7. Luciano
Chapter 7
Luciano
I wake with a start, disoriented by my unfamiliar surroundings and the stale smell of the motel carpet. Instinct jolts me upright, and I realize two things almost simultaneously: I’m alone, and my head feels like someone took a baseball bat to it and then ran over the pieces with a truck. A nauseating blend of whiskey and regret lingers in my system, making my tongue feel like sandpaper.
Memories from last night rush back in disjointed flashes: meeting a woman at Finn’s, her dark hair and teasing smile, a searing energy that crackled between us. She called herself Allegra, but even then, I sensed that wasn’t her real name, the same way Luca sure as hell isn’t mine. We were two liars looking for oblivion, not honesty. Still, I didn’t expect her to vanish before dawn—no note, no phone number, not even a parting kiss. It shouldn’t matter. She was supposed to be nothing more than a distraction, a wild, desperate escape from the train wreck that is my life. But I can’t shake the bitterness pooling in my gut.
Staggering out of bed, I paw at my clothes scattered across the floor. One sleeve of my shirt is twisted inside out, the fabric smelling faintly of lavender and sweat. I push aside the phantom image of her from last night and the echo of her moans when I made her come. My chest tightens, anger flaring at how easily she left me behind—as if I’m the forgettable one.
* * *
I can’t recall if I asked the front desk about her. My head was splitting from leftover booze, and I remember feeling like a goddamn idiot when the clerk stared at me blankly. I know that by mid-morning, I’d abandoned the hotel, writing her off as a nameless, faceless fling I’d never see again. I told myself it was better that way.
But the human mind is fickle. Allegra has haunted me for the last four days—she is an itch I can’t scratch. Her memory sneaks into my thoughts at the worst times, more potent than any whiskey burn. Stupid, right? She was supposed to be an afterthought, yet I can’t shake the images of her parted lips, the way she clung to me like I was her lifeline.
Now, though, I have bigger problems than a missing one-night stand. I’m in the back seat of an SUV, forced to attend some twisted peace summit with the Lucatellos. The morning sun glints off the tinted windows as we wind through Aggieville’s business district, passing boutiques and bars I barely register. Dante sits up front with Saverio Castiglione, the puppet master of our entire Midwest operation, while Salvatore and Niccolo ride next to me.
Dante’s voice is low but firm, discussing the parameters of our new alliance, tossing around words like unity and stability . Bullshit. All I hear is marriage. My marriage, specifically. Arranged by Saverio, Dante, and Giovanni Lucatello. Fuck all of them. They’re bartering away my future like I’m some prized stallion at auction, and the worst part is, I can’t say a damn thing about it.
My stomach knots with residual fury. A marriage to end the feud, they said. A show of goodwill between the families. That’s the party line. But to me, it’s a death sentence, as if they’re slapping a ring on my finger and telling me to share a bed with the man who nearly carved me in half. It’s not Giovanni I’d be marrying, I remind myself. It’s his daughter. The knowledge does little to soothe my anger.
Niccolo, seated on my left, glances my way. He can probably feel the tension radiating off me in waves. “You good?” he murmurs, voice low so only I can hear.
I grit my teeth. “Peachy.”
He sighs, a soft sound of resignation. Of all my brothers, Nic has the gentlest heart—he’d do anything for the family except join the family outright. But that changed when Christine entered the picture. She was the opening shot to this gory picture that is now my life. Sometimes, I wonder if he regrets that decision, if he ever lies awake at night wishing he’d stayed away from all of this and stayed true to his original path. But then, none of us really have a choice in the end.
Saverio, in the passenger seat up front, half-turns to address us in the back. “We’re almost at Nico’s.” His tone is casual, like we’re going to brunch instead of my funeral. “Remember: we’re here to finalize the agreement. Giovanni wants this done quickly, and so do I.”
Dante nods, never taking his eyes off the road. He’s driving, knuckles white on the wheel. He’s calm as ice most days, but even he can’t hide his distaste for how Saverio is playing us. Still, he leads our family on a local level—and Saverio outranks all of us. We have no choice but to obey.
The SUV slows, turning onto a narrower street lined with brick buildings. Aggieville, especially around midday, thrums with energy—people hustling between shops, the smell of strong coffee drifting from Bluestem Bistro. My mood sours further when I spot the discreet sign: Nico’s, an upscale Italian restaurant that has been used as neutral ground for business. Once upon a time, Niccolo thought Giovanni was going to beat him to death in the parking lot here. The irony that we’re meeting at Nico’s to celebrate my union with a Lucatello is not lost on me.
We pull into a small parking lot behind the restaurant, and the moment we come to a stop, Saverio twists to pin me with a measured look. “Remember, Luciano,” he says, voice dripping with condescension. “If we want this alliance to stick, we need to show them we’re serious.”
