Page 36 of Luciano

“She could betray you.”

“So could you,” I rebutted.

My father exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering under his breath, “Cristo santo, Luciano.” His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Sei un dannato testardo.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re always too fucking logical.”

“Logic is what we all should rely on.”

“I suppose,” he said finally, the closest thing to a concession I’d ever get from him. “At the very least, she has you talking again, and that’s good.”

I inclined my head slightly, neither confirming nor denying.

My father shook his head, then exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket as he looked at me and changed the subject as he often did. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice even, unreadable.

“Everyone's here. It's a fucking spectacle.” He shot me a look, dry and unimpressed. “Everybody wanted to see you with an actual woman after all these years.” He chuckled under hisbreath, then schooled his features. “If you're going to do this, you gotta do it right. Stand tall. Look them in the eye. Make sure they know exactly who you are.”

I recognized this for what it was—a customary pep talk, an obligatory exchange meant to steady me before I walked into a room full of watching eyes. A formality. A script fathers and sons were supposed to follow.

It wasn’t needed, but something in the way he looked at me gave me pause. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.

He was waiting.

I realized, after a moment, what for.

Some sign of affection. Some indication that I still saw him as something more than a business associate. That I still saw him as my father.

It was absurd.

But I played my part. I reached out, stiff and deliberate, and placed my hand on his back. It was a hug but more contact than we’d had since I was a child. I didn’t like people touching me.

“Merda, son. You’re fucking strange,” he muttered. But he didn’t move away.

We stood there a few more seconds. I pulled away.

My mind shifted back to thoughts of what Saint said.

Chapter 17

Ava

Luciano arrived at my door precisely on time.

Three hours had passed, and he still looked meticulous.

His green eyes swept over me, assessing. “You are beautiful.”

“Thank you.” I did look beautiful.

He looked like the devil dressed in Brioni.

He turned, offering me his arm. He smelled like smoke and steel. It was a scent that didn’t just cling to him—it belonged to him.

I took his arm quietly. My brain was running a thousand miles a minute, trying to process what was happening as he led me down the staircase, through the living room, formal dining room, the kitchen, then outside.

The garden had been turned into exactly what I had imagined.

Everything was white. White doves in a white cage. I remembered that Italians never spared money when it came to weddings—even a fake one, I guess.

There were white flowers, the twinkling lights strung down the aisle, making the entire scene look like something out of a dream. A dream I no longer recognized as mine.

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