Chapter 25
Luciano
We drove for an hour and some minutes. Ava sat stiff beside me, her torn wedding dress stiff from drying blood, her wrists raw, angry purple bruises on her face. The sight of her pain sent a white-hot rage through me so intense my knuckles ached around the steering wheel. I should've taken Matteo’s hands first before I let her kill him for putting them on her. Should've made him watch as I—
My phone buzzed again, cutting into my thoughts. My father. The screen flashed for the twelfth time since we'd left. I silenced it, tossing it into the backseat.
Ava didn't speak. Didn't ask where we were going. Just stared at her own reflection in the window, her fingers hovering near her split lip.
The memories of my mother were torturing me. I could see her swollen face, her broken fingers clutching at nothing as she was held down. I could hear her screams. I'd been small then. Useless. I couldn’t protect her, but I could protect Ava. Now that I was the monster in the dark. But I had failed her today. It would never happen again.
I kept driving until we made it to Orlando. We arrived just after 2 AM. The streets were quiet, the air felt thick. I drove her to a condo I had bought in a family community for us. No one knew this place. Not Saint. Not Aria. Especially not my father. No one would look for us here, surrounded by soccer moms and minivans and the smell of fresh-cut grass.
No cameras. No gate codes. There was no reason for anyone to believe the boogeyman or a mob heir lived here. I parked in the private garage, pulling the door down behind us. Ava didn’t move. Not when I turned the engine off. Not when I reached for her hand.
“Come here,” I instructed.
She let me help her out. I lifted her into my arms, felt the way her body tensed just slightly before surrendering. She buried her face in my neck, and I carried her through the kitchen entrance.
Inside, the air smelled of citrus cleaner and untouched linen.
Ikicked the door shut behind us. I carried her straight to the bathroom in our bedroom. I set Ava on the counter, leaving her legs dangling.
"You need to bath," I said, turning to the tub. I turned the faucet on. The water roared, steaming up the room. I added lavender oil—it was her favorite, thenI turned to her.
Her eyes were glazed, her lower lip swollen where Matteo had split it. A bruise darkened her cheekbone in the shape of a man's fingers. I should've kept him alive longer. Should've taken my time. Should've made him scream, then cut off his head so his soul couldn't leave earth.
My second phone vibrated against my thigh. I silenced it without looking.
"Can you undress?" I asked, forcing calm into my voice.
She didn’t say anything.
I exhaled through my nose, pushing the memory away. "Then I'll do it."
I reached for the straps of her dress with steady hands, but my pulse was a wild thing, running rampant in my chest. I had never undressed a woman before.
The fabric slid down her body, pooling at her feet. I pulled off her bra, then panties. I kept everything clinical, not stopping to admire how soft her naked flesh looked.
The water turned pink when she stepped in. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. She didn’t need to see me angry right now. I knew the fundamentals of caring for someone.
"Look at me," I demanded. She did. Her eyes were bloodshot, her lashes clumped with dried tears. I cupped water in my palms and let it trickle over her shoulders, washing away the grime, the sweat, the remnants of Matteo's touch.
Mine. The word was a chant in my skull. Mine to clean. Mine to fix. Mine to keep. Mine to protect.
My phone buzzed again. I should have killed Matteo after I killed his son. I will not make that mistake again.
“I’m not blaming you, Luc.” She said, as if shehad read my mind.
She wasn’t blaming me. But she should’ve been.
I didn’t answer. My words were suddenly gone again.I just stared at the bruises on her skin like they were carved into me too.
I knelt beside the tub, soaped a cloth and dragged it gently down her arm, over the red marks on her wrists. Wiping away the blood, the dirt, and hopefully the remnants of what had been done to her. The cloth passed over a cut on her wrist, and she winced. “Sorry,” I murmured. Silence
I kept going. Careful. Methodical. Like every inch of her deserved reverence. Because it did.
I rinsed the soap from her skin, careful over every bruise. Every one of them was mine to make right. “You’re safe now,” I said, trying to speak life back into her, but even I didn’t believe it fully. Not yet. There were people I had to kill.
I pulled the drain in the tub and watched the dirty water disappear, then I helped her stand and turned on the shower to wash her clean.
When she was clean, I lifted her out, wrapping her in a towel as thick as a blanket. She swayed on her feet. I was sure it was from the shock and exhaustion hitting her all at once. I carried her to the bed, sat her on the edge, and reached for the first aid kit.
Her split lip needed ointment. The raw skin at her wrists needed bandaged. I tended to each wound with clinical precision, keeping my touch feather-light.
"You’re good at this," she whispered out of nowhere. I paused. "At what?" I was confused. "Fixing broken things. I feel better already." She smiled softly.
My chest tightened. I finished bandaging her wrists, then brushed my thumb over the back of her hand. "You’re not broken." She laughed again, but it was weaker this time. "Liar."
I cupped her face, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You’re not broken,” I said. “You’re injured.”
She blinked slowly. “Broken implies nonfunction. Irreparable. But after everything—past and present—you’re still here. Still fighting. That’s not broken. That’s resilience.”
Her lips parted like she wanted to argue. I didn’t give her the chance. “You survived it. You protected your mind, even when your body was under attack. You endured. You’re not broken, Ava. You’re proven. You are not less because something happened to you. You're more. Refined by it. Tempered. Like steel. That’s closer to whole than it is to broken.”
For a second, I thought she’d pull away from me. Instead, she leaned into my touch. I pressed my forehead to hers, our breaths mingling. "Sleep, Uccellini," I whispered. "I’ll be here when you wake."
I laid her down in the bed, tucked the blanket around her. Her hair fanned across the pillow, still damp, haloing her face. She stared up at me.
“Do you even need those glasses?” she asked, voice low and heavy—she was seconds from sleep.
“No. I don’t need them,” I said, settling beside her. “But people love patterns. So I gave them one. Something to focus on—something harmless. Instead of noticing that I don’t speak much.” I paused, then added, “It’s interesting, how human nature works. They never suspect the quiet guy in glasses is capable of carving out a man’s throat. Take off the glasses, and I’m just the quiet guy who might actually do it.”
She smirked. “So it’s your disguise?” I nodded once. “Worked for Clark Kent.”
Ava chuckled, low and sleepy. “You look like a male model whether you speak or not. That’s enough.” She yawned, her voice softening, slurring just a little. “You should stop wearing them. You have beautiful eyes. I like being able to see them…”
Her words trailed off. A beat later, she was snoring lightly.
I slid the glasses off, folded them, set them on the nightstand.
I stood over her, watching the rise and fall of her chest. I turned off the light and took a seat at the foot of the bed. My phone kept buzzing. The world kept demanding answers. I’d let them wait. I stayed right there. Silent. Still. Watching over her.