17. Gianna
Chapter 17
Gianna
I ’ve been here for two weeks now, though it feels like a lifetime. I measure days by chores rather than any real sense of time—on Mondays, I do laundry; on Tuesdays, I sweep the floors; on Wednesdays, I vacuum. And every day, I cook, clean, and tidy while pretending not to feel Luciano’s eyes on me whenever I pass him in the hallway. We share the same house but exist in different universes. Sometimes, I wonder which one of us is the ghost, haunting the other.
I’ve been getting more comfortable in the kitchen since being forced to cook for the last two weeks. I’ve been testing my boundaries with spices and recipes that I find in the old cookbooks Luciano keeps stacked on a shelf near the pantry. They’re worn with notes scribbled in the margins, but I can’t tell if those markings belong to him or someone else from long ago. It doesn’t matter. The cookbooks are here, and I figure the best way to maintain some sense of control is to master the one thing he gives me total freedom in: preparing meals.
I flip through pages until I spot a recipe for fish in a white wine sauce served on a bed of pasta. The instructions look intricate—marinating the fish, deglazing the pan, creating the perfect balance of herbs and aromatics—but I’m determined to learn. My father never allowed me to cook; the chefs made everything, treating the kitchen as their domain while I watched from afar. But this is my cage now, and if I have to be trapped in it, I want to be good at something. Even if it’s just cooking a meal, even if the only person who’ll taste my efforts is the man who keeps me here.
The kitchen is quiet except for the faint hum of the dishwasher I started a few minutes ago. I gather my ingredients carefully: fresh fish filets, plump cloves of garlic waiting to be minced, pearl-white onions, a bottle of white wine, a stick of European butter softening on the counter, and herbs. The pasta is already boiling on the back burner. I plan to serve everything hot at once, which is a small triumph to show myself that I can handle this.
Things go smoothly at first. I pat the fish dry, season it with salt and pepper, and heat oil in a pan. The sizzle that greets me as I lay the filets down is encouraging. I work through the sauce step by step, biting my lip in concentration and being mindful of the spattering oil. As the fish browns, I recall the instructions: deglaze with wine, let the alcohol simmer off, then swirl in butter. It’s not so bad, I tell myself. Maybe I’m good at this. The kitchen fills with an appetizing aroma as the garlic and herbs hit the pan. I watch the edges turn golden and crisp, taking pride in how the skin crisps up just right. The wine steams as it hits the hot pan, carrying away the browned bits from the bottom in swirling eddies of sauce.
But my confidence is short-lived. I misjudge the handle of the pan, and when I reach to move it, my hand closes around the scalding metal. Searing pain takes a split second to register before my nerves scream in protest. My fingers instinctively clench tighter before my brain can send the signal to let go, making those precious fractions of a second feel like an eternity against my skin.
Pain explodes in my palm, and I gasp, finally letting go. The skillet clatters on the stovetop, making everything lurch dangerously. Oil splashes near the burner with a threatening sizzle. My heart jumps to my throat, and I snatch my hand back, pressing it against my stomach. Shit, that hurts. Heat throbs through my skin as tears spring to my eyes, the burn pulsing in time with my racing heartbeat. I grit my teeth, determined not to make a sound.
I’m so focused on trying to stifle my hiss of pain that I don’t realize Luciano is standing in the doorway, watching. I sense him a second too late. I whirl around, cradling my injured hand behind my back, trying to school my features into something neutral despite the agony radiating up my arm. My pulse spikes, both from the surprise of his sudden appearance and the knowledge that he’s witnessed my clumsy mistake.
“What happened?” he demands. His voice isn’t the sharp bark I expect, but there’s no softness in it either—just a flat, calm seriousness that makes my stomach twist with dread.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, turning my body away. The fish hisses behind me, sauce sputtering, but I can’t focus on that. My mind is stuck on the agony pulsing in my palm. “Dinner’s almost ready,” I add, trying to sound composed, but my voice wavers.
Luciano steps forward, crossing the kitchen in two purposeful strides. “Stop,” he orders, and his hand darts out, catching me by the wrist with surprising speed. Before I can pull away or protest, he gently but firmly pries my fingers open, one by one. I let out a small whimper of protest, but it’s too late—he sees the burn already searing across my skin, a furious red bloom that’s starting to blister.
A look crosses his face that I’ve never seen before. There’s something dark and pained in his eyes, a recognition that goes beyond sympathy. For a second, he’s motionless, lips parted like he’s remembering something personal, something that makes his jaw tighten and his shoulders tense. Then he grips my wrist more carefully, his touch becoming impossibly gentle as he guides me toward the sink with steady determination.
