Chapter 27
Luciano
The restaurant was all marble opulence and overpriced ego. Gilded mirrors reflected dead-eyed waiters who moved around the establishment like ghosts. They’d seen too much to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Everyone spoke in hushed tones. Power didn’t have to scream. It just existed. Heavy. Silent. Absolute. I wanted Ava to see that. She was emotional. Passionate. She was fire where I was ice. I appreciated that about her, but fire got you killed in rooms like this if you didn’t know when to dim the flame. This was her first lesson.
Ava sat beside me, dressed in an all-black fitted dress, that hugged all her lush curves, her body defiled it—turned it into something obscene, and I was having a hard time concentrating.Her hair swept back from her face. She looked perfect—until you looked too close and saw the bruises still fading on her jaw. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Good.
Across from us, Don Russo, tall, athletic build, in his mid-fifties, he had slick black greasy hair, and wore cheap suits, but he smelled of expensive cigars. He poked at his osso buco like it offended him. He didn’t have enough dignity to be considered anything more than he was—a liar, a thief. He was the boss of the Russo family.
Beside him, his sons postured like bored jackals, dangerous only in theory. They were remedial, a waste—more likely to die before they could take their father’s place because they used the minuscule amount of power they had to abuse. They’d created too many enemies, earned no respect, and instilled too little fear to establish any real authority.
Saint sat to my right, twirling a cigar between his fingers like he was bored, but I knew that look. He was coiled and ready for whatever came.
“Your boys skimmed two hundred grand from our last shipment,” Saint said, tone light. “That’s bad manners.”
Russo’s eldest son, Marco, leaned forward, smirking. “Prove it.” he said.
I didn’t answer. Just reached into my coat and slid a photo across the white linen tablecloth.
It was Marco’s mistress. Naked. Smiling. Surrounded by bricks of cash. What Marco didn’t know was Sophia was a plant andhad convince Marco to steal it, then confirmed that they stole it. We needed a reason to take their piece of the pie, and Marco’s dick got it for us.
I saw Ava’s eyes flick from the picture to Marco’s face.
“Now,” I said calmly, “we are no longer the intermediary. We’re selling directly to your people. Or I personally deliver these pictures to your wife.”
Extortion was sloppy, left too many loose ends. Coward’s work. I preferred a firmer hand. But Saint couldn’t afford any more bloodbaths. This was easier. We knew Marco would agree to whatever we said. His wife was the daughter of Giuseppe Gotti. He ran Brooklyn like a private empire—old school, no-nonsense, and madly loved his little girl. He would slit Marco’s throat in his sleep if his daughter so much as cried over another woman.
I smiled like we were just talking business. Like I hadn’t just ripped the floor out from under him. "Agree," I said, tapping the edge of the photo. "This is a chance to stay alive. One you’ll only get once."
Marco’s father slammed his fork down. “You little—”
Saint cut him off as he tapped ash into his wine glass.
“Careful. Remember, I’m the reason your nephews are sleeping with the fish in Tampa. Would you like to join them?” Everybody knew Saint had murdered his nephews on his father’s orders, but the Russo family wasn’t brave enough to do anything about it even with the connection they had to Gotti.
The table went quiet.
I let the silence stretch until the Russos couldn’t take it and snapped. Then the chairs screeched. Don Russo stood so fast his napkin flew off his lap and fluttered to the ground. “Figli di puttana!” he snarled, slamming a fist against the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. Marco muttered something under his breath and kicked his chair back. The younger son lunged toward Saint but was caught by an arm across the chest from his father.
Curses flew. Russo’s voice rose in a storm of spit-laced Italian. Everybody in the restaurant eyed us, then went back to their own business. They knew not to let their eyes linger too long. Nobody wanted to be a witness. The Russos stormed off.
I sipped my drink. Saint relit his cigar. Ava exhaled hard. “That was fucking exhilarating.”
I opened my mouth to respond but saw Aria approaching the table. In a flowy white dress, her belly seemed even more round than just a couple days ago. Of course she came.
Saint didn’t even look surprised. He stood to greet her, kissed her cheek like he hadn’t told her to stay the fuck home. But I suppose he was used to her doing exactly what she wanted, with no regard for his opinions or warnings.
"Ava," Aria said, making a beeline for our side of the table. She leaned down toward Ava, a rare, genuine smile on her face. "How are you holding up?"
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something that would’ve crossed the line. I didn’t want Ava anywhere near Aria.
But I owed her—for the reception, for the warehouse. For saving Ava. So I kept my mouth shut. Sat back. Watched.
Ava smiled. "I’m okay. Thanks to you." Aria’s eyes flicked to me, amusement in them. "See, Luciano, I’m not all bad."
I looked at her evenly, keeping my voice calm. “No, you’re not all bad. You’re just manipulative. Cunning. Unapologetically self-serving. But effective. That makes you valuable.” I took a slow sip of water. “Let’s not mistake usefulness for virtue, though.”
Aria grinned wider, but it didn’t extend to her eyes. “You never miss an opportunity to tell me how you feel, Luciano. But I think we should change the subject. I’d rather your wife form her own opinion of me.”
She turned her full attention back to Ava. “I recently heard about your mother,” she said, tone deceptively light. “Do you think about it much? What happened to her? What Luciano’s father did?”
The air shifted. Ava blinked, her smile fading. “All the time.” My jaw tightened.
“For years,” Ava continued, voice even but tight, “I pretended she just… ran away. Like he told me.” She glanced at me. “Easier to be angry than mourn.”
Aria tilted her head. “You ever think about revenge? Like Luciano got for his mother?” Her voice dropped slightly, like she was letting Ava in on a secret. “Did he tell you about La Stanza del Giudizio? The Judgment Room? And all the souls that haunt it because of him?” She tapped her long red nail against her chin. “Shouldn’t you help your wife avenge her mother, Luciano?”
I didn’t speak. “But how would that work,” she mused, still smiling, “considering Luciano loves his father. He wouldn’t kill him for you.”
Ava turned to me. “What’s the Judgment Room?” I stared at her. Didn’t answer.
Saint, who’d been just watching with glassy eyes, sat forward. “Aria—stop.”
Aria didn’t even look at him. “She should know what he did to the men responsible for his mother's death. What he’s capable of. What he won’t do for her.”
Saint stood without another word, scooped Aria up—one arm under her thighs, the other around her back—and walked straight out of the restaurant. She didn’t fight it. Just smirked over his shoulder, eyes on me the whole time.
And Ava? She was looking at me. Curious. Not scared. Not angry. Curious. Just like the first day I met her.