9. Luciano
Chapter 9
Luciano
I t takes another hour for Saverio, Dante, and Giovanni to sort out the details. I sit there and watch Gianna the whole time, but she stubbornly refuses to look at me.
I should have told Giovanni that his daughter is a whore, that I know for a fact she isn’t a virgin, but something stops me. The air of control, I think. Gianna Lucatello is the Devil I know, even if I don’t know her at all. She might have lied to me and proven that she’s unpredictable, but if I don’t marry her, it’ll be someone else. And at least I know what I’m getting into with Gianna.
But somewhere deep down, I know it’s more than that. We shared one night in a shitty motel room, and I can’t get it out of my mind. The way she looked at me, the way she touched me, the way she begged for more. I’ve spent the last four days trying to shake that memory, and I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see Gianna’s face twisted in pleasure and feel her nails digging into my shoulders. The memory of her breathy moans haunts me like a ghost I can’t exorcise. That night revealed something raw and real within me, and part of me needs to know if it was genuine or just the whiskey and depression.
When the meeting comes to an end, I tell Dante that I’ll head out with Giovanni and Gianna. “I want to personally oversee the packing process and make sure my future bride arrives at my home intact. Have Nic and Sal bring us a car.” Dante wants to argue, or at least ask me what the fuck I’m doing, but he knows not to do that in front of outsiders.
“We’ll talk later, huh?” He claps me on the back and gives me a knowing look.
“Of course,” I reply smoothly.
Outside, I climb into the Lucatellos’ SUV and settle into the back seat with Gianna and Giovanni across from me. I can’t stop throwing sidelong glances at my fiancé, though I keep my focus angled out the tinted window. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, her chin dipped. The faint pastel pink of her dress looks almost innocent in the harsh daylight, as if she’s someone’s naive little sister about to go to Sunday school. But I know better.
I’m still furious that she lied to me. She called herself Allegra and let me tear her apart in that hotel room with zero inclination that we’d ever meet again. Worse, she’s the daughter of the man who branded me like a fucking animal. Yet every time my gaze flicks to her, memories stab hot and vivid of the hours we spent together.
She must sense me looking. Her spine stiffens fractionally, but she keeps her gaze pinned to the partition that divides us from the driver, her face devoid of expression. She is docile now; she is demure in a way that sets my teeth on edge. And even though a part of me hates it, another part recognizes it for what it is: survival. I know something about that.
Giovanni is the only other passenger. The bastard who nearly ended my life sips whiskey from a flask he produced without any ceremony and pretends we’re all old friends.
“Things worked out nicely,” Giovanni muses, lifting the flask in a mock toast. “Wouldn’t you say, Lucky?”
I stare at the passing shops on Aggieville’s main strip: bright signs, couples strolling with iced coffees, the faint smell of exhaust, and fried food seeping in through the vents. It’s so normal it makes my skin crawl.
Giovanni exhales a bored sigh, swirling his liquor before taking another swig. “I suppose I owe you an apology for that little incident five years ago.” He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “You know how it is. Power plays, debts to settle. Blah, blah, blah.”
“Little incident?”
He gives a dismissive wave of his flask. “Nothing personal, of course. You understand business is business. I’m sure we can consider that water under the bridge now—especially given your upcoming nuptials.”
A savage laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it. Water under the bridge. Sure. Let’s rewrite history as if I didn’t spend weeks recuperating, learning to breathe past the searing pain in my chest and the violent PTSD-riddled nightmares. “We can pretend it didn’t happen.”
Quickly, I unbutton my suit jacket and the top couple of buttons on my shirt. I catch Gianna’s posture stiffen in my peripheral vision, but I don’t spare her a glance. Instead, I tug the fabric aside, revealing the jagged outline of the scar where Dr. Stone had to burn over the Lucatello family crest. The skin there is warped and uneven—a permanent reminder that can’t be erased.
Giovanni’s lips part, but no words come out. The flicker of unease in his eyes is worth all the whiskey in the world.
“See?” I smile despite the bile swirling in my stomach. “Good as new. Like it never even happened.”
I let him stew for a moment, then fasten the buttons with methodical precision. Gianna hasn’t moved or spoken, but I sense her awareness. She knows what her father did to me. She must. Though I suspect she was shielded from the worst details.
Giovanni downs the rest of his liquor, draining the flask and pinning me with a glare. The rest of the ride passes in near-silence. Good. I’d rather let him choke on the silence than issue another fake apology.
We reach the Lucatello estate half an hour later, the gates swinging open when they see the car. A mansion looms at the top of a gentle slope, every inch of it meticulously manicured. It’s a fortress of granite that looks more like a tomb than a home.