“Cold water,” he mutters, reaching to turn on the tap. “Keep it under there.”
I hiss as the water hits my burn, the contrast stinging at first but then easing into a dull throb. My eyes squeeze shut. It hurts. God, it hurts so much. Still, Luciano’s hand stays on mine, steadying my trembling fingers under the stream. He doesn’t speak for a moment, and I can feel his gaze on my face. The fish continues to sizzle on the stove, the sauce crackling in the pan, but he doesn’t spare it a glance.
“I told you I’m—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Shut up,” he says without heat. “You’re not fine. Burns are serious, Gianna.”
The memory of my father burning our family crest into his chest must be on his mind. He understands how burns feel, how the pain lingers. My throat clenches with conflicting emotions. He’s the last person I want to see me like this. Yet I can’t deny the relief that floods through my nervous system as the cold water numbs the agony inch by inch.
He glances over his shoulder, noticing the fish. “It’s burning.”
“Dinner—”
“I’ll handle it,” Luciano says with an edge in his voice. “Keep your hand under the water.”
I watch, stunned, as he turns off the stove and slides the skillet away from the burner. He checks the pasta quickly, tosses it in a strainer, then moves it off the heat before returning to my side. The entire sequence is efficient and controlled—no wasted movements. Even a bit graceful, if I’m honest.
“How bad does it hurt?” he asks, turning off the faucet. Water drips from my hand, giving way to returning fire.
“Bad enough,” I admit, and my voice sounds small. My legs feel shaky—from the burn, from the closeness of his body next to mine, from the mingled scents of wine sauce and soap.
Luciano rummages in a nearby drawer and pulls out a first-aid kit I didn’t know existed. He sets it on the counter, opens it, and rummages through gauze, ointments, and wraps. His expression is grim, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his dark brows furrowed in concentration. “Let me see it.”
His voice is firm, without the mocking lilt I’m used to. Nervously, I lift my hand, trying to keep it steady despite the tremors running through my arm. The burn is angry and raw, and my skin is bright red and is already beginning to swell. Small blisters dot near the center of my palm like tiny, painful pearls. The edges look inflamed, an even deeper crimson that spreads outward in uneven patches, and the sight of it makes tears prick my eyes again.
“Shit,” he exhales. “You really did a number on yourself.” He doesn’t wait for permission; he dabs antiseptic with excruciating delicacy, like he’s done this a hundred times. Maybe he has. My breath catches at the sting, but the cool relief is almost welcome after the scorching pain of the skillet.
The gentleness of Luciano’s touch startles me. He smears burn cream onto my palm, the thick ointment soothing in a way that almost makes me want to cry. “You should’ve told me right away,” he mutters. His voice is tight with something that sounds like anger, but it’s not directed at me, I realize. “Burns can get infected. They need proper care.”
I swallow hard, my throat tight with confusion. Why is he being so gentle? This man who’s threatened to use me as an instrument for his twisted idea of revenge, who speaks of ruining me with cold certainty. This man who forced me to suck his cock just a few days ago, leaving me feeling used and hollow. This man who’s held me and then pushed me away in almost the same breath, as if he can’t decide whether to cherish or destroy me. His contradictions make my head spin and leave me dizzy with uncertainty about what he truly wants from me.
“I don’t want to bother you,” I manage lamely.
Luciano glances up, dark eyes flashing. “Don’t be stupid, Gianna. I know about burns.” His gaze flicks to his chest for the barest second, and my heart lurches. “You tell me next time, understand?”
I nod, swallowing past a lump in my throat. Before I can respond, he starts wrapping my hand in gauze, each movement precise and slow. I stand there, helpless, my breath catching every time his fingers brush my skin. This is too intimate. It reminds me of a dream I might’ve had in some other life, where a man cares about my well-being without agenda or violence.
My mind drifts to the fish waiting on the stove. I probably ruined dinner. “I messed up,” I frown. “Dinner...”
He cuts off a piece of gauze and secures the bandage with a small strip of medical tape. “It’s just fish,” he says gruffly. “It’s not worth worrying about.”
Luciano’s hand remains on mine, thumb ghosting over the bandage as though ensuring it’s tight but not constricting. A hush settles between us, and we’re both still, our bodies too close. The heat in his gaze is different from the kind that sears me in lust or anger. This is gentler, deeper, something I’m not prepared for.
“I…” I start, not sure what I’m even trying to say. An apology? A thank-you? My heart stutters and my eyes flick to his mouth, which is parted slightly as though he’s about to speak. Is he going to tell me to get out of his sight again?
