Page 60 of Luciano

The kitchen smelled like lemon cleaner. Sunlight flooded in across polished counters. It was fully stocked. A soft couch sat in the living room.

In the bathroom, I saw a bottle of my favorite lotion—lavender vanilla. Same brand. Same scent.

My eyes scanned the shelf.

My soap.

The stuff I used for my hair.

My perfume.

My stomach twisted.

Dre had been right.

He’d been watching me.

I stepped into a side room—his office, I think.

There were walls of books. Psychology. Strategy. Power dynamics. Criminal profiling. Self-help. Hundreds of them, some with sticky notes still sticking out the sides.

And comic books. Lots of them.

Batman. Punisher. Spawn.

His computer setup was impressive—multiple monitors, a desktop, laptop, tablets. Games stacked nearby. Custom desk that ran the length of the wall.

But no phone.

No way to reach the outside world.

The front door wasn’t locked though. I checked. I would be stupid to leave after what happened.

I went back into the bedroom. Found one of his shirts and put it on.

I headed to the kitchen and started pulling out ingredients.

Eggs. Sugar. Butter.

I baked when I was nervous.

The front door opened sometime later.

Luciano stepped in, pulling off his suit jacket.

His white shirt was soaked in blood.

My breath caught. “What happened?”

He unbuttoned the shirt, peeling it off like it was nothing.

“Matteo had a brother.”

I stared. He said had a brother.

“I wasn’t leaving him alive to retaliate,” he said simply. “That’s not an option.”

He pulled out a phone, dialed a number, then handed it to me without a word.

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