23. Luciano
Chapter 23
Luciano
T he air in Santoro’s tailor shop smells like wool and money. It’s the kind of place that offers complimentary whiskey in cut-glass tumblers while a man with a pin cushion strapped to his wrist flutters around you, fussing with fabric and murmuring about sleeve length. I’ve always hated it here. But there’s no avoiding it. Not when I’m about to be married in front of half the Midwest mafia network.
My brothers are inside, leaning against a mahogany counter cluttered with swatches of cloth and measuring tapes that have measured more made men than I care to count. Niccolo’s rummaging through a tray of gold and silver cufflinks like a kid in a candy store, Dante is sipping whiskey with a bored look on his face that says he’d rather be anywhere else, and Salvatore is chattering at the tailor, trying to barter down an already exorbitant price with the same smooth talk he uses to negotiate territory deals. Some things never change—put the four of us in a room together, and we fall into our usual roles.
I pause at the threshold for a moment, letting the sight sink in: the Terlizzi brothers, fully at ease in a place that used to make us all squirm as kids, back when our father would drag us here for Sunday best and First Communion suits. We’re adults now—monsters, kings, husbands.
“About time,” Niccolo calls, pushing off the counter with a grin that hasn’t changed since we were teenagers stealing cigarettes behind St. Thomas More’s. “We were about to start without you.”
Salvatore raises his glass of whiskey in a mocking salute. “Don’t worry, Luc. We left you a double. Couldn’t let the groom suffer through these fittings without proper lubrication.”
Groom . The word sets my teeth on edge. Guilt and annoyance flare in my gut, but I smother both. I nod in greeting and step into the shop. The tailor, in a crisp white shirt, bustles over. “Signore Luciano,” he says in a syrupy tone, “so good to see you. We have your final tux—let me show you.”
He beckons me deeper into Santoro’s, where a row of polished mirrors stands like an inescapable tribunal. “Whiskey first,” I grunt, casting a glance at the tumbler on the side table. Salvatore smirks. He thinks I’m stalling.
I grab the glass and inhale the faint burn of an aged label the tailor probably can’t pronounce. The shop hums with quiet luxury: the muted conversation of employees, the shuffle of cloth sliding across marble floors, the soft whir of a distant sewing machine. A seamstress sings quietly under her breath as she checks the stitching on a black vest, her fingers moving precisely over the fabric. It sets my teeth on edge because inside, I’m anything but calm.
Niccolo comes up beside me, sipping his own drink with a wry smile. He’s the one who’s been through this wedding fiasco most recently—marrying Christine Lucatello when all hell broke loose in the process. We beat the shit out of Giovanni and Marco that night. “Ready to join the club?” He teases, clinking his glass against mine. “You don’t look too excited.”
I take a sip. The whiskey slides down my throat, promising to take the edge off. “Just get this over with,” I mutter, forcing a half-smirk that feels more like a grimace. “Unlike you, I didn’t plan to jump into holy matrimony.”
Niccolo barks a laugh. “I didn’t plan it either, but I wanted it. I wanted her.” His voice softens on the last words, and there’s no mistaking the genuine affection there.
His easy grin irritates me. He married Christine under complicated circumstances, and now he’s happy, so maybe I can be, too. But it’s not that simple. There’s tension in my chest whenever I think of Gianna, a constant weight that makes it hard to breathe. I swallow more whiskey, ignoring the sour churn in my stomach and the voice in my head telling me this is all wrong. The amber liquid doesn’t wash away my doubts, but at least it dulls them.
Dante lounges on a nearby settee, swirling the liquid in his glass with a critical eye. “If you can put up with a fitting,” he drawls, “you can put up with a wedding.” He drags his gaze over my shoulder, meeting my eyes in a steady, assessing way. “Though I’ll be honest—I’m a bit surprised you said yes to all the frills.”
“Saverio wanted a spectacle,” I reply flatly. “We’ll give him a spectacle.”
Salvatore rolls his eyes, abandoning his conversation with the tailor. “Spectacle, indeed. Another Terlizzi wedding. The last one ended in blood. Giovanni’s, not ours.” The unspoken truth: the ending of the last wedding was probably the beginning of this one. “Yours ended with a bullet or two, right?” Salvatore turns his attention to our oldest brother.
