19. Lucas
CHAPTER 19
Lucas
D om's back is a receding shadow, melting into the dusk as he strides away. It's like watching trouble take human form—a dark omen on legs. I shove my hands deep into my pockets, the weight of the impending visit to the Mancini estate settling like lead in my gut.
"Lucas," Nora's voice cuts through the thickening twilight, sharp as a blade. Her footsteps are a quick patter against the floor as she closes the distance between us.
"What was that all about?" Her blue eyes are wide with alarm, and the blue streaks in her hair catch the last rays of sunlight, making them blaze against the night.
I look at her, really look at her, and it's like staring down the barrel of a gun loaded with good intentions.
"Don't worry about it," I start, my voice low, threading the words with as much normalcy as I can muster.
"The hell I am," She steps closer, her gaze searching mine for an unspoken truth. "Don't shut me out. I'm willing to bet this has something to do with our Italian angel."
"Trust me, it's better if you stay clear of this," I say, hating how the words feel like shards of glass in my throat. The truth is a tangled mess—a web I'm afraid will trap her, too, if I'm not careful.
"You've got your own future to think about. No need to get mixed up with the likes of someone like him."
"Your future matters just as much," she argues, her voice soft but insistent.
"Lo sé," - I know - I reply, the words barely a whisper. My future, though, is a boxing ring where every punch I throw lands on my own flesh. And Sera... she's the fight I can't walk away from, no matter how bloodied I get.
"Promise me you'll be careful," Nora says after a heavy silence, her fingers gripping my arm with a strength that belies her size.
"Te lo prometo," I promise, knowing the risks ahead. But some things, like the pull of a relentless current, can't be fought. Not when love and loyalty are the tide.
Nora nods, her lips pressed into a thin line, and backs away, leaving me to face the darkness alone.
The following morning, water pelts my skin in sharp, staccato beats, the heat barely penetrating the chill that's settled deep in my bones. I lather up quickly, each movement mechanical. The steam doesn't fog up the mirror enough to obscure the worry lines etched across my forehead. As I step out of the shower, my hand hovers over my phone.
The urge to hear Serafina's voice is gnawing at me. I want to see her, touch her again. A few days without her is too long. But I hesitate, thumb hovering over her contact. Knowing the kind of people that they are, she's most likely already under their watchful eyes.
I drop the phone back onto the counter. The tile is cold beneath my feet as I move to get dressed, choosing clothes that are unassuming yet ready for whatever awaits.
I meet Dominic outside, his expression stoic, unreadable. The ride to the Mancini estate is silent, save for the hum of the car's engine—a luxury model that purrs rather than roars. Dom doesn't offer conversation, and I don't push for it.
Before long, the mansion comes into view like a scene from an old movie—grandiose, imposing. The gates alone are a masterpiece of ironwork, and beyond them, gardens unfold in a symphony of colors and manicured perfection. Seeing it up close, it’s even more grandiose than I could ever imagine.
We exit the vehicle, and Dominic leads me towards the front door without any words exchanged between us. My heart is pounding, my nerves on edge as we approach the massive double doors. Guards are posted everywhere, dressed in black suits with earpieces and stern expressions.
The front door swings open, and a rich aroma of garlic and tomatoes hits me like a punch. "This way," Dominic guides me past the massive foyer of the opulent interior - marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and ornate furnishings - through winding hallways until we come to a set of large wooden doors guarded by two men. They step aside without a word as Dominic opens the doors, revealing their expansive kitchen. An old-school Italian kitchen to complete their mafia kingdom.
There stands Isabella Mancini at the head of a long mahogany table, her dark eyes locking onto mine. "Lucas, benvenuto," she greets, her voice smooth as aged wine.
"Thank you," I murmur, following Dominic's lead into the space. The spread on the table is straight out of a Sicilian feast—platters of antipasto, bowls of steaming pasta, and loaves of crusty bread. My stomach growls, betraying my hunger, but my mind races with caution. Could any of this be laced with something more sinister than spices?
"Please, sit," Isabella gestures to the seat next to Dominic, her bracelets clinking softly. I ease into the chair, my muscles tensed, ready to spring up if needed.
"Looks incredible," I say, though my gaze drifts from the food to the matriarch of their entire operation.
"Dom has told me you've been quite preoccupied with our Serafina," Isabella begins, her fork delicately spearing a leaf of salad. Her eyes don't leave mine, and a sharpness in them belies her calm exterior.
I swallow hard, choosing my words with care. "Sera means a lot to me, se?ora. That's no secret." The words hang in the air between us, heavy with unspoken truths.
Isabella nods slowly, a knowing smile curving her lips. "And you to her. Passionate. Determined. A fighter. I can see what she likes about you." Her tone is complimentary, but it chills me more than flatters. What game is she playing here?
"Passion and determination can be double-edged swords, no?" I counter, finally picking up my fork and stabbing at the food. If they wanted to poison me, there were easier ways than a family dinner. And so, I eat, the flavors bursting on my tongue—a reminder of life's fleeting pleasures.
"Indeed, they can," Isabella agrees, watching me take another bite. "But such qualities are also what makes a man... memorable, wouldn't you agree?"
"Memorable enough to leave a mark, I suppose," I reply, feeling the weight of Isabella's gaze, heavy with implications and silent warnings.
"Si, a mark," she echoes, her voice dipping into a register that feels like a prelude to a storm.
"And some marks, Lucas, they never fade."
Isabella leans back in her chair, the silk of her dress whispering against the upholstery. She folds her hands neatly on the table, and there's a calculating glint in her dark eyes that makes my gut tighten.
"Lucas," she starts, her voice smooth as aged wine, "there's a way for you to remain close to Serafina."
I pause mid-chew, feeling the tension coil in the room. The fork hovers forgotten near my lips.
"Close? How?" I question, wary of the trap I sense snapping shut around me.
"We need a sicario." Her words land like a checkmate. "And you... you have all the qualities we admire."
A sicario. A hitman for the Mancini empire. My heart races, but I strive to keep my face impassive, unwilling to let her see the chaos her proposal stirs within me.
"Handsomely paid," she continues. "Enough to fund those dreams of yours... the gyms for the kids who have nothing."
She knows exactly what to say, how to bait the hook with just enough truth to make it tempting. But then she adds the condition that turns my blood cold.
"Under one condition—Serafina is to be untouched by you. She has... other obligations."
"Other... obligations?" I repeat, the words tasting like ash.
"Si," Isabella confirms, her tone final. "She is to marry soon to someone who can further our family's interests."
Marry. The world tilts dangerously, and I grip the table to steady myself, my knuckles turning white. To be so close to her yet forbidden to ever reach out—it's a cruel irony, one that could only come from the mind of a Mancini matriarch.
"Think carefully, Lucas," Isabella advises, her gaze never leaving mine. "This is the only way."
The Sicilian proverb comes to mind—'Cu è surdu, orbu e taci, campa cent'anni 'mpaci.' He who is deaf, blind, and silent will live a hundred years in peace. But peace is a luxury I can't afford, not when it means giving up Serafina without a fight.
"Lo pensaré," I murmur, knowing full well that each choice before me is laced with its own brand of poison. I’ll think about it.
"Oh, and one more thing," Isabella adds. "You’ll need to get someone to run that little gym of yours if you accept."
"Why?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Because you’ll be moving in with us, of course."