Page 8 of Luciano

Only speaking when necessary.

Sometimes, I asked if he had heard from Momma.

He always gave the same answer.

“No, but I’ll let you know if I do.”

Without a hint of sincerity.

I stayed until I turned eighteen.

Then I went back to my father’s house.

Found the money Momma had hidden. I went to the bank andtransferred the nearly $600k that had been waiting for me into a personal account.

I took a plane to California.

I moved into my daddy’s old house in Watts. A small three-bedroom. Used half the money to help my cousin Dewanda open a beauty bar. I invested.

And Daddy’s hood made sure I was safe.

For ten years, I stayed gone, hidden.

Ten years after Momma’s death, I still wasn’t over it.

Now I was sitting on the same dirt where everything fell apart.

I was supposed to meet Vito hours ago. I knew he was waiting. I just… couldn’t move.

I just sat there.

Staring at her grave.

My chest heavy with things I could name but wouldn’t dare.

A deep grunt pulled me from my thoughts.

I looked up.

Luciano—Vito’s son—stood over me.

Under normal circumstances, I would have been in awe. He was sin in a suit. With a strong jawline, plush lips, and these green eyes. He looked way too put together for a man covered in tattoos. Everything about him was a contradiction—like a scholar's hands wrapped around butcher's knives, or choirboy lips whispering threats.

But these weren’t normal circumstances.

And he wasn’t here just to be beautiful.

He was here to collect me for his father.

“Come,”he said, voice low, rough like it hadn’t been used much. He extended his hand.

I stared at it for a long time.

My muscles tensed, ready to pull back, to snap, to fight.

But what would I be fighting for?

Freedom?

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