Page 2 of Luciano

“Ava.”

I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles hurting.

“Vito.” His name tasted bitter on my tongue.

“Long time,” he said. The words were casual, but his voice was cold. “I need you to come back home.”

In the back of my mind, I had always known this day would come. He had let me go too easily. I knew too much for him to let me be free forever.

“And if I don’t?” I asked, because I knew once I went back, my life would never be the same.

“You will.” He hung up.

My hand trembled as I set the receiver down. DeAndre was watching me, his brow creased.

“Who was that—and why you look like it was the boogeyman?” he asked.

“It was the boogeyman. And part of the reason why I leave the past where it’s at,” I muttered.

Chapter 2

Luciano

The room was damp, dark, and windowless, the air thick with the stench of decay. My father called itLa Stanza del Giudizio—the Room of Judgment. It was where men who crossed us came to die. This room had heard more confessions, pleas, and regrets than any cathedral in the city.

Tonight, the condemned man before me was Tomaso Greco, tied to an old rusted chair. He was a relic of a dying generation ofmafiosi—older than my father, old enough to be my grandfather. Too old to kill. Death would be a mercy. A reward. I wanted him to live as long as possible.

He was the one who had ordered my mother’s death all those years ago. I had watched him and his men rape and beat her with my own eyes. They left me alive—a silent reminder to my father that he had failed to protect his own.

Naked, bloody, and exposed, Tomaso didn’t beg for his life. He just watched me, like he’d expected this moment all along. Like he knew it was coming. He probably did. Everyone else involved was already dead.

As soon as I returned to the States from exile, I began hunting them down, one by one. Before them, I had been a good boy—quiet, unassuming, showing no signs of being like my father.They never expected I’d turn out worse than him because of what they’d done to me.

Their biggest mistake had been leaving me alive.

It had taken years to find Tomaso. He was like a rat, scurrying through shadows. I hunted him across continents, using every contact my father had—every bribe, every threat—until finally… here he was.

There was no fear in his eyes, only resignation. It made the blood in my veins burn. I wanted to see the same terror in his eyes that I had seen in my mother’s. I would. Eventually.

Today was the third day I’d had him.

The first two days, I’d lost control—almost killed him. But then I remembered a comic book I’d read once. AWolverineissue. He’d caught the man who killed his family, locked him away, beat him within an inch of his life… and then called a doctor. He kept the man alive, dragging out his punishment, letting him suffer in prolonged agony.

Death would’ve been too easy, too kind. Wolverine wanted him to feel every moment of the pain he had inflicted—to linger in it. To be consumed by it.

Today, I started slowly. Using my fists. Each punch landed heavy and wet, bruising skin, breaking ribs, splitting lips. White noise roared in my ears, drowning out my mother’s screams as I poured every ounce of rage I’d buried into him.

He groaned, but he didn’t beg. I might’ve been impressed—any other time.

When my body grew tired, I stepped back, breathing heavily, my knuckles slick with blood. I glanced at one of the guards and jerked my chin toward the door.

“Get the doctor,” I ordered.

The guard moved quickly, fetching the one I kept on standby.

As the doctor worked, I turned to the pristine white sink in the corner—so out of place in this room of filth. I let the warm water run over my hands, watching the blood swirl down the drain. Tomaso’s labored breathing and the doctor’s muttered curses filled the air.

I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Hollow eyes stared back.

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