59 | He probably would have done it for anyone
The garden behind the Costa mansion stretches out in a riot of color, roses and hydrangeas tangled in a way that feels too wild for this place, too alive for the shadows that cling to every corner.
I stand at the edge of the lawn, my bare feet sinking into the warm grass while the new phone in my hand is an unfamiliar weight.
One of Luciano's maids pressed it into my palm this morning, her eyes averted, muttering something about replacements.
My old phone is still gone.
And so is he.
Two days.
Two days since he saw Ciara and Nate fucking on that screen. Since his face went blank and he left me in the dark with a clipped, "Stay here."
I haven't seen him since, and the silence is eating me alive.
I trace the phone's edge, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Is he hurting because of her?
Does he care that Ciara lied? Is he holed up somewhere, drowning his sorrows in whiskey, mourning a relationship that was never what he thought?
The thought twists something in my chest, sharp and bitter.
The garden blurs, my eyes stinging, and I shake my head, forcing the thoughts away.
I can't keep spinning like this, trapped in questions with no answers.
My fingers move before I can stop them, pulling up Franco's number, the only one in this fucked-up world who doesn't look at me like I'm a problem to be solved.
The phone rings, each trill tightening the knot in my stomach, until his voice cuts through, rough but warm. "Is everything okay, red? It's 3 in the morning."
Oh, right. He's across the world, so it must be in the middle of the night for him.
I swallow, my throat dry, and sink onto a stone bench, the cold seeping through my jeans.
"I don't know," I admit. "I just... I needed to talk to someone."
"What's going on?" Franco's tone shifts, sharper now, like he's already bracing for bad news.
I hesitate, the words tangling in my chest, but they spill out anyway, raw and unfiltered.
"Lotte called me. My ex-best friend. You know the one who didn't take my side... She... she sent me a video of Ciara. With another guy. They were... you know, together. Like, together together. They were fucking, so she wasn't a virgin when she got together with Luciano."
There's a long pause before Franco lets out a low whistle. "Shit. So Ciara played him. That's... damn."
"Yeah," I say, my fingers tightening around the phone.
"And it means... it means I don't have to be married to Luciano anymore. The whole thing, the code, the honor, whatever, it was all based on her lie. He doesn't have to stay with me to keep his title."
Franco's quiet again, and I can almost hear him thinking, weighing what to say.
"You sound like you're not sure that's a good thing," he says finally, careful, like he's stepping around broken glass.
I laugh, but it's brittle, cracking at the edges.
"I don't know what I feel. I just... I haven't seen him in two days, Franco.
He took my phone, saw the video, and then he was gone.
Just left. I don't know where he is, what he's doing.
Is he sad about her? Is he drinking himself stupid somewhere, thinking about what he lost with Ciara?
I keep wondering if he's... if he's hurting because it wasn't real with her.
And I fucking hate that I care."
"Aurelia," Franco says, his voice firm now, grounding me. "Luciano's not the type to cry over spilled milk. If he's off somewhere, it's not because he's mourning her. Trust me."
"Then where is he?"
Franco sighs, the sound heavy with something I can't place. "He's probably dealing with his own shit. From what I have heard, he always closes off, handles things alone. But he'll come back."
I pull my knees up, resting my chin on them, the garden fading into a blur of greens and reds.
"There's more," I say, quieter now, like saying it too loud will make it worse. "Luciano got shot over a week ago. We were in the car, and these guys, they came after us. He almost died. There's someone out there, someone dangerous."
Franco's voice tightens. "Are you okay?Did you get hurt?
"I'm fine now," I say quietly. "Luciano saved my life. They came out of nowhere, like they knew exactly where we'd be. I haven't screamed that much in my life."
Franco exhales sharply through his nose. "Fuck. And he got hit?"
I nod even though he can't see me. "He took a bullet for me. Didn't even flinch. Just... shielded me. Like it was instinct. He probably would have done it for anyone."
Franco exhales sharply. "No. Don't downplay it like that."
Before I can say more, I hear a faint sound behind me, a deliberate clearing of someone's throat.
I turn around and see Luciano's oldest sister.
She's not that much younger than him, she's in her mid-twenties, with sharp cheekbones, flawless skin, and eyes like polished obsidian.
She leans against the wrought iron archway that borders the garden, arms folded over her chest like she's been standing there for a while, listening.
I blink, caught off guard.
"I have to go," I murmur into the phone. "Thanks, Franco, for listening."
"Stay safe," he says, voice a little lower now. "And be careful. Always."
"You too." I end the call and lower the phone.
Luciano's sister tilts her head, a half-smile playing on her lips, but there's nothing warm about it.
"You think my brother would've taken a bullet for just anyone?" she asks, a quiet scoff in her voice. "Please. Luciano wouldn't do that for most people."
I straighten, suddenly feeling cold despite the late afternoon sun.
"He would've done it for my sister."
She hums thoughtfully. "Maybe. But not because he loved her. He only ever protected Ciara because of our father. Luciano's obsessed with earning his approval, and Ciara fit the image. Pretty, quiet, polished. Our father loved that, he always praised her."
"It was like our father spent months trying to program him into loving Ciara.
Like he was slowly brainwashing Luciano into believing she was the only kind of woman worthy of his last name.
The perfect little wife. Our father didn't just encourage it, he fed it to him, praised her relentlessly in front of him until Luciano couldn't tell the difference between what he wanted and what our father told him he should want. "
I watch her carefully. There's a strange gleam in her eye, a bitterness curled just beneath her words.
"You might be thinking, why didn't he just stand up to our father?
Why didn't he break away, or even put a bullet in him and end it all?
But that's the thing, you can't understand what it's like unless you've lived it.
Unless you've stood where he stood, grown up the way he did.
Just like I'll never understand how you can be so blind to the way Luciano looks at you. "
"Luciano doesn't look at me any certain way," I murmur. "He cares, sure... but it's not like that."
"You don't know where Gioia is, do you?" she says suddenly, gaze locked onto mine.
I shake my head slowly. "No... I haven't seen her since Luciano got shot."
She lets out a humorless laugh. "Luciano almost stripped her from the family."
My breath catches. Stripped her?
My pulse stutters at the implication. In this world, that's not just exile, it's called Death, without a bullet.
"You're serious?" I ask, stunned.
She looks away for a moment, jaw tightening. "I had to get down on my knees and stay on the floor for hours until my skin began to bruise...I begged him not to do it. I begged him not to destroy her and throw her out."
I stare at her, mind spinning. "Why would he even consider that?"
She looks at me with resentment. "He did it because of you."
The words hit like ice water down my spine.
"What?" I whisper. "Why? Is it because she screamed at me?"
"Yes. She disrespected you, and he didn't take her words lightly. And when it comes to you, he has becomevery..." She trails off, her gaze flicking past my shoulder.
Then her face changes.
Whatever she was about to say dies on her tongue. Her mouth closes in a tight line, her eyes shuttering instantly.
I glance behind me, but there's no one there, only a stretch of shadowed garden and the faint rustle of leaves.
When I turn back, she's already stepping away, her heels making no sound now as she walks back toward the mansion, her silence suddenly louder than anything she's said.
She disappears beyond the hedges without another word.
I'm left here, with too many questions and not enough answers.