The weight in my chest becomes unbearable.
I must make a sound—a sharp inhale or a shift of weight—because suddenly Luca’s head snaps up, his dark eyes finding me in the doorway like a predator locating prey.
“Giuliana.” My name comes out rough, surprised, and fuck me I love the way it sounds. “What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” The admission feels vulnerable in a way I don’t like. “I was walking and I saw the light?—”
“You should be in bed.” But there’s no real force behind the words, just exhaustion. Then his eyes narrow slightly. “This is the second time you’ve invaded my private office. Are you making a habit of ignoring boundaries?”
Heat creeps up my neck at the reminder. “I know. I’m sorry. I just—” I play with a loose thread in my robe, nerves suddenly taking over. But what do I even fucking say? That I wanted to see him? That the guilt about that stupid voice recording is eating me up alive?
But I’m not going to say any of that. I would rather admit that I know that Salvatore Romano is Marco’s killer than admit I wanted to see Luca. My eyes are drawn to the papers spread across his desk.
“You’re working on Marco’s case,” I say, hoping that changes the subject.
His expression shutters immediately, his wall slamming back into place. “That’s not your concern.”
“Isn’t it?” I move closer, careful to keep the desk between us. “My father’s the one you’re blaming. I’d say that makes it very much my concern.”
Luca leans back in his chair, studying me with those dark eyes that make my stomach twist into a pretzel. In the soft lighting of the desk lamp, his features are all sharp angles and shadows. Even exhausted and disheveled, he’s devastatingly handsome. In another life, he probably would have been a model or an actor.
“What do you want, Giuliana?” His voice carries a warning. “Because if you came here to plead your father’s case again, I’m not in the mood.”
“I want to understand.” I wrap my arms around myself, the cashmere robe suddenly not warm enough. “I want to understand what happened to Marco.” He opens his mouth, but I stop him with a raised palm. “Not your sanitized version where my father is to blame because he sold information,” I correct him, watching his eyes narrow. “The real story. What actually happened that night.”
Multiple expressions cross his face in seconds—surprise, maybe, or suspicion. “Why?”
“Because you’re using it to justify destroying my life and my father’s,” I say bluntly. “You invoke Marco’s name every time you need to remind yourself I deserve this punishment. So I want to know exactly what I’m paying for.”
The honesty seems to surprise him. He studies me for a long moment, conflict playing across his features. Then he pushes one of the files toward me.
“Sit down.”
I settle into the chair across from his desk, my heart hammering. This feels dangerous in ways I can’t articulate—not physically dangerous, but emotionally. Like whatever happens in this room tonight will change something fundamental between us.
Luca pulls out a photograph. It’s not a crime scene photo, thankfully, but one of him and Marco. They’re younger, maybe mid-twenties, standing in front of what looks like a warehouse. Marco has his arm slung around Luca’s shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera like they own the world.
“This was taken the day we finalized our first major shipping contract,” Luca says quietly, his eyes never leaving the photo. “Marco was twenty-five, I was twenty-six. We’d been working toward this deal for two years, and when it finally came through—” He stops, pain crossing his face. “We felt invincible.”
I don’t say anything; I just wait for him to continue.
“Marco was supposed to be the legitimate face of our operations,” Luca continues, setting the photo down carefully. “He had the education, the charm, and the ability to make people trust him. I was the enforcer, the one who handled problems when charm didn’t work.”
His mouth moves as if he’s trying to get his words out properly. “We were supposed to complement each other. Build something that could transition from purely criminal enterprises into legitimate business over time. Marco’s dream was to go fully legal within ten years.”
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“What happened is your father sold information about a weapons shipment to people who wanted Marco dead.” The words come out with venom, but I’ve learned that means he’s feeling too much to let any emotion show. “Marco was supposed to meet with an arms dealer at the Port of Chicago to oversee a transfer. I was supposed to be there too, but at the last minute I got called away to handle a territorial dispute on the North Side.”
He pulls over another file, this one filled with typed reports and handwritten notes. “The meeting was supposed to be routine. Marco had done dozens like it. But someone had leakedthe exact time, location, and security protocols. When Marco arrived, they were waiting.”
His hands are clenched into fists on the desk now, knuckles white.
“They took him to a warehouse about half a mile from the meeting point. Zip-tied him to a chair and spent hours trying to get information out of him.”
I press my hand to my mouth, horror washing through me. “Luca?—”
“They tortured him,” he continues, his voice gone hollow. “Cigarette burns, broken fingers, cuts designed to cause maximum pain without killing. And through all of it, through hours of agony, Marco never gave themanything.” A fierce sense of pride crosses Luca’s features. “He died protecting information that could have saved his life.”
