10. Luciano
Chapter 10
Luciano
I glance in the rearview mirror one more time, making sure Gianna is still in the back seat surrounded by her bags. Not that I expect her to throw herself out onto the highway, but you never know with a Lucatello. She’s silent, arms crossed over her chest with her chin tilted at an angle of forced calm.
The car hums along the outskirts of Manhattan, Kansas, passing a string of stores and a couple of chain restaurants. The driver—one of my brother’s men—keeps his eyes on the road, saying nothing. I haven’t said a word to him since we took off from the Lucatello estate. Honestly, my head’s too full of noise to bother with conversation.
Gianna fidgets with the skirt of her pastel sundress, the same one she wore while Giovanni spat at her about being a tramp. Her fingers twist the delicate fabric until it wrinkles. My hands tighten on the passenger seat’s headrest. The memory flashes hot: me slamming that bastard into the wall, threatening to kill him if he ever laid a hand on her again, his head making a satisfying thunk against the plaster. He deserved worse than just a threat and a bruised ego. Part of me wants to string him up and watch him beg, make him feel every ounce of fear he’s ever inflicted on her.
But it’s not enough. There’s a hunger in me that won’t be sated by a single threat. He left me with scars—mental and physical—that remind me every day how close I came to dying. Now, I want him to watch helplessly as I seize control of the one person he values, the daughter he groomed so carefully. By bending Gianna to my will, I bend Giovanni in spirit. If that means punishing her for his sins, so be it. Some might call it cruel; I call it justice.
She’ll be tucked away in my domain now, though “domain” is a grand word for my four-bedroom, three-bath split-level house. It’s comfortable and quiet. Nothing fancy enough to impress big-shot mafia families—especially not the Lucatellos. But it’s mine. And Gianna is about to find out what it means to be at my mercy instead of her father’s.
We turn onto a quieter street lined with modest houses on decent plots of land, the kind of neighborhood where people still wave to their neighbors, and kids leave their bikes out overnight. My place is near the end of the block, backing onto a stretch of open field dotted with wildflowers and tall grass. A wide driveway curves up to the two-car garage, my neatly trimmed lawn spreads out on either side, and freshly painted navy shutters frame each window. From the outside, it looks practically suburban—the kind of place a small family with two kids and a golden retriever might live. The perfect camouflage for a monster like me, hiding in plain sight among soccer moms and weekend barbecues.
The driver pulls to a stop in the driveway. I tell him to wait—no need for him to unload anything. That’ll be Gianna’s job. I twist in my seat to face her, watching as she takes in her new prison through the tinted windows. Despite the fear thrumming beneath the surface, she squares her shoulders, putting on that brave face I’m starting to recognize.
“This is it?” she asks.
I smile coldly, torn between hoping she’s disappointed and hoping she’s excited to be somewhere that feels like an actual home. Part of me wants her to hate it, to feel the full weight of her captivity even in these cozy suburban surroundings. But another part, one I’m not entirely comfortable acknowledging, wants to see relief in her eyes when she realizes she’s trading cold concrete for warm domesticity. “Disappointed it’s not a mansion on a hill?” I push open the door, letting in a rush of cool afternoon air. “Trust me, you won’t lack for anything here. Not that you’ll have much choice in the matter.”
If she has a reply, she doesn’t speak it. Instead, she clutches her bags tighter against her chest and steps out, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjust to the harsh afternoon sun. The driver, a stern-faced man who hasn’t said more than two words the entire trip, helps her wrestle the rest of her things from the trunk, unceremoniously dumping them on the sun-bleached sidewalk. Without a word or backward glance, he returns to the car and speeds off.
I stand behind her, letting her soak in the reality of her new cage—my home. She glances at the neat lawn, meticulously trimmed but devoid of personality, and the empty flowerbeds I never bothered to plant anything in despite the previous owner’s careful brick borders. The blank windows offer no comfort, only dark reflections of her uncertain face.
“Welcome,” I say flatly. “Pick up your bags and come inside.”
She doesn’t protest the order. She kneels to gather her luggage—three suitcases and a duffel. I watch the line of her spine as she hefts them against her hip, her slender body trembling from the effort. She looks ridiculous in that pastel dress, carrying half her life on shaky arms. It sends a strange thrill through me, though I can’t say why. The sight of her determination, or maybe her desperation, stirs something dark and satisfied in my chest.
I turn on my heel, leading her to the door. The lock clicks, and I push inside, letting her step over the threshold. The air in my place is cool, smelling faintly of the lemon polish and the lingering notes of my cologne. I see her nostrils flare as she inhales, like she’s committing the scent to memory. Her eyes dart around the entryway, taking in every detail with the wariness of a trapped animal.
I flick on a light, revealing a spacious living room with hardwood floors. A couple of butter-soft leather couches face each other across a glass coffee table, and a sleek TV mounted on the charcoal-gray wall completes the bachelor aesthetic. It’s not a mansion, but it’s comfortable, a place where I can retreat to at the end of a long day without worrying about staff hovering or Saverio’s disapproval following me from room to room. Now, it’ll be her prison.
