, like he was nothing more than dirt beneath my fingernails, because to me he was nothing more than dirt.

I looked at him one last time—his lifeless, vacant eyes staring back at me, frozen in a fear he never thought he'd feel. I felt myself exhale.

He was the final name on my list.

For years, my existence had been defined by one purpose—vengeance. Every breath I took, every move I made, had been leading to this.

Now, there was nobody left to hunt. No more ghosts to chase. No more names to cross out.

I should’ve felt… something. A sense of peace. Triumph. Relief, maybe.

But I felt nothing.

But now I had time. Now, I had time for her. No distractions. No unfinished business lurking in the shadows. I could be the man she deserved—at least, whatever version of that I could manage.

I’d never be good, but I could be... something adjacent to good. To her. For her, I could be hers.

I wiped my hands one last time, then turned away. Then I walked upstairs. I needed to talk to Ava about our wedding.

How did you convince someone who aimed for your heart—and damn near hit it—to trust you with hers?

When words were already hard, when they never seemed to come out right, when silence had always been easier?

It sounded impossible.

So deep in thought I almost didn’t notice my father leaning against the wall near the elevator. His face was a mask of barely contained fury, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Carlos’s father is furious.”

I shrugged. “Carlos’s father is too much of a coward to retaliate. Are the wedding preparations ready?”

My father’s mouth twitched in irritation, but he answered. “Yes. The ceremony is set for two o’clock tomorrow. The guests have started arriving already.”

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