Chapter 2
Luciano
The room was damp, dark, and windowless, the air thick with the stench of decay. My father called it La Stanza del Giudizio —the Room of Judgment. It was where men who crossed us came to die. This room had heard more confessions, pleas, and regrets than any cathedral in the city.
Tonight, the condemned man before me was Tomaso Greco, tied to an old rusted chair. He was a relic of a dying generation of mafiosi —older than my father, old enough to be my grandfather. Too old to kill. Death would be a mercy. A reward. I wanted him to live as long as possible.
He was the one who had ordered my mother’s death all those years ago. I had watched him and his men rape and beat her with my own eyes. They left me alive—a silent reminder to my father that he had failed to protect his own.
Naked, bloody, and exposed, Tomaso didn’t beg for his life. He just watched me, like he’d expected this moment all along. Like he knew it was coming. He probably did. Everyone else involved was already dead.
As soon as I returned to the States from exile, I began hunting them down, one by one. Before them, I had been a good boy—quiet, unassuming, showing no signs of being like my father. They never expected I’d turn out worse than him because of what they’d done to me.
Their biggest mistake had been leaving me alive.
It had taken years to find Tomaso. He was like a rat, scurrying through shadows. I hunted him across continents, using every contact my father had—every bribe, every threat—until finally… here he was.
There was no fear in his eyes, only resignation. It made the blood in my veins burn. I wanted to see the same terror in his eyes that I had seen in my mother’s. I would. Eventually.
Today was the third day I’d had him.
The first two days, I’d lost control—almost killed him. But then I remembered a comic book I’d read once. A Wolverine issue. He’d caught the man who killed his family, locked him away, beat him within an inch of his life… and then called a doctor. He kept the man alive, dragging out his punishment, letting him suffer in prolonged agony.
Death would’ve been too easy, too kind. Wolverine wanted him to feel every moment of the pain he had inflicted—to linger in it. To be consumed by it.
Today, I started slowly. Using my fists. Each punch landed heavy and wet, bruising skin, breaking ribs, splitting lips. White noise roared in my ears, drowning out my mother’s screams as I poured every ounce of rage I’d buried into him.
He groaned, but he didn’t beg. I might’ve been impressed—any other time.
When my body grew tired, I stepped back, breathing heavily, my knuckles slick with blood. I glanced at one of the guards and jerked my chin toward the door.
“Get the doctor,” I ordered.
The guard moved quickly, fetching the one I kept on standby.
As the doctor worked, I turned to the pristine white sink in the corner—so out of place in this room of filth. I let the warm water run over my hands, watching the blood swirl down the drain. Tomaso’s labored breathing and the doctor’s muttered curses filled the air.
I caught my reflection in the cracked mirror above the sink. Hollow eyes stared back.
Sometimes I wondered who I would have been if it hadn’t come to this. If I’d grown up in a world where my mother had lived. Where she hadn’t been taken by cruelty. Would I be capable of softness? Would I have dreams? Would I thrive outside this world of cold, focused violence?
I was still washing the blood from my hands when my father entered the room, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor. He glanced briefly at the crumpled, bleeding man in the chair, then shifted his gaze to me.
His indifference when it came to seeking vengeance against the men who killed his wife and stole his son's soul angered me. When the families negotiated a truce to stop a war, he agreed out of fear of retaliation. I did not. You can’t fear retaliation if the entire bloodline is gone. I made sure there was no one left to carry the names of the men involved, let alone seek revenge. It was a point of contention between us that I had bandaged over for the sake of peace, because he was the only parent I had, but it never stopped festering. One day, I knew that difference would matter more than blood. But not today.
“She didn’t show up,” he said, his voice gruff. “Ava. She’s at her mother’s house. Been there for hours. She’s going to run.”
Everything inside me went still. My heart dropped. I knew she wouldn’t just come—she had no reason to—but it still felt personal. Like she was rejecting me by not showing up.
My father watched me closely through the mirror, trying to read me.
“I’ll send someone for her,” he offered when I gave him nothing.
I shook my head immediately. “No. No one touches her but me. Warn everyone,” I said, my voice harder than I intended.
“I’ll get her myself.”
His eyes narrowed. “You sure about this?”
“Yes.”
I pushed past him and returned upstairs to my room. I stripped off my blood-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the scalding water burn over my skin. I scrubbed hard, washing away Tomaso’s blood, feeling the heat seep into my muscles. I wanted to be clean for her—at least physically.
I repeated the same strokes long after the water ran clear. I had to force myself to step out.
When I did, I went straight to the closet. Black shirts. Black pants. Black shoes. All identical. I picked one, then another, until finally settling on the right set.
I took my time dressing. Buttoning my shirt. Smoothing my hands down my chest. Adjusting the cuffs. Every detail mattered. Everything aligned. Precise. Perfect.
Before leaving, I paused in front of the mirror. Adjusted my glasses.
I thought about what Saint had said about Ava. You deserve her. After everything, you deserve to have something of your own.
I did.
And after everything she’d been through, she needed me. She didn’t know it yet—but she needed me. Even if she didn’t realize it at first. She needed someone who could see in the darkness. Someone who would burn the world down to keep her safe. Someone who understood what it meant to be shattered.
I had been watching Ava. Studying her for years. We fit.
She was too afraid to live, and I was too haunted live. We had both been shaped by the same thing—carved into what we were by the men who killed our mothers.
Ava thought she could run from this life. That she could pretend to be normal, build something clean, untouchable. But there was no leaving this world.
She belonged to it. Just like I did.
Blood in, never out.
I just needed to figure out how to get her to see things my way.
Leaning close, I traced the outline of my mouth with my tongue before attempting to speak. I blocked out the noise in my head and practiced greeting her.
“Hello, Ava. How are you doing, Ava? You look good, Ava,” I said slowly, my mouth shaping each syllable.
It felt strange. Foreign. I didn’t speak often anymore.
I repeated each phrase again and again, until my voice didn’t sound foreign to my own ears. Until my words came out as close to normal as they could.
I straightened, smoothing a hand over my shirt again. Making sure everything was perfect.
It was time.
I made my way downstairs. The house was quiet. The air dense. I suspected my father had told everyone to stay clear of me. He knew how anxious I was.
The front door swung open at my approach. I was met with two guards who led me to the awaiting car.
I stepped into the black SUV. Carlos, the driver, straightened as I slid into the backseat. I gave him a silent nod, then gestured to the four guards standing nearby.
Without a word, they got into two separate SUVs, ready to follow.
The convoy moved out. The driver didn’t need instructions. He already knew the destination. My father always instructed them.
I settled into the leather seat, my hands resting lightly on my knees. My expression blank, but my heart felt… strange.
What was this feeling?
I tried to chase it down, to put words to it—but I couldn’t.
Carlos cleared his throat, interrupting my thoughts. He stole a glance at me in the mirror before speaking.
“So… you ready for marriage, boss?” he asked casually.
I looked at him, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
“As ready as anyone can be for binding their life to someone else’s,” I replied evenly, watching as his eyes went wide.
He hadn’t expected me to answer.
I almost never did.
He went quiet after that.