12. Luciano
Chapter 12
Luciano
I wake before the sun fully climbs the horizon, when the sky is still more purple than gold. My body stirs even when my mind begs for a few more minutes of peace. Too many thoughts swirl in my head—dark, consuming, and tangled with confusion about the woman sleeping in the corner of my room.
For a few seconds, I remain still, listening to the quiet rhythms of the house. The walls feel different now that Gianna is here. Everything is the same on the surface—clean, orderly, the furniture exactly where it’s always been—but the air is charged with a tension I can’t shake. My gaze drifts to the corner, where a thin mattress lies on the floor.
She lies there curled up, her breathing slow and steady, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. She looks almost peaceful—lips parted slightly, lashes resting against her cheeks. There’s an ache in my chest when I see her like this. Part of me bristles: She shouldn’t be this calm in my presence. Another part hisses: She’s not calm, you fool. She’s just exhausted.
I push myself upright, forcing the sheet aside. The scar on my chest twinges faintly, a phantom pain that reminds me of Giovanni Lucatello. It’s a memory I can’t erase, a reminder that I have vowed to exact my pound of flesh from the Lucatellos. Gianna is the perfect vantage point for that revenge. So why does looking at her make me uneasy?
I exhale, glancing again at her sleeping form. She’s still guilty by association. She’s a Lucatello, the blood of Giovanni himself. I won’t let her innocence fool me. Not again.
Slipping out of bed, I head for the bathroom. The house is cool, the early morning light painting long shadows on the hardwood floors. As I pass the mirror, I catch sight of my reflection—eyes shadowed, jaw set in a grim line. This is what vengeance looks like?
The shower sputters to life, steam swirling around the room as I step under the spray. I tilt my head back and let the hot water cascade down my neck and shoulders. I want to clear my mind, but Gianna’s face intrudes unbidden: the wary set of her eyes last night, the tremble in her arms as she hauled her suitcases all over the house. I didn’t offer to help. It was a small punishment, but a punishment nonetheless.
I clench my teeth. Why do I feel guilty? Giovanni never paid for what he did to me, for the nights I woke in a cold sweat, re-living the branding iron slicing into my chest. Shouldn’t I remind him that actions have consequences? That if he thought he could scar me and walk away unscathed, he was sorely mistaken?
But all that talk of revenge hasn’t quieted the conflict inside my head, especially when my target is a woman who had no part in that night’s cruelty beyond sharing Giovanni’s DNA. The rational part of me knows she’s innocent, just another pawn caught in the crossfire of her father’s sins. Yet here I am, letting her suffer, telling myself it’s justice when really it’s just spite wearing a thinner mask than usual.
I scrub shampoo through my hair, water sluicing over my body as steam fills the shower stall. Don’t overthink this, Lucky. Stick to the plan. I’ll keep her close, break her, and watch Giovanni squirm with helplessness as he realizes there’s nothing he can do to save his daughter. But... the threat feels hollow, especially after hearing the quiet acceptance in her voice last night when I told her she’d be sleeping on the floor. She didn’t argue. She didn’t even flare with indignation. Gianna just accepted her fate with a resignation that made something uncomfortable twist in my gut.
Shutting off the water, I towel myself dry. My mind churns. Gianna’s done nothing to me personally , but the Lucatello name is enough to damn her, right? She’s guilty by birth. The logic echoes in my head, but a pang of doubt tugs at me.
I can’t waver now. If I let my resolve slip, Giovanni wins. He’ll see me falter, see that the brand he left on me still bleeds into my spirit. I won’t give him that satisfaction.
The moment I open the bathroom door, my breath catches. Gianna stands with her back to me, rummaging through one of her suitcases. She’s wearing a pair of simple cotton panties. Morning light filters in through the window, casting her figure in soft relief. My pulse jolts at the elegant curve of her spine, the subtle dip at her waist, and the gentle slope of her hips.
Heat floods through me, a primal reaction I can’t quite ignore. A savage hunger coils in my gut— she’s mine. She’s supposed to be my revenge, my trophy, but right now, all I can think about is the glorious shape of her body and how her hair tumbles down her shoulders. I swallow hard. My cock stiffens, straining against the towel I wrapped around my waist. I hate how quickly my body reacts to her, how easily she stirs this need in me.
Before I can move or speak, she grabs a simple sundress from the suitcase and pulls it over her head, the fabric sliding down her slender frame until all that creamy skin disappears. I realize my hands are clenched into fists at my sides, nails digging into my palms as if physically restraining myself from walking over and pressing her to the bed, from tasting every inch of the body I just glimpsed.
Get a grip. Clearing my throat, I step forward. The sound startles her. Gianna spins around, eyes wide, lips parted in surprise. For a split second, embarrassment flickers across her face. Then her expression locks down, composure snapping into place.
