Chapter 15
Luciano
I woke up to the feeling of eye on me.
My eyes blinked open slowly, the world coming into focus in pieces. The dim lighting, the heavy warmth of the blankets, the scent of clean linen. Luciano was sitting at the edge of the bed, watching me.
“Good morning, Uccellini.” His voice was smooth today.. I blinked at him, still caught between sleep and reality. Then I saw the dress.
It was draped over a chair in the corner. Pristine white, it looked out of place in the dark room. “That’s my dress.” Luciano followed my gaze, then looked back at me. “I know,” he responded matter-of-factly. “Do you like it?”
I sat up slowly, my muscles aching, my mind still foggy from sleep. “It’s… beautiful.” It was. But it didn’t feel real. Like if I actually tried to touch it, it would disappear.
I swallowed and looked at him. “How?” “How did you know?” Luciano adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. “In your room, after you left. I found it—your board of all your dreams and wishes and hopes.” I frowned. My heart was beating funny. “I have everything you left behind,” he continued. “Everything. Your books, your clothes.”
I stared at him, my throat tightening. I barely remembered making that board. It had been so long ago, another lifetime. Before my mother was murdered. “You cut out pieces of a future you wanted—a house, a career, places you wanted to visit. ‘You wanted to be a lawyer,’” he said. “Columbia. Harvard. NYU. The brochures were stacked on your desk.” “I analyzed the contents thoroughly,” he continued. “I selected this dress based on those preferences,” he concluded simply. “It is not an exact match, but it aligns with your initial criteria.”
A part of me wanted to laugh at how absurdly analytical he sounded. Like this was a business acquisition rather than my wedding. But another part of me—one I didn’t want to examine too closely—felt something else. Why was he going all out for me?
“You kept all of that?” I asked, my voice quieter now. “Yes.” “Why?” Luciano tilted his head slightly, as if the question itself was irrelevant. “Because it belonged to you. That made them important to me.”
Luciano studied me for a moment longer before asking, “Do you still want it?” I didn’t know if he meant the dress. Or the life I had once imagined. “Want what?” “The life,” he clarified.
The idea of him offering me the life I had dreamed of before everything fell apart was almost laughable. So I did laugh. “How is my mundane dream of fighting for the good guys—something you can even offer me?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism. “How does that fit into your world, heir to a mafia throne?”
Luciano didn’t hesitate. “If you want to finish school, you will. If you want to become a lawyer, you will. If you want to fight for the good guys—” He gave a small shrug. “I will ensure you win.” His voice was absolute.
I stared at him, searching his face. He was serious. “That doesn’t make any sense and it’s in contradiction to who you are. Plus, you can’t ensure I win. You can’t just buy or manipulate justice, Luciano,” I scoffed.
He tilted his head, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That is exactly what justice is—something that is bought, controlled, and manipulated by those with power.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. “You know that. You wouldn’t have been drawn to law if you didn’t.”
“Maybe you can do all that. But you can’t buy back the past, though. Those were dreams of another version of me.” Luciano didn’t even blink. “No,” he agreed. “The past is immutable.”
I exhaled. I had expected him to argue, to tell me that money and power could undo anything. That with enough control, even time could be bent. But he didn’t. He just agreed.
“But,” he continued, “I can control the future.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze unwavering. “I can’t give you back what was taken from you, Ava. I can’t rewrite history. I can’t resurrect your mothers ghosts.” His fingers flexed at his sides like he wanted to touch me. “But I can make sure you never lose anything again.”
He leaned back suddenly, his back going stiff. “And don’t mistake evolution for erasure, Ava,” he stated, voice measured. “You are not an entirely different entity than you were before. You are simply a revised version. The foundation remains.”
I stared at him. “You sound like a fucking self-help book.” “I’m explaining it in the way I best understand.” He rebutted.
For some reason, I needed to see his eyes without the glasses. I reached up slowly, brushing my fingers against the frame to see how he would react.
He didn’t stop me, so I slid them from his face.
Without the glasses, his eyes were clearer.
“You know… what happened to you… your mother, what you went through… it doesn’t have to define you. You can be more than controlled, cold and analytical.” The only reaction I saw was his fingers twitching where they rested against his thighs. He still didn’t speak.
I searched his face, feeling my own heart beat faster. “Something makes me think maybe… maybe there’s still a piece of you untouched by all of this.”
“Make no mistake, Uccellini. I am what they made me.”
I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening around his glasses.
His fingers flexed at his sides before his hand lifted, hesitating for only a breath before he traced the curve of my jaw. His touch was surprisingly light, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to do it.
“But if there is anything in me that is mine… anything worth salvaging… you are the only person who will ever get to see this. It will only belong to you.”
I felt my breath catch. What was I supposed to say in response to that? His hand fell away, leaving behind a ghost of warmth.
For a moment, neither one of us spoke. It felt like we werein one of those TV shows moments, where two people reach that edge—where the air’s thick with everything. One wrong move and we’d fall into each other… or break apart completely. Neither happened.
He breathed out,straightened, adjusted his cuffs, and stood. “Your stylists will be here soon.” I frowned. “Stylists?” “Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Hair. Makeup. Dress. Jewelry. I’ve arranged everything.”
He reached for his glasses, removing them from my hand, and put them on. “They’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Then he turned to leave.
“Luciano,” I called after him because I wanted to see something. I had noticed something when he’d seen me naked. Despite his bravado when he made sexually charged comments, he almost seemed shy about intimacy.
He paused, his hand resting on the doorknob, his back rigid. He didn’t turn around. Slowly, I slipped out of bed, the sheet still wrapped around me. “Look at me,” I said, my voice softer this time, testing. This would be my olive branch.
He turned, our eyes connecting.
“You’re very handsome today.” He was dressed in a tailored three-piece black suit, the crisp white shirt beneath it highlighting the ink curling up his throat and peeking from his cuffs. His dark hair was neatly styled, a stark contrast to the sharp, calculating green eyes that met mine. He did look very handsome.
A flush crept up his neck, turning his face red. Luciano Genovese was blushing.
I bit the inside of my cheek, suppressing the urge to laugh. He was the most unhinged, calculating, dangerous person I had ever met. And I’d met a lot of dangerous men. But a simple compliment had him looking like he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Describe it.” “Describe what?” “Describe why you find me handsome.” His voice was steady. Analytical. I frowned, caught off guard by the request. “I don’t—” “Ava.” It was a warning. What the consequences would be, I didn’t know—but I didn’t want to find out.
“You have good bone structure,” I said, shrugging. “Strong jaw, high cheekbones. Your face is symmetrical. Thick plush lips, pretty, expressive eyes. The suit helps make you look… expensive. And the tattoos under the suit make you look fuckable.” I licked my lips.
Luciano nodded once, and turned like he was ready to walk out. His face was redder. “Why do you ask?” Without turning, he said, “So I can always look handsome for you.” And then he walked out. Leaving me staring after him, completely thrown. This was going to be different.