Chapter 9
Ava
For six hours, he sat across from the bed I was in, not saying a single word, just staring at me. It was unnerving as hell. He was fucking nuts. I’d tried ignoring him, tried focusing on anything else, but the intensity of his stare made my skin feel too hot. I knew it was irrational, but he had me feeling as if he could see every thought I was trying to suppress, every ounce of fear I refused to show.
I finally broke the silence, unable to take it anymore.
“I’m usually good at getting myself out of bad situations,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to steady it. “My daddy taught me to face danger head-on and never show weakness. My momma taught me to be seen but not heard, to keep my emotions locked away.”
He didn’t move, didn’t even shift in his seat. He just kept staring, his expression unreadable. I kept talking, the words spilling out like I couldn’t stop them.
“I survived living with your father. I was filled with rage and sadness every damn day in this house, and not once did I flinch. I learned how to bury it all deep down, to smile when I needed to and stay silent when I had to. I never let it break me.”
My gaze flickered to his, and I felt my resolve waver.
“I can’t with you,” I admitted, my voice barely a whisper now. “You’re not like your father. It’s like you’re not even trying to scare me—you’re just being you, and that’s fucking terrifying. Because I really do think there’s no escaping you unless you let me.”
He was silent, still unmoving.
“Tell me how to get out of this,” I pleaded finally, my voice breaking. “Tell me what it’ll take for you to let me go.”
He leaned forward slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. Finally, he spoke.
“There is no way out,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle, like he was explaining something to a child. “I want everything you are, Ava. All your rage, your pain, your desire. There’s no deal to make, no compromise.”
He picked up his glasses from the side table, slowly wiping the lenses with a handkerchief. It seemed like a practiced gesture, and it made me think he didn’t even need them to see. Like it was an act to make him appear normal.
“I want to share everything with you, Ava,” he continued, placing the glasses back on his face. “Your body, your thoughts, your dreams. I want to be the center of your world, and you’ll be mine. You’ll be my death, and I’ll be your Thanos.”
My confusion deepened.
“What? You’ll be my what?” I asked, my forehead creasing in disbelief.
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
“Thanos. You know, from the movie? The villain who believes he’s saving the universe, even if it means destroying half of it. In the comic books, he’s in love with Death and willing to destroy the world for her.”
I stared at him, completely at a loss for words. He was comparing himself to a literal supervillain, and the worst part was, he seemed to mean it. His tone was honest, even affectionate.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, unable to figure out how to respond to that level of crazy. I rubbed my temples, trying to ease the tension building behind my eyes.
“Can I go pee and shower? I have someone else’s blood and guts on me,” I finally asked.
He raised an eyebrow.
“Of course,” he said. “But I’ll be right outside the door.”
When I stood, his eyes stayed on me, tracking every movement, like he was planning five steps ahead, ready for whatever. He didn’t even blink, and his body was coiled with a tension that made it clear he’d be on me in an instant if I tried to run.
In the bathroom, I locked the door behind me, my heart pounding. This part of the house was unfamiliar to me—I’d never been in this wing during the years I lived here. Vito had kept me confined to specific rooms, always under his eye. But I knew the window faced the back of the estate, overlooking the woods. If I could just get through it, I’d have a straight shot. US-19 was about half a mile through the trees. I could flag down a car, maybe disappear before Luciano even realized I was gone.
I moved quickly to the toilet, not really focusing, just going through the motions. After I was done, I flushed, washed the blood from my face, then turned the shower on. I tossed a towel into the tub to muffle the sound of the water hitting the tiles so he would think I was in it. I pulled up the hem of my dress, tying it high around my thighs to keep it out of my way. The window was my ally—it didn’t make a noise as I shoved it open. I pushed the screen out. I grabbed the trash can and used it to lift myself. I climbed out, my feet hitting the damp ground outside with a thud.
I ran.
Branches lashed at my face and arms, tearing at the fabric of my dress. Not a minute later, my breath came in ragged bursts, and my lungs screamed for air. I hadn’t run like this in years. But I had to keep moving, to put as much distance as possible between me and that house. Heart pounding. Legs cramping. After about five minutes, I heard him.