I bite back a snarl. “I’m not an idiot.” Though I’d love to put Giovanni through a window, I’m not stupid enough to sabotage a sanctioned deal. Just watch me sabotage the marriage later.
He narrows his eyes but doesn’t press the issue. Dante kills the engine, and we all climb out onto the sun-warmed asphalt. The late spring air is mild, with a gentle breeze carrying the aroma of fresh bread from inside the restaurant. It does nothing to quell the fury churning in my gut.
Salvatore gives my shoulder a quick squeeze—a silent hang in there —and Niccolo shoots me a tight, sympathetic smile as we head for the back entrance. Saverio marches in front, Dante at his right, exuding that big-dog energy that makes lesser men step aside. I follow, heart pounding with rage and disquiet.
Inside, the restaurant’s main dining area is eerily empty, with all the tables cleared except one large round set up in the center. Plush red booth seats line the walls, and paintings of the Italian countryside hang on the brick. Usually, Nico’s bustles with waitstaff and customers. But today, it’s deathly quiet, every booth vacant. They’ve cleared it for us—no witnesses, no eavesdroppers.
At the lone table, Giovanni Lucatello sits with two of his associates, both wearing dark suits that match his own. My scar itches at the sight of him: the broad shoulders straining against Italian wool, his hawk-like nose, the implacable stare. He looks older now, with streaks of gray at his temples and deep lines around his mouth, but he is no less imposing. If anything, the years have only hardened him.
He rises the moment we enter, forcing a thin-lipped smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Saverio.” He tips his chin politely at Dante, Salvatore, and Niccolo. Then his gaze lands on me. His smirk grows. “Good to see you, Lucky.”
My pulse kicks up a notch, but I clench my teeth, refusing to show any outward reaction. He might read the hate in my eyes, but that’s fine. Let him know I’d burn him alive if I could, watch him crumble to ash with a smile on my face. I’m only here because I have no choice.
“Giovanni.” My voice comes out level despite the tang of bile in my throat.
Giovanni’s men shift, glancing warily between our group. Saverio breaks it first by striding forward with a broad, politician-like grin, clasping Giovanni’s hand in a show of unity.
“Shall we sit?” Saverio suggests, gesturing at the table.
We file around, Dante on one side, me on the other. I end up half a seat away from Giovanni, close enough to smell his aftershave. Memories swell, blackening my vision for a second. I drag in a breath and force the rage down. Not now. Later, maybe. But not now.
A member of the waitstaff—some unfortunate soul roped into serving us—delicately sets out glasses of water and then retreats. I don’t bother with mine. I’m too angry to feel thirsty. My mouth is dry, though, from suppressed anger and an odd swirl of anticipation. Rumor has it that Giovanni’s daughter—my soon-to-be wife—is sheltered and naive. Possibly beautiful. Possibly nothing but a pretty puppet for her father to control.
Dante and Giovanni exchange pleasantries, each trying to outdo the other in false warmth. Salvatore and Niccolo contribute a few curt words, while Saverio discusses logistic nonsense: joint business operations, territory lines, and the strengthening of families. I’m half-listening, half-lost in my head.
Then Giovanni turns to me, forcing an ingratiating smile. “My daughter is quite lovely,” he says. “I regret that you haven’t met her yet.”
My grip on the table edge tightens. Lovely. Right, because that’s all she is—something to be displayed and traded. “So they tell me,” I reply flatly.
His smile falters, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. Saverio clears his throat, leaning forward with a diplomatic nod. “We’d like to meet her today, if possible. Hammer out final details.”
“Of course.” Giovanni waves a hand dismissively. “She had lessons first thing this morning, but she should be here now. She is eager for this marriage. She prepares for it daily.”
Preparing to be my bride. The thought sends a bitter taste into my mouth. A swirl of morbid curiosity mingles with my resentment. Who is this girl? What does she think of me? If she hates me half as much as I hate her father, this marriage will be a nightmare.
Seconds later, a door at the back of the restaurant opens, leading from what I assume is the kitchen. My stomach tenses, a knot of anticipation and dread forming. A man in a tailored charcoal suit—one of Giovanni’s men—walks in with measured steps, followed by a figure in subdued heels clicking against the hardwood floor. I catch a glimpse of dark hair falling past graceful shoulders. My pulse quickens despite myself.
So this is her.
She steps out from behind the bodyguard, and my world careens off its axis.
For a split second, I can’t breathe, can’t think. My ears ring with a high-pitched static, drowning out whatever trivial greeting Giovanni utters. Because standing there, wearing a fitted pastel pink dress that accentuates her figure in a maddeningly understated way, is the woman I’ve been replaying in my mind for the last four days. The woman I left behind in a cheap motel bed—except it was her who left me, wasn’t it?
Allegra.
No. Gianna Lucatello.