Giovanni disembarks first, adjusting his jacket and striding up the steps. A guard stands at attention by the door, offering a respectful nod. My chest tightens with the urge to punch something. He has all these men, all these luxuries, after what he did. The injustice burns. Then again, the mafia thrives on injustice.
Gianna slides out of the SUV with practiced grace; her head bowed just enough to appear polite but not subservient. I follow, my shoes crunching on the driveway’s gravel. Fuck this place.
Inside, the air is cooler than I expect and scented faintly of fresh polish. Chandeliers glimmer overhead, and a grand staircase spirals upward. The banisters gleam with gold trim, and a hush pervades the space. Giovanni heads off in a different direction, speaking to one of his men in hushed tones. He doesn’t bother with Gianna or me at the moment, assuming I’ll handle collecting my bride without further drama.
I turn to Gianna. She stands near the entrance with her arms folded and her posture rigid. When she notices me staring, she flinches—just a micro-movement, but enough to remind me she’s not as calm as she wants to appear.
“You have fifteen minutes to pack.”
She lifts her head, dark eyes flicking to meet mine. For a moment, I see a flash of rebellious spark. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by weary acceptance. “I know.”
The quiet resignation in her tone prickles my skin. Part of me wants her to fight back, to spark the same fire I tasted in that hotel bed. Another part insists this is exactly what I want: compliance so I can keep her under my watch and figure out her angles without further complications.
Gianna leads the way up the sweeping staircase. “Your father’s taste in décor is gaudy,” I mutter, glancing at the gold-framed portraits lining the walls. Each one seems to stare down with the same cold, calculating eyes—generations of power on display.
“He likes to appear invincible,” she replies softly, not stopping.
I almost laugh. “Some appearance. I hope the illusions keep him warm at night.” Like all the other lies he’s built his empire on, I think to myself, but don’t say aloud.
She doesn’t say anything else and instead guides me down a long corridor to a set of double doors that leads to her bedroom. The space is large and opulent, with a four-poster bed draped in sheer fabrics, a window seat overlooking the gardens, and everything meticulously tidy. There’s not a single book out of place, a piece of clothing on the floor, or a dust bunny to be found. It looks more like a showroom than a bedroom.
I wander across the space, trailing my fingertips over a vanity stocked with expensive perfumes and lotions. The display is almost museum-like, each bottle carefully arranged. “You live here?” I ask, voice dripping with disdain. “Feels more like a mausoleum.”
Gianna moves to the closet. “It’s my father’s house. Not mine.” She rummages for a suitcase and starts folding clothes with brisk efficiency. I watch her in silence, taking in the careful way she smooths each dress and the tension in her shoulders whenever she glances at me. I wonder if she’s afraid. She should be, after what I’ve threatened.
“You were out that night,” I say abruptly, letting my gaze sweep over her tidy closet. “At Finn’s. Because you wanted a taste of freedom?”
Her hand falters on a blouse as a breath escapes her lips. “Something like that,” she murmurs.
“And how’d that work out for you?”
Gianna doesn’t answer. She zips the blouse into a garment bag, her expression carefully neutral. Her silence grates on me, but I can’t pinpoint why. Maybe because I want her to spit fire, to match my anger, to prove she’s not just some meek daughter of a bastard.
The door swings open behind us, and Giovanni strides in. A sneer carves his mouth when he sees the dresses piled in Gianna’s suitcase. “Pathetic,” he scoffs, crossing the room in three strides. “What are you doing with all these ragged pieces of cloth? I raised you better than this, Gianna.”
He snatches up one of her folded dresses and tosses it onto the bed like it’s garbage, the delicate fabric crumpling against the duvet. Gianna stiffens, her cheeks flushing pink. I stand by with my arms crossed, observing the way her father rips clothes out of the suitcase, muttering curses under his breath in a mix of English and Italian. My stomach knots with a strange mix of revulsion and fascination. She’s clearly used to this; she never flinchs or talks back. However, I can see her anger simmering just below the surface—a slight tremor in her hands, the way her jaw clenches and unclenches rhythmically as she watches her belongings being treated like trash.
“You embarrass me,” Giovanni snaps at his daughter. “This is how you dress now, like a whore? You think it’s acceptable to bring these rags to your new home?” He leans in, voice turning lethal.
Gianna’s face turns red, but she keeps her eyes down, pressing her lips together until they form a bloodless line. She barely reacts when Giovanni’s hand lifts, though a slight flinch betrays her composure. Her entire posture goes rigid, every muscle taut, bracing for the blow she knows is coming.