But he doesn’t move away. Instead, his gaze drifts over my face, lingering on my cheeks and lips. A strange longing thrums in my chest, an ache that isn’t from the burn but from the terrifying need to be touched by him.
I find myself thinking, Is he going to kiss me? The question is a lightning bolt in my mind, crackling through every nerve ending until my skin tingles with anticipation, and before I can muster enough sense to pull away, he does.
It’s not a brutal, punishing kiss like I might have imagined. It’s soft, tentative, laced with the same warmth that tinted his touch as he bandaged my hand. His lips brush mine like he’s asking a question, not demanding an answer. My thoughts go static, dissolving into white noise that drowns out everything but the sensation of his closeness. I let out a small sound of surprise, something between a gasp and a sigh, my half-lidded eyes fluttering shut as the world narrows to this single moment.
The slow press of Luciano’s mouth sends warmth flooding through my body. It’s nothing like the scorching heat of the skillet. This burn is sweeter , a curling ache in my stomach that makes my knees weak. I don’t even realize I’m leaning into him until I feel his free hand curve around my uninjured wrist, gently steadying me.
For a heartbeat, we just stay there, suspended in this impossible stillness. The kiss deepens a fraction—enough for him to taste my breath, for me to taste his. Then he pulls back, breaking the moment with a ragged exhale. Our eyes lock in a silent exchange of disbelief. What did we just do?
Luciano clears his throat, the tips of his ears reddening, and I see the conflict raging behind his eyes. “Sit,” he says quietly. “At the table.” The words are gentle, but they’re definitely an order.
My heart hammers in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like distant thunder. He’s pulling away, shutting down the closeness, yet not snapping or barking as usual. He nods toward the dining area. “Go. I’ll finish up dinner. I can salvage it.”
Numbly, I let him guide me out of the kitchen, one hand lightly brushing my elbow as if ensuring I don’t trip. The affectionate gesture is so bizarre that I almost flinch, but I catch myself, forcing my muscles to stay relaxed. I move to the table and sink into a chair, my bandaged hand cradled in my lap like a wounded bird.
From my seat, I watch Luciano fuss with the stove, turning down the sauce and checking the fish with a critical eye. He’s no culinary genius, but he’s determined, and that near-frown on his face reveals how seriously he’s taking this. He’s always so serious.
My palm still hurts, but the memory of his lips on mine is a bigger distraction. I replay it endlessly, the tender press, the gentle inhalation of breath like he was afraid to take more than I would give. I shouldn’t want that again. He’s used me, belittled me, made me a captive in his house. Yet, for those few seconds, none of that existed. We were just two people, overwhelmed by the moment.
My feelings are more complicated than I thought. I don’t know if I can define them as attraction or pity or something more toxic. All I know is that I felt a flicker of warmth and safety when I was in the arms of a man who told me he wants to ruin me. And that contradiction rips through my chest until I’m half convinced I’m going mad.
Luciano stirs the sauce, glancing at me sidelong. Our eyes meet, and for once, neither of us looks away immediately. The tension is still there, but the anger has receded. A new tension has taken its place, something uncertain and throbbing with possibility.
“Don’t think this changes anything,” he says, but his voice is soft and lacking its usual bite.
“Of course,” I murmur, not sure if I believe him or if I want to. My bandaged hand pulses dully, yet I feel oddly comforted—like a line has been crossed, and we can’t retreat back to where we were. Not entirely.
We fall quiet again, him focusing on the fish, me wrestling with thoughts I can’t verbalize. The kitchen smells of wine, herbs, garlic, and the sharp tang of lemon mingling in the steam. A normal scene; if only anything else about us was normal. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence between us, and I find myself watching the way his hands move.
Eventually, he plates the fish and pasta, setting them down in front of me with more care than he’s ever shown before. I look up at him, struggling to keep my face neutral, and the swirl of gratitude and confusion shows in my expression.
“Eat,” Luciano says finally, sinking into the chair across from me.
I pick up my fork with my uninjured hand and take a bite. The fish is slightly overcooked on one edge, and the sauce is a bit thick, but it doesn’t matter. It’s edible.
He watches me as if trying to understand each shift in my body language. I watch him back, remembering the brush of his lips and the tenderness that felt like an entirely different language than the one we usually speak. I find myself studying the way his shoulders tense slightly whenever I lift my fork to take another bite.
Maybe it changes nothing. But as I chew, conscious of the bandage on my hand and the heat still lingering on my mouth, I realize I want it to change something . Because, for the first time since I arrived here, I see a glimmer of the man he might be without all the rage and revenge. And that glimmer—that fleeting moment of genuine care—threatens to unravel every careful defense I’ve built.