Page 85 of Luca
And that's when I know, with absolute certainty, that I didn't just kill Dante to protect a secret.
I killed him to protect the woman I love.
The woman who looks at me covered in another man's blood and says "good" like she means it.
The woman who understands that in my world, some problems require permanent solutions.
She isn't Sofia Romano and never was, but she’s mine.
Chapter 33: Gabriella
Luca stands in our bedroom doorway like a dark angel, violence written across his white dress shirt in crimson stains.
The blood is everywhere.
The copper tang of it hits me before I even move, metallic and sharp, the smell of violence still clinging to him.
I don’t flinch.
I move toward him slowly, my bare feet silent on the marble floor. He doesn't move away, just watches me approach with those dark eyes that have seen too much and done worse.
"Let me," I say, reaching for his jacket.
My hands are steady as I slide the bloodstained fabric from his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The shirt underneath is worse with dark stains across the white cotton that speak of arterial spray and close contact. I slowly work at the buttons of his ruined shirt. One by one, I undo them, the fabric stiff beneath my fingers, sticking to the blood that’s seeped through.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He just stands there, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes, daring me to back away.
But I don’t. I won’t.
The shirt falls open, baring his chest, the muscles slick with drying crimson. I peel it off his shoulders, tugging it down his arms, and it lands on the floor. His belt is next, myknuckles brushing the ridges of his abdomen as I free it, the metal buckle clinking in the silence.
When the last barrier is gone, he stands naked before me.
Bloodied and powerful.
I take his hand and lead him to the bathroom. The tiles are cold beneath our feet. The room fills quickly with steam as I twist the shower handle, the rush of water loud in the quiet villa.
I guide him under the spray, and for a moment he simply stands there, letting the water pound against his skin, dark rivulets of red spiraling down his chest, dripping from his jaw, pooling at his feet before disappearing into the drain.
I pick up the soap, working it between my palms until it lathers, and then I press my hands to him. Slowly, carefully, I soap his chest, tracing every line of muscle, every scar, every place where the blood clings stubbornly.
The foam turns pink beneath my touch, then darker as it lifts away the evidence of what he’s done. I smooth the suds over his shoulders, down his arms, across his stomach, each motion reverent, as though I am baptizing him into something new.
When I finish his body, I reach for his hair, my fingers working shampoo into the thick strands, massaging his scalp until he tilts his head back into my hands. Foam slides down his temples, carrying blood with it, and I rinse it away, again and again, until all that remains is the clean scent of soap and the man beneath it.
He hasn’t touched me.
Not yet.
His hands remain at his sides, his gaze locked on mine through the steam, but I feel the storm building in him.
I rise on my toes, press my mouth to his, and kiss him through the spray.
The change is instant, violent. He seizes me, slamming his palms against the tile on either side of my head, his mouth devouring mine with a hunger that’s been simmering for days.
Ever since he discovered my lie.
The soap slips from my fingers, forgotten, as he crushes me against the wall, the heat of his body scorching even through the water.
