30. Skye
30
SKYE
T he boutique feels hollow without his presence lingering in the corners. I adjust a silk blouse on a mannequin, remembering how Luca's ice-blue eyes would track my movements as I arranged displays. My fingers smooth over the delicate fabric, but the satisfaction of a perfect presentation is missing.
"That shade would suit you." A customer's voice breaks through my thoughts.
I paste on my professional smile, the one that's carried me through these past weeks. "The emerald brings out warm undertones in any complexion." The words flow automatically, but my mind drifts to Luca's subtle nod of approval when I'd wear something he liked.
After the customer leaves, I settle behind the counter to review inventory sheets. Numbers blur together as I recall discovering the truth in grainy security footage - Luca orchestrating the "attack" that drove me into his home. The manipulation burns, yet I miss the weight of his gaze, the mint on his breath when he'd lean close, the way his presence filled every room.
My phone buzzes with texts from Jazz asking about drinks tonight. I consider it, weighing my options. I've been avoiding being home alone too much, and I think they know back.
My apartment is safe. Comfortable. Empty. Each night I curl up on my designer couch, wrapped in cashmere that costs more than most people's rent, and try to convince myself this space is enough. But the silence echoes with memories of his controlled voice, the rare moments his composure would crack when I'd tease him, the way he'd watch me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.
I run my fingertips over the nose stud he used to trace with his thumb, remembering how even that small touch felt charged with intensity. The worst part isn't missing his presence - it's missing the version of myself who came alive under his attention.
Knowing I need to get out of my head, I text Jazz back, agreeing to join them at the Vault. Maybe booze can numb what nothing else can.
The bell chimes again and Maria's tall frame glides through the door, her brown curls bouncing with each step. Her presence has become as regular as inventory counts, and I'm grateful for it.
"Brought you a latte." She sets the cup beside my paperwork, her warm eyes scanning my face.
I take a sip, letting the familiar routine wash over me. "You don't have to keep checking on me."
"Who said I'm checking?" Maria perches on the counter, her designer boots swinging. "Maybe I just like the company. Plus, someone needs to tell you how my emotionally stunted cousin spent an hour yesterday staring at that vintage Chanel dress in your window display."
My hand stills on the inventory sheet. "Maria-"
"I know, I know. Space." She holds up her hands. "But you should see him, Skye. He's actually talking to people now. Like, full sentences about feelings and shit. He really misses you, and I know he wants to be better. He apologized to Mickey yesterday and the poor guy nearly killed over."
The image of Luca - cool, controlled Luca - stumbling through an apology almost makes me smile. Almost.
"He's trying," Maria continues, her voice softening. "You know how he is - everything's a strategy, a chess move. But he's learning there's a difference between protecting someone and controlling them."
I trace the rim of my coffee cup. "He orchestrated an attack on my business, Maria. He manipulated me into his bed."
"Into his life," she corrects. "The bed was all you, honey. And yeah, he fucked up. But you're the first person who's made him realize that perfect control isn't the answer to everything."
I remember how his composure would crack when I'd challenge him, those rare moments when real emotion would flash through his ice-blue eyes. "He needs to figure himself out first."
"Maybe." Maria slides off the counter. "But just so you know - he's donated to three different trauma recovery centers this month. Anonymous, of course. Baby steps, right?"
The bass from The Vault's speakers thrums through my bones as I watch Jazz move through the VIP section. Even off-duty, she commands attention, her curls bouncing as she delivers another round of drinks to our table.
"Alright, spill." Kendra's manicured finger taps the table. "You've been staring at that whiskey like it holds the secrets of the universe."
Mikayla leans forward, her sweet face pinched with concern. "Is it about the boutique? Has there been more trouble?"
Jazz slides into the booth beside me, her deep brown eyes knowing. "It's about him."
"The ice prince himself." Kendra whistles. "Girl, that man is fine as hell but watching him gives me chills. No offense."
I trace the rim of my glass. "He's not what everyone thinks."
"No?" Jazz's voice carries an edge of understanding that makes me look up. "Let me guess - he showed you glimpses of something real beneath all that control. Made you feel special because you could crack that perfect facade."