My voice comes out sharper than I intend, an attempt to hide my arousal. “Go make me coffee. This time with cream and sugar. Understood?” The words crack like a whip through the room.
She nods quickly, eyes lowering to the floor. “Yes.” Her cheeks still retain the faintest hint of color from being caught nearly naked, the delicate pink flush making her look even more alluring. I watch her slip past me, careful to maintain distance between our bodies. Still, the scent of her drifts through the air anyway—a light, feminine fragrance mixed with something uniquely her .
I inhale, struggling to subdue the desire thrumming in my veins. Gianna is beautiful, yes, but that beauty is part of the weapon I can use—and also the weapon that can undo me. If I let lust cloud my judgment, I lose the war I’m waging.
Summoning every ounce of discipline, I force myself not to follow her. Instead, I get dressed for the day, frustrated that I have to coerce my hard member into uncomfortable jeans.
By the time I step into the kitchen, she has the coffee machine humming, carefully measuring sugar and creamer. My gaze skims the line of her shoulders, and I find my thoughts turning lewd. Focus. I lean against the counter and force a neutral expression onto my face.
She hands me the mug, our fingers brushing for the briefest moment. I take a sip and let the warmth steal away all my thoughts of her. It’s good—sweet without being cloying, the creamer swirling in gentle ribbons of light brown against the darker coffee. I nod appreciatively, setting it aside on the counter. Gianna stands there, uncertain, shifting her weight from one foot to the other like she’s waiting for more commands.
I let out a short sigh, rolling my eyes. “You can make your own coffee. Or tea. Or water. Whatever you want. I’m not chaining you to a radiator.”
She blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. I can almost hear her unspoken question: You’re giving me freedom? She’s used to living under stricter watch, I suppose. Her days were probably meticulously planned; every minute accounted for, every movement scrutinized and judged against some impossible standard of perfection. The thought sets my teeth on edge. I’ve seen enough of Giovanni’s handiwork to know how he operates.
I lift my chin, trying to mask the hint of frustration that rears when I think about Giovanni. “You’ll have more freedom here than you did with your father. When I go out, you’ll stay here—no bodyguards, no locks. I’ll expect you to manage the house. Clean up. Make dinner. Keep things in order. The usual.” Like a maid and a cook, I realize, and the thought sits uncomfortably in my stomach.
It occurs to me for a moment that she may want to do something else with her life, something more fulfilling. A career, maybe, or school—normal things that young women her age typically pursue. But I don’t know what those things would be. I don’t know if she has any skills beyond what her father deemed necessary for his perfect daughter to possess. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, this arrangement will have to do.
Gianna hesitates, hand fidgeting near the countertop. “You’re trusting me? Just like that?”
The word trust tastes bitter. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m not giving you permission to waltz out the front door and never come back. And I’ve got a security system in place. But I’m not Giovanni. I won’t keep you shackled to my side every second or busy with menial tasks.” Unless she upsets me…
Gratitude and relief muddle her features for a few moments; then, she schools her expression into nonchalance. She straightens her shoulders and lowers her eyes like a dutiful maid. “Thank you,” she murmurs.
I watch her for a beat, searching for any sign of deception. Gianna is good at hiding her emotions. But if she tries anything, if she attempts to run away, my security system will catch her. That’s the difference between Giovanni and me: I won’t rely on round-the-clock guards to force her into submission, but I’m no fool. She won’t disobey me because my freedom comes with strings.
“Why did you make me move in with you, then?” Her voice is quiet, but there’s a tremor of defiance in it. “You let me roam about the house freely, but you force me to sleep on the floor. Do you just enjoy inflicting pain on people?”
I feel a surge of anger but also something close to respect for her courage. She’s not cowering; she’s probing the edges of my control, testing me like a prisoner searching for weaknesses in their cell. “It’s not about enjoyment.”
Gianna lifts her gaze, questioning me silently. Her eyes are large and dark, flecked with tiny amber specks that catch the morning light, and I hate how they stir something akin to guilt in my gut. The weight of her stare makes my skin prickle with unwanted awareness. Tell her the truth. That’s what a twisted part of me demands, so I do. Because what do I have to lose?
“I brought you here to ruin you.” Uncertainty dances across her face. I press on, words tumbling out in a monologue unrehearsed. “I want to break you, Gianna. I want to make you beg. Make you realize you’re not as untouched or untouchable as your father believed. I want to sink myself so deep in you that you don’t remember who you were before I got hold of you. I want to remake you in the image of my darkest desires until there’s nothing left of the pristine daughter Giovanni Lucatello tried so hard to protect.”
Her pupils dilate, and she swallows hard. I sense the fear rolling off her, but also a spark of something else—anger, maybe, and desire, perhaps. The contradicting emotions war across her delicate features. Good . Let her resent me and want me at the same time. Let that internal struggle tear down her walls brick by brick. Anything is better than unwavering composure, than that mask of control she wears like armor.