Dante shrugs, taking a long swig of whiskey that empties half the crystal tumbler. “Something like that.” His voice lowers, and a faint grin plays on his lips—he’s never minded the chaos. “But your wedding should be calmer. Not that Niccolo’s was peaceful either,” he adds, side-eyeing Niccolo.
“I’m a real cautionary tale.”
Salvatore picks at the sleeve of his tailored jacket, fidgeting with a loose thread the tailor missed. “At least I’m free.” He makes a production of stretching his arms overhead, joints cracking dramatically. “Another one bites the dust.”
I finish my whiskey and clench my jaw, ignoring the jab. The tailor returns, arms laden with black fabric, stepping behind me and guiding it over my shoulders. He murmurs, “Arms up, signore,” and I comply automatically, slipping into the fitted jacket. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, but all I can see are the lines of my face etched with worry, the memory of Gianna pressed against me, whispering, I’m not going anywhere.
It’s been four days. She’s more compliant than ever, almost docile in her movements around the house. She doesn’t flinch when I touch her and doesn’t tense up like she used to. She lets me hold her at night. She cooks my favorite dishes without being asked, seasoning everything exactly the way I like it. She kisses me back with a gentleness that threatens to undo every defense I have. On paper, it’s perfect; it’s everything I wanted.
But something’s off. I don’t have proof, but it gnaws at me like a dog with a bone.
Salvatore notices my distraction, crossing the room with his usual swagger to clap a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You look pale, Luc. You got wedding day jitters? You’re white as a ghost.”
I shrug his hand off with more force than necessary, giving him a short glare before focusing on the elderly tailor, who’s tugging and fussing at my collar like an anxious bird. “I’m fine,” I lie through clenched teeth. “Keep your hand off my new jacket. You’ll wrinkle it.”
He smirks, unoffended by my sharp edges. “Nerves, man. It’s normal. Every groom hates these final fittings. Or so I’ve heard; I’ve never had to go through one myself. Next time, we’ll bet on which of us tries to bolt first. My money’s on you.”
Niccolo laughs from his perch on a leather armchair. “I’ll throw in a hundred if Dante drags him to the altar by force.”
Dante arches an eyebrow from where he’s lounging. “You’re all so sure it’s just cold feet.”
My throat constricts. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s all. Maybe I’m just paranoid. But I can’t shake the pit in my stomach. “There was, uh, we had an incident,” I say carefully, stepping off the tailor’s dais to snag another glass of whiskey from a side table. The tailor fusses, but I ignore him. “With Gianna. A few nights ago.”
All three of them go still, the banter falling by the wayside. They know how we grew up, how any mention of an incident usually means violence or chaos. Dante’s gaze sharpens to a predatory focus. Niccolo sets down his glass with deliberate care. Salvatore stops fiddling with a measuring tape he nicked from the tailor’s back pocket.
“I edged her a little bit,” I say, words clipped. “It was a game between us.” A game I was playing, and she was forced to endure. “She cried. I apologized when I realized what I’d done, and I thought that was the end of it. Hoped it was, anyway.”
Dante exhales through his nose, a sound of relief. “You feel guilty now.” His voice is oddly soft. “But that doesn’t mean anything’s actually wrong, Luc.”
Niccolo nods, running his finger along the rim of his glass. “You’re marrying a Lucatello. They never make things simple. Christine kept me on my toes for months. Had me second-guessing every decision.”
Salvatore offers a half-smile, raising his glass in a lazy salute. “You sure it’s not just that final stretch panic? You’re giving up your freedom, signing your life away to join families with Giovanni’s last daughter? Everyone gets cold feet—hell, I’d probably be halfway to Canada by now if I were you.”
I stare into the whiskey glass. The groom’s jitters—that’s what everyone would say. The difficulty of bridging two enemy families. The mess of our history. All logical reasons to be uneasy. But logic doesn’t quell the gnawing sense that Gianna’s eyes hold secrets. That her kisses taste too much like a farewell. Like she’s already halfway gone, even when she’s in my arms.
