Page 94 of Luciano

I hit him again.

“It’s no use, Russo.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to do this.”

“But I want to,” I said.

I took my knife from my boot.

Pressed the blade to Giovanni’s neck—applying just a whisper of pressure.

Russo’s eyes darted. Panic bled into the whites. “You kill me, you’ll make more enemies than you know. Can you afford that?”

“No,” I said. “But you’re still dying tonight.”

Russo looked up at me, eyes wide with the kind of fear that made men bargain with ghosts. His breath came fast—shallow.

The knife slid across his throat clean. A crimson line bloomed beneath his jaw. His body jerked once. Then again. Then stilled.

Brooker let out a low whistle from across the room. “Guess that’s that.”

Blood pooled around Don Russo’s chair, soaking into the cracked wood.

I didn’t linger.

No parting words. No final glances. No ceremony.

Nobody followed.

I left the cabin and jogged the mile back to where the three cars were parked.

I slid into my car, the door thudding shut behind me.

The engine roared.

I drove alone.

No music. No thoughts I wanted to keep. Just the hum of the road.

By the time I stepped into my father’s estate, the sun was threatening the horizon.

My clothes clung to me, stiff with blood. My boots left muddy prints on the marble.

No one stopped me.

No one dared.

I climbed the stairs to my bedroom and pushed open the door.

Chapter 43

Luciano

Ava was turned on her side, the blanket twisted around her waist, one arm stretched across the pillow like she’d reached for something in her sleep and missed.

I stood there, watching for a while. But then—

I needed to see her face. Needed to feel her breathing on mine.

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