“Ava.”
He wasn’t yelling—just calling out, almost conversationally. He sounded close. Too close. I pushed harder, my feet stumbling over uneven ground. Then came the sound of the four-wheeler—a low, mechanical hum that made my stomach drop. I kept running, but my legs were already ready to give out.
I was out of shape, and the distance between us was closing fast. The hum stopped abruptly. I turned, and Luciano sat casually on the four-wheeler, one hand resting lazily on the handlebar. His eyes were dark, locked on me like I was the prize he’d won. He didn’t seem angry.
“Come on, Ava,” he said. “Get on, or I can make you get on…”
His threat was calm, almost casual.
I squared my shoulders and stared him down. “Then do it,” I dared him. “Make me.” I knew I wasn’t going to beat his ass like I wanted to; I had seen him fight, there was no chance, but I was so angry for having to even be there, I was willing to try.
Something flashed in his eyes—pleasure, or something close to it. Or maybe hunger. And that gave me pause. Because why did he look like he was about to enjoy whatever came next?
He swung one leg over the side of the four-wheeler and dismounted slowly. He made his way over to me, crowded my space, towering over me. “You sure you want me to make you?” he asked, as if giving me a final out.
My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. I stepped back and swung, my fist cutting through the air toward his face.
He ducked easily. His demeanor didn’t change; he was so unbothered, and that pissed me off more.
“You’ve got a good right hook. But you’re too slow.”
He blocked my next swing too, then caught my wrist. “Don’t wind up so much,” he said. “You telegraph your punches.”
I yanked my arm free and swung again. Missed.
“Keep your elbows in,” he added, sidestepping. “Your stance is too wide—you’re off balance. And your breathing’s off. You’re holding your breath when you strike.”
I saw red.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hit him just once. I kept swinging—wild, messy. My only goal was to take his fucking head off. I knew better. My daddy had taught me how to fight. My cousin had sharpened that foundation. I knew how to plant my feet, how to breathe, how to wait for the opening.
But none of that mattered in that moment.
Rage hijacked my body and made me clumsy, made my vision tunnel. I kept swinging.
And he kept dodging.
He was toying with me.
“You aren’t done yet?” he asked, his tone condescending.
He didn’t wait for an answer or another swing.
He grabbed my wrist, twisting it behind my back. I gasped in pain as he forced me down, pinning me to the ground with his weight.
I struggled beneath him, trying to buck him off, but even with a bullet hole in his arm, he was too strong.
“Let me go!” I screamed, twisting my body in a last-ditch attempt to get free.
But he didn’t let up. Instead, he leaned closer, his breath hot against my ear.
“No, Ava. Calm down.”
I did the only thing left to do—I sank my teeth into his cheek. He managed to pry my jaw open before I could cause any damage.
I braced myself for pain. I had shot him. I had bit him. I’d run. I tried to fight him. I expected brutal retaliation. But his reaction wasn’t anger or violence—it was a low, guttural laugh. It sent chills through me.
“You’re so vicious.” His eyes burned into mine. “It’s doing something for me.”
He pressed his hips down, grinding into me. “See.” His dick was hard, long, and thick.
I shoved at his chest. My nails scraped against his shirt, but he didn’t move.
“Get off me!” I yelled, my voice breaking, trying to ignore how I could feel the heat of his body right through my clothes.
He didn’t move, just looked down at me, his face inches from mine. Why wasn’t he angry, out of breath, or at least a little rattled? I had fought him with everything I had.
“You can’t win this fight, Ava.” His tone was calm, almost clinical, like he was diagnosing my condition rather than speaking to me. “I will always be stronger than you. Always faster. Always prepared. Every move you make, I will have already anticipated.”
He shook his head.
“You knew you couldn’t win a physical fight against me, Ava. You knew, and yet you still tried.”
He shook his head, his lips brushing my nose.
“I admire it,” he admitted, almost to himself. “The refusal to accept what’s inevitable. The compulsion to fight, even in the face of absolute futility, is commendable.”
A pause. Then, his voice got softer, “But it’s insane and self-destructive.”