Gianna sets her bags down, surveying the open floor plan with thinly veiled apprehension. Her gaze drifts to the large windows overlooking the backyard, lingering on the manicured lawn that stretches toward the open field. I can see her calculating the chances of escape. My lips curve into a humorless smirk. I may not keep a dozen guards available around the clock, but I’m not an idiot. The security system is state-of-the-art, and every door and window are monitored. She won’t get far if she tries.
“Cozy,” she says softly, surprising me with the quip.
I arch a brow, studying her carefully. “You want a house tour or something?” My tone is dismissive, but I’m secretly curious how she’ll respond.
Gianna hesitates, then shakes her head, her quiet mask snapping back into place like a shield between us. “No, thank you.”
I huff, unsurprised by her withdrawal. I stride past her into the kitchen, flipping on another light that illuminates the modern space. Stainless steel appliances gleam under the overhead fixtures and dark granite countertops stretch across the expansive room. I open the fridge to survey the neatly organized contents. Perfectly stocked, thanks to my personal shopping routine—I’ve always been meticulous about keeping fresh food on hand. “Hungry?” I call over my shoulder, not bothering to turn.
She stands in the doorway, arms folded again, her shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. “Not really.”
I let the silence stretch before slamming the fridge shut and turning around. She flinches slightly at the noise. Good. Let her be on edge. Let her remember exactly where she stands with me.
“First order of business,” I say, stepping close—too close, invading her personal space until she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. She smells faintly of vanilla, soap, and leftover tension. “You’re going to serve me.”
Gianna’s chin lifts a fraction. “I thought that was the plan all along.”
The way she delivers that line, half-bitter, half-resigned, with just enough edge to cut, coaxes a twist of annoyance through my chest. “Don’t get smart with me. You’re going to wait on me, hand and foot. Cook, clean, manage my schedule—everything I require. Understood?”
She doesn’t flinch this time. “Understood.”
A single word. So calm. So final. It digs under my skin, festering like a wound that refuses to heal. I want to see something break behind her eyes, watch her composure crack and shatter. I want a reaction—a tremor in her voice, a flicker of fear, a flash of anger—anything to remind me that she isn’t indifferent to this, to me. But she just stands there like a statue, her expression unreadable.
My fingers twitch at my sides. If I grabbed her now, if I backed her against the counter and forced her to meet my gaze, would she still look at me like that? Like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience she has to learn to endure? The thought ignites something bitter in my chest, a burn that has nothing to do with rage and everything to do with the memory of her body beneath mine, pliant and fever-hot, moaning my name like it belonged to her.
But that was then. And this is now.
Now, she’s locked herself away behind that mask of obedience, and I don’t know if I hate her for it or if I hate myself more—for wanting to be the one to rip it away.
“Let’s start with coffee. Make me a cup.” I jerk my chin toward the sleek coffeemaker on the counter.
“It’s almost five p.m.,” she points out but moves anyway.
“Do we have a problem?” I counter, daring her to push, to give me an excuse to remind her exactly who’s in charge here.
But Gianna doesn’t push. She just nods and rummages for the beans in my cupboard. Her movements are surprisingly sure and methodical as if she’s done this a thousand times before in a thousand different kitchens. I lean against the counter and watch her every step, tracking the precise way her fingers work the machine, waiting for a tremor or hesitation that never comes. The hiss of the machine, the smell of brewing coffee—anyone else might find it comforting. I find it infuriating that she remains so composed, that not even the smallest crack appears in her professional veneer.
When the coffee is complete, she hands me the mug with a slight, knowing smile that makes my jaw tighten, and I take a sip. It’s perfect, damn it. A swirl of bitterness and rich flavor that hits every note exactly right. “It’s awful,” I lie. Then I tip the mug over the sink, watching with grim satisfaction as the dark liquid circles the drain. “Try again.”
A faint crease mars her brow, but she doesn’t protest. Wordlessly, she makes another cup. I can’t decide if I want her to disobey or to keep following orders like this. One outcome might justify punishing her and give me the release I crave. The other might... what? Soothe me? The thought itself is unsettling.
Gianna hands me the second mug with her eyes lowered this time, the perfect picture of submission. I sip it, ignoring the coil of tension in my gut when her finger brushes mine. “Better,” I pronounce. “But don’t forget your place.”
She lifts her gaze then, just for a moment, and the change is electric. There’s a flicker of defiance in her eyes that sparks desire in my stomach. “My place,” she repeats.
“That’s right. You belong to me now.” Even as I say the words, a strange knot forms behind my sternum, twisting tighter with each breath, and I have to force my expression into a sneer. “Don’t forget it.”
Silence stretches between us. Gianna lowers her gaze once more, tension thrumming across her shoulders. “I won’t.”