Chapter 5
Ava
I didn’t even know Vito had a son until the year after he murdered my mother. I met him one afternoon when I got home from school.
Vito was in rare form, grinning like I’d never seen before, proud as he introduced his boy—Luciano. He was beautiful in that cold, dangerous way. All sharp lines and quiet intensity. Green eyes that didn’t blink much. He didn’t say a word. Just nodded once, like that was enough. There were bloodstains on his sleeves—not the smeared kind from a fight, but streaks, like he’d wiped his hands clean and kept going. I’d seen violent men before. But it didn’t look natural on him. There was something different in his eyes. Something detached. That made me curious—about him, about the blood on his sleeve, about where he’d been, about why he looked like he needed a hug. And when his eyes locked on mine, he didn’t just look at me. He was dissecting me. And I let him. His mouth twitched into some version of a smirk that made the hair on my arms rise. From the corner of my eye, I saw Vito shift. His posture stiffened. Then his hand clamped down on Luciano’s arm, too tight to be casual. “Come on,” he said low. Luciano didn’t argue. He let himself be pulled away. But his eyes stayed on me until the hallway swallowed them whole.
Later, I pieced together what I know now from the housekeeper and some of Vito’s staff. Apparently, Luciano and his mother had been kidnapped by a rival family after Vito killed their boss’s son. They locked Luciano and his mother in a room for days, forcing Luciano to watch as they did unspeakable things to his mother. Eventually, her body gave out. When they were done, they dumped Luciano at Vito’s doorstep. He was never the same after that. He was "touched," as the chef put it. They sent him to his grandmother in Sicily to "fix" him, but you can’t fix what’s already broken. Ten years later, after his exile, Vito brought him back to groom him to be his successor.
After that day, Luciano and I existed in the same spaces, passed each other in the hallways of the house, breathed the same air in a world thick with violence, whispered secrets, and dirty money. But we never talked or touched. Not until Tommy Dorn’s nose met my fist.
That day stayed with me for years, stitched into my skin like a tattoo. Tommy was the kind of boy who thought the world was his for the taking. St. Augustine’s was full of them—spoiled, rich, untouchable. Vito said he had sent me there hoping it would refine me. That was ironic. Vito didn’t care about refinement. He cared about my silence. The campus locked down most of the school day. Filled with students who hated me for being different and a strict routine that kept me under his thumb. After school, I was in his home, where he could watch me.
Tommy was a bully who paid way too much attention to the way my uniform skirt clung to my hips. My mother’s curves had settled beautifully into my frame. And Tommy noticed. He was never shy about it—telling me all the nasty, vile things he would do to me if he got me alone. He didn’t hide it either. His voice would follow me down the hallways, loud and vulgar for anyone to hear.
I was too strong to be bothered. Until the day his hand slid too far up my skirt. I swung. Hard as I could. The crack of his nose breaking sounded brutal. His blood splattered against the pristine floor. Tommy went down hard, clutching his face, howling. He talked a big game, but I found out he was pussy.
His parents were big donors with names that carried weight. They showed up at school within an hour of it happening and wanted me gone. Expelled. Erased. They didn’t know who Vito was.
I expected Vito to handle it when they called him. To smooth it over. But it wasn’t Vito who came to school that day. It was Luciano. He walked into that dean’s office like the air itself owed him something. He didn’t knock. There were no introductions. Just pure presence. He was wearing his usual slack shirt. Hard jaw and cold eyes. Tommy sat there, bandaged up, but looking smug. His parents on either side of him, already convinced justice would be served in their favor.
Luciano moved fast. Grabbed Tommy by the collar and yanked him clean out of his chair. Then the blows started. Blow after blow landed. It was violence that was meant to be felt. The room erupted—Tommy’s mother was screaming, the dean shouting—but nobody moved to stop Luciano. Because they understood. He wasn’t just some kid throwing punches. He was somebody dangerous. He didn’t just beat Tommy. He made the boy pray to him. Made him beg. And I stood there, watching. Fascinated. I should have felt horror. Revulsion. But I didn’t. I felt power radiating off of him and I basked in it.
Luciano landed one final blow, then stood. Adjusted his clothes. Rolled down his sleeves. His breathing was steady—like he hadn’t just painted the room with someone else’s blood. His gaze flicked to me. He didn’t say a word. Just held out his hand. I took it. He led me out. Past the stunned faces. Past the whispers. His car was waiting at the curb. He opened the door for me.
The leather was cold against my skin. He didn’t talk. Just drove. Keeping bruised knuckles on the wheel. And for once since the night my momma died, my mind was quiet. Not racing. Not spiraling with anxious thoughts. Just still. And I wondered why.
We pulled up to an ice cream shop. An older lady with brown skin and gray hair greeted us. He told me to get whatever I wanted. I didn’t even like ice cream. But I ordered butter pecan anyway. Then I sat there, pushing it around, watching it melt, waiting for him to tell me why I was there, with him. I wanted to ask but couldn’t find the words.
Luciano watched me. Then, without a word, he reached over, took the spoon from my hand, and tossed it and the ice cream in the trash.
Outside, the sun hung low, stretching long shadows across the pavement. I don’t know why I did it—maybe it was the way he had my back, or maybe I just thought we both needed it. The human contact. I turned and wrapped myself around him.
He stiffened. Like the touch caught him off guard. I had heard he didn’t like to be touched. I almost pulled away. But before I did, just for a second, his hand rested lightly on my back.
“Thank you,” I whispered against his chest. He didn’t answer. When I pulled back, his eyes were on me. And there was something behind them. Not pity. Not kindness. Something else. Something that made my ribs feel like they were being squeezed.
The drive back was silent. When we pulled up to my house, I reached for the door, but his voice stopped me. “I have to go away for a while. But no one will ever hurt you again.” He promised. I watched him drive off, leaving me standing there, the taste of sugar still lingering on my tongue.
Six months later, I turned eighteen. And I ran. That was the last real interaction we had. Until today.
I shook myself from the memory as Luciano waited for me to take his hand. “If I don’t come, then what?” I asked, but I already knew. A sinking feeling coiled tight in my gut. “Trouble,” he answered simply.