Chapter 8
Luciano
In my room, I laid her down on the bed. She was still unconscious, her breathing even though. I sat beside her for a moment. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d been watching her for years, flying to California when I had a chance, making sure she was safe and protected like I’d promised her.
I watched her from a distance as she built her business, as she laughed with her cousin Dewanda, as she moved through the world with a quiet strength that captivated me.
She never noticed me, even when I was right there. Once, she’d looked right at me through her, while I stood at her bedroom window. I memorized every detail about her. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way her lips curved into a smile when she found something amusing. Her scent, her likes, her wants, her needs.
She was mine long before she knew it.
Her father’s family had done their best to shield her, to teach her how to survive. But that was for me to do now.
She belonged to me.
I had to pull myself away from her side when a wave of dizziness washed over me. The pain in my shoulder had started to throb. I stood, peeling off my blood-soaked shirt. The wound was still bleeding, but it was clean—a straight shot through.
Nothing I couldn’t handle.
In the bathroom, I cleaned it and stitched it up myself. It was just another scar.
Once I finished, I changed into a clean shirt and returned to her side. She shifted slightly in her sleep, her body tense even now, as if she could sense me watching.
I had waited years for her. I could wait a little longer.
When she finally woke, her eyes opened slowly, blinking in the dark. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered, her voice weak but filled with anger.
“I don’t know. It’s just something I need.”
“It’s because you’re evil like your fucking daddy,” she spat, glaring at me.
I leaned closer, my voice low. “I know.” I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. She flinched but didn’t pull away. “And I’m sorry.” I couldn’t help what I was.
Confusion flashed in her eyes. “Sorry?” “You don’t even know what that word means, do you?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a word meant to express regret. A recognition of the pain you’ve caused and, in most cases, a desire to make amends. It’s supposed to be a bridge back to understanding, a way to make the other person feel seen in their suffering.”
Ava’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. “And that’s what you’re doing? Trying to build a bridge?” she asked.
“No,” I said simply.
Her brow furrowed. “Then why even say it?”
“Because it’s a platitude that most people appreciate. And I understand that you need to hear it.”
Her expression wavered between confusion and anger, as if she couldn’t decide whether to scream at me or break down. “So, you’re just saying it because you think it’s what I want to hear?”
“Yes,” I replied, my tone sounding clinical to my own ears. “Because it aligns with the psychological comfort most people seek. I could tell you that I’m pleased to have you here, but it would likely make you even more hostile toward me. So I say I’m sorry instead.”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes narrowing with confusion. “What?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. It’s a temporary concession—a placeholder for something more tangible than words. Once we’re married, I can provide other forms of compensation for your discomfort. Protection, financial security, physical gratification, and a semblance of the autonomy you seem to crave.”
She tilted her head, eyes dragging over my face. “And if I don’t want any of it?”
“We will be married regardless. Your acceptance is not a prerequisite for my pursuit. It simply alters the trajectory of how this unfolds.”
“Why are you speaking like that?” she asked.
I tilted my head slightly, studying her face. “How would you prefer me to speak?” I asked calmly. “I don’t talk often, Ava. You’re educated, well-read. I’m trying to make myself as intelligible as possible. Is there someone you’d prefer I emulate? Like my father, perhaps? Less formal?”
She just stared, as if she were trying to figure out whether I was mocking her or being sincere. I wasn’t doing either. I was merely trying to find the right language, the right approach to make her understand. I took her silence as a sign to repeat myself, but less formal.
“Fine,” I continued, my voice lower, rougher. “Let me put it another way. I can offer you protection. I can offer you money—enough to have anything you want, you’ll never need for anything. And pleasure. I’ll keep you pinned beneath me, your legs spread, your back arched, filled with me until you crave me.”
She squirmed, trying to shift her body further from mine, but it only seemed to heighten her discomfort. Her chest rose and fell a bit faster, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress tighter. She looked trapped—no, caged—and I found the sight thrilling.
“You’re disgusting,” she hissed, but there was a noticeable tremble in her voice.
“Maybe,” I replied, unbothered. “But you like what I said. I know you find me attractive. Your pupils are dilated. You like the way I spoke to you. I will take note of that.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed.
“Oh, I will. When the time comes.”
She shook her head. “This is too much.”
“I can give you time to process. And sit quietly while you do.”
“Could you just leave?” she hissed.
“No,” I shook my head. “I don’t want to. I enjoy being in your company, no matter how hostile. And I’m not a man that does things he doesn’t want to do.”
“Why would you want someone here who hates you?”
“The hate will bind us,” I rebutted.
“What does that even mean?”
“Emotions like love and hate—they run on the same circuitry. They are produced by the same chemicals. But both tie people together. Eventually, you’ll confuse the two if I live up to my end of our bargain.”
Her jaw tightened, and she turned her face away, refusing to look at me. I could feel the anger radiating from her. I wasn’t bothered. She was frustrated with me, which was understandable.