I’m sure I must look like a goddamn idiot, my mouth parted in shock and my eyes wide. Heat flares in my chest—part fury, part something too tangled to name. It can’t be her. She can’t be the daughter of the bastard who burned his family crest into my chest. But there’s no denying it. The shape of her lips, the slope of her neck, that intense darkness of her gaze. She’s the same woman who slipped away in the middle of the night, who let me fuck her senseless, whose restless energy matched mine.
Her gaze locks on me, and I see her expression falter. She recognizes me. She registers the same shock mirrored on her face. She had no idea, I realize, a fresh wave of confusion hitting me like a sledgehammer. She’s as stunned as I am.
Beside me, Dante and Sal go still, glancing uncertainly between Gianna and me. They can’t possibly understand what’s happening, what cosmic joke the universe is playing. Giovanni is oblivious, too, smiling like a goddamn proud father. “Gianna, dear,” he says, beckoning her forward with an enthusiastic wave of his hand. “Come. Meet your future husband.”
My lungs burn as I force a ragged breath. I can’t move. Can’t speak. My heart slams in my chest, adrenaline spiking to a near-painful level. She walks closer, that same uncertain stride I remember from the bar, and a thousand memories flash through my mind: her parted lips, her breathless gasps, the way her nails raked down my back.
Then she stands just a foot away from me, head bowed, posture obedient. No. This can’t be the bold, reckless woman who matched my desperation just a few nights before. But it is. Her dark lashes flick up, and for a split second, our gazes collide in raw, unmasked horror.
Giovanni continues, oblivious: “Luciano, this is my youngest daughter, Gianna. I have kept her protected for so long, but now she’s ready to do her duty for the family.”
Saverio makes a contented noise, and the entire table seems to exhale as if we’ve reached some joyous conclusion. My ears are still ringing. I can’t tear my eyes off her. I’m trying to reconcile this demure figure with the Allegra I can’t stop thinking about. She told me her name was Allegra. She told me so many things that were obviously lies.
A wave of anger surges through me, blotting out my confusion. She lied about her identity. Then again, I lied, too. But this is different. We’re enemies. She’s the one I’m supposed to marry, forced by our families to share a life neither of us asked for.
Gianna glances at me again, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face, and her lips part as if she wants to speak. But she doesn’t. A hush descends on the room, everyone waiting for me to say something. Anything.
But there’s a roar in my head and a fierce, pulsing desire to rip her away from this place and demand answers. Did you know who I was when you came up to me at Finn’s? Is this part of some elaborate ruse?
I can’t even form the words. I sense Dante and Saverio shifting uncomfortably at my silence. Giovanni’s expression teeters on the verge of concern. But I’m lost in this savage mix of lust and rage, remembering how she felt beneath me, how she made me lose control in that dingy motel.
My bride-to-be.
The concept is so insane that a short, humorless laugh escapes my lips. Gianna’s face pales, her shoulders going rigid. I see a spark of something in her eyes—fear, maybe, or regret.
Saverio clears his throat. “Well, this is a good start,” he says, forced cheer in his tone. “Should we all sit?”
But I can’t. I can’t calmly sit next to Gianna, sipping water like we’re negotiating a pleasant tea party. The woman I fucked is the woman I’m supposed to marry. The woman whose father nearly ended my life. A savage, wounded roar builds inside me, the brand on my chest itching like it’s fresh again.
My hands curl into fists at my sides. Dante notices and shoots me a warning glare— Keep it together. The problem is, I’m not sure I can.
Giovanni motions for his daughter to come closer. “Gianna, greet your fiancé.”
She inhales sharply, stepping to the table’s edge. Her voice trembles just enough for me to notice. “It’s an honor to meet you, Luciano.”
That small, meek greeting shreds the last of my composure. Because it’s a lie. We’ve met, intimately, and she sure as hell knows my body better than any stranger should. I slam a hand onto the table, making no effort to contain my rage. The dishes rattle, and the water glasses tremble. Everyone jolts. Giovanni’s men reach for their waistbands, hands hovering over concealed weapons, and my brothers tense as if ready for a brawl.
I want to tear this entire fucking arrangement apart.
The metallic taste of rage coats my tongue, adrenaline spiking so high I barely hear Dante saying my name or hear Nic swear under his breath. I’m on the brink of losing my mind; I am ready to burn everything down to escape this cruel cosmic joke.
Gianna. Allegra. Fuck.
Saverio’s glare pins me, silently ordering me to keep my shit together, but I can’t hold it in any longer. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, loud enough for Gianna—and everyone else—to hear.
Gianna’s lips part, panic flaring in her eyes. Giovanni stiffens, about to demand an explanation. But Dante rises from his chair, voice sharp with a warning, “Luc?—”
I don’t let him finish. I shove my chair back so violently that it scrapes across the floor, echoing in the tense silence of Nico’s empty dining room. She’s my bride? The woman I’ve spent days cursing for ghosting me like a cheap fling is my future bride ?