I down the second glass of whiskey in one swallow, the burn scorching my throat. “Maybe,” I murmur, voice hollow. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
But it doesn’t feel like nothing. It feels like watching a horizon darken before a storm. A sense that I’m on the verge of losing something I’ve barely begun to call mine.
Salvatore waves the tailor back over, urging him to let me finish my fitting. “It’s all in your head.”
I nod absently, stepping back onto the polished wooden dais. The tailor fusses with the jacket’s collar, tugs at the lapels, and pins the waist, his weathered fingers working quickly. I keep my arms extended and my posture rigid as my mind swirls with thoughts I can’t seem to shake. Dante tries to drag Niccolo into a new argument over which brand of cufflinks best matches the family crest—platinum versus white gold, modern versus traditional—and Salvatore dives in with sarcastic commentary about their shared inability to dress themselves. Their voices blend into a hazy symphony of sibling banter.
I’m only half-listening, my mind caught in an endless loop of doubt and suspicion. If I told them I suspect Gianna is playing me—if I told them that I sense she might be planning something—would they laugh? Would they believe me? Or would they shrug and say, “You’re just scared, Luc. It’s normal,” dismissing my concerns like they’ve dismissed so many others before?
In the mirror, I catch my reflection: a well-dressed groom who should be happy . The tailored suit fits perfectly, and every crease and fold is precisely where it should be. On the outside, I look in control, composed, and ready. Inside, worry festers like an old wound, invisible to everyone but me.
Niccolo sidles up, tapping the mirror with his knuckles to get my attention. “You okay?” He asks quietly, keeping his voice low enough that the others won’t hear.
I force a small, reassuring smile. “I’m perfect.”
He studies me a second longer, then sighs, patting my shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” he mutters. “Trust me. I had doubts, too, but it all worked out.” Then he rejoins Salvatore.
I remain on the dais, letting the tailor circle me. My gut churns. For all my brothers’ talk, for all their reassurance, I can’t shake the feeling that Gianna is slipping through my fingers. Each day, she smiles more readily, kisses me softer, drapes herself over my lap like she was born to be there. And it scares the hell out of me.
Because if I were planning to betray someone, this is exactly how I’d act. And then, when they were most vulnerable, I’d stick a knife in their chest while they slept. It’s what any smart enemy would do, and Gianna is nothing if not clever.
The tailor announces he’s finished marking adjustments, beckoning me to remove the jacket. I shrug it off, handing it over absently. My brothers are back to mocking each other, sipping whiskey, and discussing the post-reception bash. They think everything’s normal. They think I’m just jumpy because I’m marrying Giovanni Lucatello’s daughter.
But my pulse thuds an uneasy drumbeat in my ears. I try to breathe, try to let logic calm me, but the tension in my chest only grows. Gianna’s words echo in my head: I’m not going anywhere.
So why do I feel like she’s already gone?
I linger by the door after Salvatore, Niccolo, and Dante move to the register to settle final costs. They’re still bantering, still comfortable. I should join them, but something about the quiet stretch of the tailor shop corridor beckons me. For a moment, I stand there, ignoring the shop’s opulent decor and the heady swirl of cologne. My phone buzzes in my pocket—just a message from an associate confirming a meeting time for tomorrow. I silence it.
Gianna is lying to me. The idea knots my stomach. I can’t be sure. Maybe she’s genuine, maybe she finally understands me, maybe she finally accepts our fate. Or maybe I’m just paranoid.
Niccolo laughs at one of Salvatore’s jokes, the sound cutting through my thoughts. In a minute, I’ll join them, pay for my tux, and pretend that everything’s fine.
But deep in my gut, a cold certainty coils: Everything is not fine.
I can’t shake it. The sense that beneath Gianna’s newfound compliance, beneath her soft smiles and tender kisses, lurks a secret. And one night soon, I’ll go to bed believing she’s safe in my arms—only to wake up and find that I’m bleeding out.
The wedding is less than two weeks away now. I’ll watch her more closely, track her movements, memorize her daily patterns. I’ll lock every door if I have to, double-check the windows, maybe even hire a security guard. She said she wasn’t going anywhere, but I can’t take any chances. Not when we’re this close to making it official, not when there’s a chance that she could be my happily ever after, after all.