61 | I thought youɽ run away
My hand is still warm from Luciano's grip as I lead him out of the basement, his fingers laced with mine like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go.
The air down there was thick with fear and bloodlust, but up here, in the quiet of the mansion, it's just us, two shadows slipping through the corridors.
He follows me, his steps heavy, and I steal a glance at him.
Luciano looks like hell.
His dark hair is disheveled, falling into eyes shadowed by exhaustion, his skin sallow like he hasn't slept in days. The suit that usually clings to him like armor hangs loose, wrinkled, stained with God-knows-what.
He's a wreck, and it twists something deep in my chest.
We climb the stairs, the silence between us heavy but not empty.
It's charged, alive with everything we haven't said since he disappeared a few days ago, since he saw that video of Ciara and Nate and left me drowning in questions.
I wanted to hate him for ignoring me, vanishing like I was nothing, but now, with his hand in mine, I can't.
Not when he looks so broken, so unlike the untouchable mafia don I've come to know.
I guide him down the hall, past portraits of his ancestors glaring from gilded frames, until we reach his childhood bedroom, our room now.
The door creaks as I push it open and walk inside.
I stop in the middle of the room, turning to face him.
"You need to clean up," I say, my voice firm but soft.
He looks like he's one step from collapsing, and I hate how much it unnerves me.
Luciano doesn't move, doesn't let go of my hand. His grip tightens, just enough to make my pulse skip while his eyes lock on mine.
"Will you be here?" he asks, his voice low, rough.
I tilt my head, a wry smile tugging at my lips despite the ache in my chest.
"Does it look like I went somewhere when you were ignoring me these past days?" The words are sharp, a jab at the hurt he left me with, but there's no real venom in them.
I'm here, aren't I? Still standing, still waiting, even when I shouldn't.
He exhales, a shaky sound that's almost a laugh, and his shoulders sag.
"No," he says, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "You're still here."
His hand slips from mine, and I feel the loss like a physical thing, a sudden cold where his warmth was. But then his palms find my cheeks, rough and calloused, cradling my face like I'm something fragile, something he's afraid to break.
He steps closer, close enough that I can smell the faint tang of sweat and gunpowder on him, and his eyes search mine, deep brown and endless, pulling me in until the room fades away.
I stare back, caught in the intensity of his gaze, the way it strips me bare without trying.
There's no mask here, no mafia don, just him.
"I thought you would leave me," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, each word heavy with a fear I've never heard from him before."I thought you'd run away from me."
My heart stumbles, a thousand questions flooding my mind.
Why would he think that? Because he knows our marriage is void, that he doesn't have to keep me anymore?
I open my mouth to ask, to demand answers for the days he left me in the dark, but his thumbs brush my cheekbones, gentle in a way that doesn't match the man who held a gun to a young man's head minutes ago.
The softness stops me, holds me captive, and I can't find the words. Not when he's looking at me like I'm his lifeline, like losing me would unravel him completely.
His hands linger, warm against my skin, and I lean into them, just a fraction, because I'm weak for him.
I want to ask about the video, about where he's been, but the moment feels too fragile, like one wrong word will shatter it.
Then he lets go, his hands falling away, and the air rushes back, cold and sharp.
He steps back, breaking the spell, and I feel the distance like a wound.
"I need to shower," he says, his voice rough again, like he's pulling himself together.
I nod, my throat tight, and watch as he turns toward the bathroom, his broad shoulders slumping as he moves.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone again, the room too quiet without his presence.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my hands twisting in my lap, his words echoing in my head.
I thought you'd run away.
Why?
What's he so afraid of?
It's not like he loves me.
I think of the basement, his feral rage, the way it melted when I touched him.
He can't love me.
I glance at the bathroom door, the faint sound of water running seeping through, and imagine him under the spray, washing away the grime, the blood, the days he spent God-knows-where.
I'm so lost in my thoughts that the knock on the door makes me flinch.
"Come in," I call, my voice steadier than I feel.
The door creaks open, and it's Luciano's youngest sister, her delicate frame dwarfed by the large doors.
Her eyes are red, her cheeks streaked with tears, and she looks smaller than usual, like the weight of everything's crushing her.
"Aurelia," she says, her voice trembling, "can you step outside? Please?"
I nod, rising without a word, and follow her into the hallway, closing the door softly behind me.
The air out here is cooler, but before I can ask what's wrong, Isabella throws herself at me, her arms wrapping around my waist as she buries her face in my shoulder.
Her sobs are raw, shaking her whole body, and I freeze for a second before hugging her back, my hands awkward on her trembling frame.
"Thank you," she chokes out, her voice muffled against my shirt. "Thank you so much. If it wasn't for you, Luciano would've killed my fiancé. He would've killed my fiancé, and I- I don't know what I'd do."
I pull back just enough to look at her, my heart twisting at the gratitude in her eyes.
"I don't want more blood," I say, my voice low, firm.
And it's true, killing is a currency in our world, a necessity I've seen too often since I became a Costa. But I know that if Luciano had pulled that trigger, taken thefiancé's life, the regret would've eaten him alive, even if he'd never admit it.
"He'd hate himself for it," I add, softer now, almost to myself. "For hurting you."
She wipes her eyes with shaky hands as she steps back. Her lips tremble, but she forces them into a wobbly smile.
"I don't know what's gotten into him these past days," she says, her voice cracking.
"He's been... different. Acting out, like he's not himself. Myfiancé and I, we've known each other since we were kids. He's my best friend. Everyone in the family knew we'd end up together, even Luciano. It's always been that way despite our different backgrounds."
She swipes at fresh tears, her breath hitching. "I don't understand what he's thinking anymore. It's like he's losing his mind or something. First, he sent Gioia away, and now this? Going after my fiancé? It doesn't make sense."
I frown, her words sinking in, heavy and unsettling.
Luciano's been a storm lately, but this feels deeper, darker, like something's snapped inside him.
"I don't know either," I say, my voice quieter now, laced with the unease curling in my gut. "But I'll try to talk to him. See what's going on."
Her eyes brighten, just a fraction, and she reaches for my hand, squeezing it.
"Thank you," she whispers again. "Really, Aurelia. You don't know what this means to me. You saved the love of my life."
She turns to leave, her steps slow, like she's carrying the weight of the day with her.
I watch her disappear down the hall, her small frame swallowed by the mansion's grandeur, and then I'm alone again.
I lean against the wall, my mind churning, trying to piece together Luciano's chaos.
His youngest sister's words echoing in my head,he islosing his mind,and I wonder what's driving him to this edge?
Gioia's exile, his youngest sister'sfiancé's near-death, what's next? What's breaking him?
Out of nowhere, a memory flickers through my mind, sharp and sudden.
I remember that two days ago, I was in the backyard, holding a cup of tea while walking around, enjoying the perfect weather. A young guy, who I now realize was the fiancé, brushed past me, his shoulder nudging mine as he moved by.
My tea splashed, scalding my fingers, and I hissed, shaking them out. He apologized, and I brushed it off, telling him it was fine.
It was fine, my fingers are healed, barely a mark left.
But now, a chill creeps up my spine.
That can't be why Luciano wanted to kill him, can it?
A clumsy moment, a spilled drink, it's nothing. It can't be the reason he held a gun to the young guys head, ready to end him.
It can't.
I shake my head, pushing the thought away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my mind.
Luciano's not that irrational, not that insane... Or is he?