"Speaking from experience?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
Jazz's full lips curve into a sad smile. "Different man, same story. Though mine was more obvious about his demons." She takes a long sip of her drink. "Here's what I learned the hard way - loving someone dangerous isn't the problem. It's letting them think their world gives them the right to play games with yours."
"Preach." Kendra raises her glass.
"But Jazz and Nerio are happy," Mikayla offers softly. "If you miss Luca, maybe you should talk to him."
Jazz nods slowly. "I know what he did didn't make a lot of sense to you, but it did to him. Everything made sense until you came along and did what you do best - challenged him. Made him question things he took for granted." She turns to me. "The question is: can you forgive the manipulation to see if what's growing beneath it is real?"
The truth in her words hits harder than the whiskey burning my throat. "I miss him," I admit. "The real him. The one who'd let his guard down when we were alone."
"Then maybe it's time to stop punishing both of you," Jazz says. "Make him earn your trust back, sure. But don't throw away something real just because the beginning was built on lies."
The energy in The Vault shifts like a current through water. The hair on my arms rises before I even process why. My body knows he's here - it's always known him.
I turn and the sight of Luca cuts through the manufactured haze of club lights and whiskey. He stands at the VIP entrance, a dark figure carved from marble and shadow. His presence draws attention like a blade draws blood - sharp, inevitable, dangerous. The perfect cut of his suit can't hide the predator beneath. Those ice-blue eyes lock onto mine across the space between us, and for the first time, I see cracks in his mask.
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath skin that seems paler than I remember. Dark circles shadow his eyes, barely noticeable to anyone who hasn't spent hours memorizing his face. His hands - those elegant, lethal hands - flex once before settling into forced stillness at his sides.
The Rolex on his wrist catches the strobing lights, and I remember how he used to check it compulsively when anxious, the only tell in his perfect composure. He's checking it now, a quick glance down that speaks volumes.
Even with the obvious strain, he's magnificent. Powerful. But it's the subtle signs of struggle that steal my breath - the way his shoulders carry tension instead of their usual fluid grace, how his eyes hold something raw beneath their usual frost. He's fighting himself, fighting his nature, and the evidence of that battle makes him more beautiful than any amount of perfect control ever did.
The crowd parts around him instinctively as he takes a step forward. Not from fear - though there's always fear when it comes to Luca Mantione - but from the sheer gravitational pull of his presence. He's always been a force of nature dressed in Italian wool and carefully constructed walls.
But now, watching him, I see those walls cracking. And what bleeds through isn't weakness - it's humanity.
Jazz's hand squeezes my arm. "You good?"
I barely hear her. The club fades to background noise, leaving only Luca in sharp focus. His presence pulls at something deep in my chest, an ache I've tried to ignore these past weeks.
He takes another step forward, then stops. The slight tilt of his head betrays his internal battle - the predator wanting to claim versus the man learning restraint. His fingers brush that silver Rolex again, a tell that makes my heart clench. Even now, he's fighting his nature for me.
He is trying, letting vulnerability bleed through his careful control. The shadows under his eyes speak of sleepless nights. The slight dishevel of his perfect suit tells stories of restless pacing. Even the way he holds himself - taut as a bowstring - screams of barely contained emotion.
Jazz is right. I have to decide if I'm willing to forgive him. I either need to talk to him or cut us both free.
As if coming to his own conclusion, he turns away, each movement precise and measured. But I catch the tremor in his hands, the way his shoulders carry defeat instead of their usual deadly grace. He's giving me what I asked for - space, choice, freedom from his manipulations.
And watching him walk away, I realize I don't want any of it.
My legs move before conscious thought kicks in. The whiskey burns forgotten on the table as I stand, drawn toward him like gravity finally winning a long fight. Because that's what this has always been - an inevitable pull between two forces that were meant to collide.
"Skye," Jazz calls after me, but her voice sounds distant.
Luca heads for the door, not seeing me yet. In the strobing lights, his profile could have been carved from marble - beautiful, cold, untouchable. But I've felt the heat beneath that frost. I've tasted the mint on his breath, traced the scars on his torso, witnessed the moments when control slipped and something raw blazed through.
And I'm done pretending I don't need all of him - the monster and the man, the manipulation and the truth, the perfect facade and the beautiful cracks beneath.