Chapter 16
Luciano
Saint sat back in the chair across from me, legs stretched out, the picture of relaxed indifference. We were in a guest room where I had gotten dressed. The smell of cigar smoke lingered from earlier. I stood straight-backed, hands folded behind me.
“What did you call me in here for? My wife causes trouble when she’s too idle.”
I almost sneered. I didn’t think he would bring Aria. But it should have been a foregone conclusion.
“I have never engaged in sexual intercourse.” My tone was flat. Matter-of-fact.
Saint smirked, shaking his head. “Yeah, I know.”
I narrowed my eyes. “How?”
“This is a small circle, Luciano. Women talk. And they talk about you rejecting them.” He tilted his head, watching me like I was some rare creature under a microscope. “You’ve never fucked anyone. Never touched anyone. Hell, never even tried. And I heard you ran when one woman got nude in front of you.”
I had. Her pale skin and flesh reminded me of my mother’s body.
“The only reason people haven’t called you a eunuch is because they’re scared of you.”
I stayed silent, jaw tight.
Saint exhaled sharply, his amusement darkening into something else. “You need to get over what happened to you and your mother.” His tone was direct, unfiltered. “You’re about to have a wife.”
I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached.
Saint leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “You need to slip your hand around her throat, whisper in her ear that she’s yours, and fuck her against the wall. You can either fuck her properly and often, or someone else will—and she’ll let them. Just like her mother did.”
I moved fast.
The gun was out of my holster and pressed to his forehead before I even registered pulling it. My other hand gripped his collar, yanking him up so we were eye to eye.
Saint remained unfazed. His reflexes were just as sharp, his reaction just as swift.
Cold metal pressed under my chin.
“You really like her?” he grinned, as if the safeties were still on our guns. There was a structural deviation in his psyche, a fundamental misalignment in the way he processed the world. It was what made him— him. What made him insufferable sometimes. It was why I understood him. Why he was my only friend.
“You and I have an understanding, Saint. But do not mistake that for leniency when it comes to her. I will kill for her. I will die for her. And if you ever speak down on her again, I will put a bullet in your skull and mourn you as an afterthought, friend.”
Saint held my gaze, his eyes dark. I knew that look. He was in that space just before you pull the trigger—when the decision has already been made, when the body just needs to catch up with the mind. He pulled himself back, his mouth twitching to something cruel.
“If you ever put a gun to my head again, I won’t just return the favor,” he said, slow and unhurried, like he wanted to make sure I heard him. “I’ll put you in the fucking ground, friend.”
My grip on the gun didn’t falter.
Neither did his.
We stared at each other, the room thick with the kind of tension that made lesser men nervous, made them sweat. But Saint and I weren’t most men. We had both seen too much, done too much, to blink first.
The door opened.
My father walked in.
We both separated as if we were kids caught fighting in the schoolyard.
Saint rolled his shoulders, like he was shaking off the moment, slipping back into his usual air of careless arrogance.
I adjusted my cuffs, smoothing them down as if I hadn’t just been a breath away from pulling the trigger.
My father stopped just inside the doorway, eyes volleying between us. He looked vaguely irritated.
“Do I even want to know?” he asked, voice flat.
Saint smirked, finally holstering his gun. “Just a friendly disagreement, old man.”
My father’s gaze landed on me.
I said nothing, slipping my gun back into place.
He sighed. “Luciano, we need to talk.”
Saint took the hint. He gave me one last look, then turned and strolled toward the door.
Just before leaving, he glanced over his shoulder. “Remember what we talked about. All of it. See you there, friend.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response.
The door clicked shut behind him.
My father exhaled through his nose, stepping further into the room. “Are you sure about this?”
I straightened. “Yes.”
He studied me for a long time. “You can let her go back to California. We’ll find someone more suitable.”
I felt something in my chest go tight. His words were making me angrier.
“No,” I said simply.
“She shot you, Luciano.”
I inclined my head slightly, considering his words. “Yes. But I forgive her because she wanted to shoot you.” I met his eyes evenly.
A muscle in his jaw flexed. “And you’re fine with that?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation. “Given the vengeance I sought for my own mother’s murder, it would be hypocritical of me to condemn her for attempting the same.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, watching me the way one observes something that doesn’t quite make sense, something that should fit a pattern but doesn’t.
“You can’t compare the two. Her mother was not innocent.”
I adjusted my cuffs. “That may be… but the parallels are evident.” I met his gaze, unwavering. “A child left behind, forced to survive in the absence of justice.”
“She’s unpredictable.”
I nodded. “So am I.”
“She could betray you.”
“So could you,” I rebutted.
My father exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering under his breath, “Cristo santo, Luciano.” His jaw tightened, his fingers flexing at his sides. “Sei un dannato testardo.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re always too fucking logical.”
“Logic is what we all should rely on.”
“I suppose,” he said finally, the closest thing to a concession I’d ever get from him. “At the very least, she has you talking again, and that’s good.”
I inclined my head slightly, neither confirming nor denying.
My father shook his head, then exhaled, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket as he looked at me and changed the subject as he often did. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice even, unreadable.
“Everyone's here. It's a fucking spectacle.” He shot me a look, dry and unimpressed. “Everybody wanted to see you with an actual woman after all these years.” He chuckled under his breath, then schooled his features. “If you're going to do this, you gotta do it right. Stand tall. Look them in the eye. Make sure they know exactly who you are.”
I recognized this for what it was—a customary pep talk, an obligatory exchange meant to steady me before I walked into a room full of watching eyes. A formality. A script fathers and sons were supposed to follow.
It wasn’t needed, but something in the way he looked at me gave me pause. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but I caught it.
He was waiting.
I realized, after a moment, what for.
Some sign of affection. Some indication that I still saw him as something more than a business associate. That I still saw him as my father.
It was absurd.
But I played my part. I reached out, stiff and deliberate, and placed my hand on his back. It was a hug but more contact than we’d had since I was a child. I didn’t like people touching me.
“Merda, son. You’re fucking strange,” he muttered. But he didn’t move away.
We stood there a few more seconds. I pulled away.
My mind shifted back to thoughts of what Saint said.