I step closer, crowding her against the counter, letting her feel my tension and frustration. “You think this is about you?” I scoff, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “It’s about your father. I want to see his face when he realizes I’ve taken his precious daughter, used her, corrupted her. I want to watch the horror dawn in his eyes when he understands that the brand he burned into my chest five years ago was the worst mistake of his life. I want to fuck you in front of him, make you moan my name until your throat is raw, so he knows exactly what’s become of his perfect little girl. So he can witness firsthand how thoroughly I’ve destroyed everything he tried to protect.”
I can’t deny the twisted satisfaction that floods through me at the idea. My blood thrums with excitement and vengeance, overshadowed by a savage surge of lust that flares again at the memory of her bare skin pressed against mine. “And yes,” I add, voice gravelly with barely concealed desire, “I want to put a baby in you right in front of him so he’ll choke on the knowledge that I own you in every sense. So he’ll understand that his bloodline, his legacy, everything he holds dear will forever carry the mark of his greatest enemy.”
Gianna’s breath hitches. Her knuckles whiten as she grips the edge of the counter. I can see the war inside her eyes: a chaotic blend of horror twisting with fury and, beneath it all, an unmistakable flash of lust that she can’t quite suppress. She’s turned on—her dilated pupils, her breath quickening—but she’s afraid of what that means, and she’s angry, both at me and at herself for responding to my words.
A long moment passes before she speaks. “You think that’ll hurt my father?”
“It’ll hurt him more than anything else I could do,” I snap, letting my contempt seep into every word. “More than torture, more than death.”
She laughs, meeting my gaze for the first time since I pinned her against the counter. The defiance in her eyes burns bright and cold. “He won’t care what you do to me.”
A slash of confusion cuts through my chest, replaced quickly by white-hot anger that threatens to consume me. “What?”
“He never cared about me.” Her tone is bitter. “Giovanni Lucatello hates women, especially ones he can’t control. If I die, if you break me, if you do it in front of him—he’ll just shrug it off. Or laugh. And if he can gain power from it, he’ll encourage you to do it. None of this will matter to him, not the way you want it to.”
I stiffen as the air in the kitchen goes cold. That’s impossible. Her father prized her virginity, her purity above all else. I heard the whispers, the way he paraded her at events like a porcelain doll. Visible for men to see but never available for them to touch. He locked her away like a trophy, kept under lock and key. “You’re lying,” I snarl through clenched teeth, but the steady, haunted look in her eyes says she’s not.
A bitter taste floods my mouth, acidic and sharp. I’ve been telling myself I’d found the perfect leverage, the ultimate pressure point to make Giovanni bend to my will. Now Gianna is telling me he doesn’t give a damn about her? The realization scrapes across my nerves like sandpaper on an open wound. No. I can’t afford to believe that. I won’t let myself accept it. Because if it’s true, if I’ve been wrong about him this whole time, then what am I doing? Why am I marrying her? What is this all for?
If Giovanni doesn’t care what becomes of his daughter now that she’s in my grasp, then my revenge is worthless. It is just an empty cruelty inflicted on someone who never asked for it, on someone who might not deserve it at all.
My throat constricts as her words echo in my mind. If I die, if you break me, if you do it in front of him—he’ll just shrug it off. Or laugh. And if he can gain power from it, he’ll encourage you to do it.
Gianna doesn’t speak again. She just waits, letting me fight my own demons. Her calmness taunts me. She does not shake or cower, she does not plead or bargain. Her dark eyes hold mine with a steady acceptance that cuts deeper than fear ever could. Her quiet nothingness tells me: Your war isn’t with me.
I step back from her, needing distance and space to regroup before I lose my self-control. My voice is strangled, but I manage to speak. “Go do whatever you need to do,” I mutter, turning away so she can’t see the turmoil on my face any longer.
I sense her hesitation, but eventually, Gianna’s footsteps retreat, leaving me alone in the kitchen. The coffee she made sits half-finished on the counter, steam curling up in lazy tendrils that mock the chaos churning inside me. The rich aroma that filled me with comfort minutes ago now turns my stomach. Suddenly, I feel a sickening twist in my gut, a reminder of everything I’ve become. I never wanted it to be like this. Or did I? The question haunts me, because somewhere deep down, I know the answer might destroy what little humanity I have left.
No. Focus. She’s a Lucatello. I have vowed to take everything from her father. But if he won’t care, then what the hell am I doing?
She’s unraveling me. And maybe she’s not even trying to. Maybe I’m unraveling myself, pulling at loose threads I should have left alone, watching as everything I thought I knew about revenge and justice falls apart at the seams.
“The plan hasn’t changed,” I tell myself. I can’t let it. Damn her father, and damn him for the scar on my chest. Because if Giovanni doesn’t care about his daughter, and if Gianna’s resilience is stronger than I accounted for, what do I do now? Where do I go from here?