Page 22 of Luciano

“Then tell me,” I pressed. “How did you make it work, with the life we live? How do you keep a woman happy?”

His eyes flickered with something I couldn’t read. He let out a breath, a wheeze more than a sigh.

“You want the real answer?”

I gave a slight nod.

“You listen more than you speak. Even when you think you’re right. Especially then. You shut the fuck up and listen to what she’s saying underneath the words. What she’s not saying. You learn her silences like you learn her body.”

I didn’t interrupt.

“You stay consistent. Not just loyal, but dependable. You show up the same man every day, so she knows what part of you she can lean on when her world starts tilting.”

His breath hitched—maybe from pain, maybe from memory—but he kept going.

“You give her space to be more than what you want. You don’t punish her for needing things you don’t understand. You don’t try to win. You try to last. You let her be complicated.”

I stared at him, absorbing every word.

“And when she’s angry? When she’s spitting fire at you and calling you every name but the one she gave you? You take it. Because she has to know she’s safe being angry around you. That you won’t love her less for feeling too much.”

He coughed again, blood in the corner of his mouth.

“You want to keep her?” he said, voice weakening. “Then you make her feel seen. Not just when she’s dressed up and pretty. When she’s broken. When she’s tired of you and all your shit. You still stay. And you forgive her, even when she does the unforgivable.”

His words made me pause. I fought against compartmentalizing them. I wanted to be a man who took advice. I filed it all away and then I made up my mind about what needed to be done.

I stood up, pushing the chair back with a screech. “I had planned to keep you alive for weeks or months,” I told Tomaso. “I wanted you to suffer, to feel every moment of the agony you created. But Ava doesn’t like my father, and I won’t be returning to his house often. I won’t do things like this in the home I share with her. I don’t want her to know this part of me.”

He looked up at me, something like understanding crossing his face. For the first time, I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. It was faint, but it was there.

“You say you’ve been married to your wife for forty years, and from what I saw, she was happy with you. She kissed you lovingly when you left home the morning I took you.” I paused, thinking over my next words and decided to extend an olive branch. “It is my wedding day tomorrow and I’m feeling sentimental.” I paused. “Should I have someone kill your wife? So she doesn’t have to live without you?”

His eyes widened.

I hadn’t expected the sheer terror that crossed his face. But once I saw it… it felt right.

Tomaso began to shake. “Non farle del male… please,” he stammered. His voice cracked with desperation. “She… she’s innocent…”

His dignity crumbled.

“Per favore,” he begged. “Don’t kill her.”

I watched him, unaffected. His pleas washed over me, empty and hollow. “Look at you,” I said, my tone sharper now. “Begging like a dog. After all the blood you’ve spilled, you expect mercy?”

He continued to babble, switching between English and Italian, each word more frantic than the last. “Io ti prego… I beg you… I beg you…”

So this was love—losing control, unraveling pride, fearing the loss of what mattered most.

I leaned forward. “Where was the mercy for my mother, Tomaso? Did you spare her? Did you listen to her pleas?” I inhaled a breath, trying to calm myself, but it didn’t work.

“There will be no mercy. You’ll die not knowing if your wife will end up here or not.”

He sobbed openly now, tears mixing with the blood on his face.

“Goodbye, Tomaso,” I said, reaching for the nearby hacksaw on the table.

I positioned the hacksaw against his neck. He was too weak and distraught to even try and move.

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