“What if one of the guards had caught you when you ran? I would have had to kill him, like before. What if I actually hit you back? Or decided I wanted to spread you open and take what I wanted from you, right here on this bitter earth?”
I felt my eyes go wide. My body went still.
He shook his head.
“Don’t do that. Don’t look at me with fear in your eyes.”
There was a pause from him. A slow blink. Then he continued,
“I won’t hurt you. But I will restrain you if I have to.”
He exhaled, as if considering his options.
“A straitjacket would be the most logical choice. They put Azula in one,” he mused. “It would be humane. Secure. You wouldn’t be able to waste energy on running when it’s pointless…”
His green eyes darkened, and I noticed his glasses were gone. He gave me a gorgeous grin that exposed his perfectly straight white teeth.
“But then, there’s another option.”
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper, as if getting ready to share a secret.
“I could tie you to my bed instead. Keep you there until your body learns and your mind follows. Until you understand there’s nowhere else you should be.”
He threatened.
“I read this book once,” he continued. “It was about psychological submission—how the brain adapts under restriction. How if you bind someone long enough, limit their movements and their freedom, they start to attach to the only thing that doesn’t change.” His green eyes locked on mine.
“That would be me.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering in my throat.
“But then,” he added, voice softening just a bit, “there was this other book. About sexual submission. Not the leather, spankings, and whips kind. This was deeper. Dirtier.”
His expression didn’t change, but his breathing had. It was faster and deeper.
“You tie her to your bed. And you tease and touch and edge her until her body only responds to your hands. Until she’s dripping from nothing but your presence. Until just the sound of your voice makes her thighs part, until she begs you to fuck her. Until you own her.”
My breath hitched.
He reached out like he might touch me, but didn’t. His fingers hovered an inch from my cheek.
“Yeah, I like the second option best.”
I wanted to want to scream at him, to spit in his face, claw at his skin until I drew blood. I should have.
Instead, I just lay there, my breath coming too fast, too shallow.
His words, and the weight of his body, had me feeling like a live wire was attached to my skin. I liked the second option too… If he was going to make me choose, I mentally added a caveat to excuse my shameful thoughts.
I opened my mouth to curse him, but nothing came out. My mind knew better than to give him an excuse. I tucked my lips, scared he might use anything I said as an excuse to actually tie me to his bed.
“Are you ready to get up and behave?” he asked when I didn’t reply.
I nodded.
He rose off of me to stand.
I scrambled to my feet, my body aching from the struggle. Nipples hard, between my thighs damp.
Luciano’s eyes dipped once—slowly—to the space between my thighs. Like he could see the wetness.
My face heated.
“Get on,” he ordered, gesturing to the four-wheeler.
He didn’t say a word as he drove us back. Inside the house, he pulled me along, his big hand wrapped around my wrist, past guards who didn’t react at all, steering me up the stairs and down a hallway headed back to his room. I was so embarrassed.
As we turned a corner, the blonde woman from earlier appeared. Tall. Slim. The perfect image of a mafia wife. Her eyes flicked over me, her thin lips curling with disgust, her manicured fingers tightening around the pearls at her throat.
“Why her?” she spat. “You could have had my daughter. And you choose her?”
Luciano paused, turning to her with an expression that was cold and devoid of any emotion.
There was a physical shift in the air.
The blonde woman must have felt it too because she took half a step back.
“Keep talking, Bianca, and I will make it so it seems like your precious daughter never existed. No body. No trace. Just a ghost in your memories,” he sneered.
The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might pass out. She hurried off down the hall like she really believed him. The way his voice had gone all menacing—I believed he might actually do it.
Luciano resumed pulling me along, his grip never loosening. When we reached his room, he let me go, opened the door, and shoved me in.
“I’ll return shortly,” he stated, his tone devoid of warmth. “Then we will discuss our impending marriage.”
I glared at him, my chest heaving, hand clenching at my side.
Why was this happening to me?
His green eyes were latched onto me, unblinking. He opened his mouth like he had more to say, then decided against it.
Turning, he walked out, leaving me alone in the room. I heard the door lock.
All I could think to do was stand there.
Then a thought crossed my mind.
Who in the fuck was Azula?