Page 66 of Luciano

“She loves Saint. And Saint’s your friend. I think you should be nicer. You really seemed to hurt her feelings. That’s why she lashed out. She had a smirk on her face, but her eyes were sad.”

He nodded. “She did save us. And if you want me to be kinder I will. If you choose to be also—remember, kindness with people like her should be deliberate. Not automatic.” He turned and kept walking toward the bedroom, loosening his tie now, his voice low but even.

“You should observe her the same way I taught you to observe a threat.”

We were in our bedroom now.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Now tell me about the room. The one Aria mentioned.La Stanzawhatever.”

Luciano didn’t answer me. He walked out of the room. I heard the refrigerator open. He came back with two bottles of water.

“It’s an old dungeon my grandfather had built under the house my father inherited—the one you lived in. They used it for enemies.I tracked down the men who killed my mother,” he said.“Every single one of them. It took years.” He set the bottle down. “It’s where I took them. One by one. I tortured them. Then killed them.”

I thought about it.

“I can understand that. And respect it. Also—what Aria said about your father. I would never ask you to kill him because of what he did to my mother.”

He tilted his head slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “Why wouldn’t you ask me to?” he asked—like it was unbelievable that I wouldn’t.

I took a slow breath. “Because… I believe you would.”

He stared at me unblinking.

I felt he was waiting for me to elaborate, so I did.

“I think you’ve already suffered enough. You lost your mother. You lost your childhood. If I asked you to kill your father… you would. Not for justice. Not even for me. You’d do it because you think that’s the cost of keeping me.”

He blinked. Slowly.

“And I don’t want that,” I said, stepping closer. “I told you I was tired. I think you can afford me the peace I need to rest. I didn’t marry you to hurt you. You having to kill your father would hurt you. He’s who you have left. He’s my enemy, not yours. I married you because I saw something in you no one else seemed to see—and that would be lost.”

He crossed his arms, watching me closely. “And what is it that you see in me?”

I looked up at him.

“A man who’s still capable of something feeling something other than grief and anger. A man who survived terrible loss. A man who doesn’t know what peace feels like, but who still wants it for like me.

His jaw flexed. He looked like he was chewing on those words.

“I don’t want you to lose one more piece of yourself on my behalf,” I said quietly. “Not for revenge. Not for history. I want you whole. Or at least, whatever version of whole you are right now.”

He stared at me like I’d just unraveled some equation he’d never been able to solve.

And for once, Luciano didn’t have anything to say.

Abruptly, he turned and continued getting undressed. I wondered what he was thinking. He was probably overanalyzing my words and compartmentalizing them like a robot. I didn’t ask.

I just watched him from the bed as the shadows the cracked blinds let in played across his skin while he moved through his nightly routine. He would undress, brush his teeth, gargle, waterpik, shower for thirty minutes, take a swig of Listerine on the way out of the bathroom because it "helps brighten the teeth," he told me.

He peeled his shirt from his body, revealing the lean muscle stretched tight across his back.

I looked away. I thought about that room again. Those men deserved everything he gave them for what they did to his mother. I had thought about doing the same—but I wasn’t brave enough. I still wasn’t. Not yet.

He drew my attention back to him when he stepped out of his pants.

His body looked like it had been cut from something ancient—like marble or clay pulled straight from the cradle of earth.

There was nothing soft about him. Not in his stance. Not in the way he moved. Not in the way he existed in the world.

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