I watch, cold fury creeping through my veins like ice water. The corner of my mouth twitches into a snarl, the taste of bile rising in my throat. She might deserve my anger for lying, but even I can see she doesn’t deserve this level of cruelty. A memory flashes—her parted lips as I fucked her, the raw need in her eyes that mirrored my own, the way she’d surrendered so completely. Something protective flares in me, unbidden and annoying but impossible to quell.
The second Giovanni’s palm threatens to strike, I move. Two strides, that’s all it takes. My fingers close around his lapels, yanking him away from Gianna and slamming him into the wall so hard a framed painting rattles and slides askew. He chokes out a startled curse, his face contorting with shock.
Gianna stumbles into the bedpost, eyes wide as she watches. My grip on Giovanni’s shirt tightens, and my chest seethes with raw hatred. I can practically smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the tremor in his muscles as I hold him.
“Don’t ever fucking talk to her like that again,” I growl.
Giovanni forces out a bitter laugh, though it sounds more rattled than amused. “She’s my daughter,” he hisses, lips curled in a sneer. “I can do whatever I like with her.”
Something inside me snaps, a dam of restraint finally breaking loose. “I already beat the shit out of you once, Giovanni. If you ever speak to my wife like that again, I won’t stop until you’re dead.” My voice comes out in a guttural snarl, each word dripping with lethal promise.
Terror flickers in his gaze for a moment before it’s buried under that Lucatello arrogance. But he doesn’t mouth off again. Not right away. The threat hangs in the air, a razor’s edge just inches from his throat.
I hold him there a moment longer, letting him see the genuine promise in my eyes. I will kill him if he pushes me—Saverio and family loyalty be damned. Gianna’s watching from behind me, I can sense her shock. She’s probably never seen anyone stand up to her father so blatantly. That fact both pleases me and fuels my anger further.
Slowly, I release him. Giovanni straightens his collar, his mask of composure sliding back into place. But there’s a flicker of wariness in his expression as he smooths his shirt. “You’re playing house now, huh?” His sneer tries to hide his rattled state. “Acting like you care what happens to that lying whore?”
He still doesn’t get it. He doesn’t realize Gianna is no longer his to bully. She’s my problem now—my problem, and my weapon if I need to twist the knife in Giovanni’s side. But for the moment, all I care about is that he keeps his hands off her.
“Test me,” I snarl, stepping in once more, though I don’t grab him this time. Giovanni flinches anyway. “And see how that ends for you.”
We lock eyes in a silent standoff. He might have more men, and more resources on paper, but right now, the fury in my veins eclipses whatever bravado he musters. Finally, he scoffs and steps away, eyes flicking to his daughter. “Make sure you pack something decent,” he bites out. “I won’t have the Terlizzi family thinking I raised a tramp.”
Gianna stands rigid, not daring to reply. I can see the color draining from her cheeks again, her fingers tremble around the dress she’s still clutching. Anger roars through me anew, but I keep it in check this time, letting him see I’m not about to apologize for stepping in.
He glances between us, a twisted smirk curving his lips. “You two deserve each other,” he mutters, then spins on his heel and leaves, slamming the door behind him. The walls rattle in his wake.
For a moment, neither of us moves. Gianna’s breathing is ragged, her eyes locked on the rumpled clothes scattered across the bed. I wonder if she’s trying to hold back tears, or if she’s too used to this to cry. My heart pounds relentlessly, a toxic mix of adrenaline and something dangerously close to concern.
Eventually, I clear my throat and break the silence. “Finish packing,” I say, voice not as steady as I’d like. “We’re leaving.”
Her gaze lifts to mine, and for a second, I catch a swirl of conflicting emotion in her dark irises: confusion, gratitude, and a flicker of relief. She lowers her eyes quickly before nodding. “Yes,” she whispers.
I step back to give her space, ignoring the churn in my stomach that warns me this is only the beginning of something we can’t control. Let her father see. Let him realize Gianna isn’t his to bully anymore. She’s mine now. And if that means turning my rage into her shield, so be it.
Outside the window, storm clouds gather in the distance, the sky darkening as if mirroring the turmoil brewing between these walls. I watch Gianna resume packing—her shoulders are stiff, her cheeks are pale, but her lips are set in a determined line. She’s stronger than she lets on, a voice in my head says, unbidden.
Part of me loathes her for the lies, for the chaos she’s brought to my life. Part of me can’t ignore the spark that ignites whenever we’re in the same room, a spark that might consume us both if we’re not careful. And a small, grudging part is glad I stepped in, even if I did it for reasons I’m not ready to admit.
I’ve been thrust into the role of her keeper, or maybe her warden. The lines between possession and protection are already too blurred to define. But either way, there’s no turning back now.