Page 62 of Luciano

“I know,” I said. “That’s what I admire.”

“She’s also deceitful,” he added. “You admire what she projects, not what she is.”

“What does that mean?”

“She tricked Saint into killing his own father.”

I blinked. “What?”

“And why would she do that?” I asked.

“Because Saint’s father killed hers.”

My heart slowed. My brain didn’t.

I didn’t see anything wrong with what she’s done.

I respected it.

I wanted to be like her even more now. I wanted revenge too.

I tucked that thought away for later, keeping it to myself.

“Even if not like Aria,” I said moving the subject away from her on purpose, “I want to be your equal. I want to be able to protect myself.Protect you if need be.”

He pulled on his clean shirt. “Being my equal means losing parts of yourself,” he said. “It means understanding how fear works. How to use it. How to kill without hesitation. How to manipulate every room you walk into. How to survive betrayal—and still smile at your enemies while planning their funeral.”

“I’m not afraid. I can do all of that.”

He stepped closer. His eyes burned into mine.

“Then I’ll teach you.”

Chapter 27

Luciano

The restaurant was all marble opulence and overpriced ego. Gilded mirrors reflected dead-eyed waiters who moved around the establishment like ghosts. They’d seen too much to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Everyone spoke in hushed tones. Power didn’t have to scream. It just existed. Heavy. Silent. Absolute. I wanted Ava to see that. She was emotional. Passionate. She was fire where I was ice. I appreciated that about her, but fire got you killed in rooms like this if you didn’t know when to dim the flame.

This was her first lesson.

Ava sat beside me, dressed in an all-black fitted dress, that hugged all her lush curves, her body defiled it—turned it into something obscene, and I was having a hard time concentrating.Her hair swept back from her face. She looked perfect—until you looked too close and saw the bruises still fading on her jaw. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t speak. She just watched.

Good.

Across from us, Don Russo, tall, athletic build, in his mid-fifties, he had slick black greasy hair, and wore cheap suits, but he smelled of expensive cigars. He poked at his osso buco like it offended him. He didn’t have enough dignity to be considered anything more than he was—a liar, a thief. He was the boss of the Russo family.

Beside him, his sons postured like bored jackals, dangerous only in theory. They were remedial, a waste—more likely to die before they could take their father’s place because they used the minuscule amount of power they had to abuse. They’d created too many enemies, earned no respect, and instilled too little fear to establish any real authority.

Saint sat to my right, twirling a cigar between his fingers like he was bored, but I knew that look. He was coiled and ready for whatever came.

“Your boys skimmed two hundred grand from our last shipment,” Saint said, tone light. “That’s bad manners.”

Russo’s eldest son, Marco, leaned forward, smirking. “Prove it.”

he said.

I didn’t answer. Just reached into my coat and slid a photo across the white linen tablecloth.

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