Page 32 of Luciano

A part of me wanted to laugh at how absurdly analytical he sounded. Like this was a business acquisition rather than my wedding.

But another part of me—one I didn’t want to examine too closely—felt something else. Why was he going all out for me?

“You kept all of that?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Luciano tilted his head slightly, as if the question itself was irrelevant. “Because it belonged to you. That made them important to me.”

Luciano studied me for a moment longer before asking, “Do you still want it?”

I didn’t know if he meant the dress.

Or the life I had once imagined.

“Want what?”

“The life,” he clarified.

The idea of him offering me the life I had dreamed of before everything fell apart was almost laughable.

So I did laugh. “How is my mundane dream of fighting for the good guys—something you can even offer me?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism. “How does that fit into your world, heir to a mafia throne?”

Luciano didn’t hesitate. “If you want to finish school, you will. If you want to become a lawyer, you will. If you want to fight for the good guys—” He gave a small shrug. “I will ensure you win.” His voice was absolute.

I stared at him, searching his face. He was serious.

“That doesn’t make any sense and it’s in contradiction to who you are. Plus, you can’t ensure I win. You can’t just buy or manipulate justice, Luciano,” I scoffed.

He tilted his head, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That is exactly what justice is—something that is bought, controlled, and manipulated by those with power.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “You know that. You wouldn’t have been drawn to law if you didn’t.”

“Maybe you can do all that. But you can’t buy back the past, though. Those were dreams of another version of me.”

Luciano didn’t even blink. “No,” he agreed. “The past is immutable.”

I exhaled. I had expected him to argue, to tell me that money and power could undo anything. That with enough control, even time could be bent. But he didn’t.

He just agreed.

“But,” he continued, “I can control the future.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze unwavering. “I can’t give you back what was taken from you, Ava. I can’t rewrite history. I can’t resurrect your mothers ghosts.” His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted to touch me. “But I can make sure you never lose anything again.”

He leaned back suddenly, his back going stiff.

“And don’t mistake evolution for erasure, Ava,” he stated, voice measured. “You are not an entirely different entity than you were before. You are simply a revised version. The foundation remains.”

I stared at him. “You sound like a fucking self-help book.”

“I’m explaining it in the way I best understand.” He rebutted.

For some reason, I needed to see his eyes without the glasses.

I reached up slowly, brushing my fingers against the frame to see how he would react.

He didn’t stop me, so I slid them from his face.

Without the glasses, his eyes were clearer.

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