xxiv | from the grave

a/n: re-reading the previous chapter is highly recommended. there will be no recap.

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August 2015

A sudden flash of lightening illuminates the monstrous hallways of the Luciano estate. It's paired with a thunderous roar; one that causes the ground beneath Liam's feet to shake and the large, ornate windows to shudder. Rain pelts the glass of the windows while the wind howls. The house has never felt so large. So empty.

A blanket drags behind a sleepless Liam as he trudges down the hallway, jolting softly whenever thunder clapped. He's glad everyone is sleep, no-one able to witness his pathetic fear. He's never understood the psychological reasoning behind it, although Michael did once tell him that the night Zara left for good, it was storming.

He's made this walk a million times as a young child, and he makes it once more as a grown, twenty-eight year old man. Yet, his walk of fright always manages to lead him to the same place. Michael Luciano's office.

Without fail, he finds his father sitting behind his desk. Sometimes Liam finds him sitting alone, focusing on the way the liquor moves inside his crystal glass as he twirls it. Other times he finds Michael in a heated chess game against himself. Only once did he ever try to play his father. He lost. Miserably. There were nights when Michael was determined to lessen the mountain of papers on his desk, signing them with flourish and careless abandon. As if he doesn't give a fuck as to what he just approved. Then there are other nights where he just sits, eyes closed. Not sleep, just resting.

But tonight is different.

As a young boy, Liam would commonly hear others of high status try to explain the power of his father's presence. Nobody could pinpoint the appropriate word to use when Michael Luciano entered a room, because even power feels inferior to the energy that surrounds him.

Heads turn, people bow, and voices proclaim at his affect.

The difference between tonight and any other night is easy for Liam to spot as he slowly, cautiously makes his way deeper inside his father's sanctuary.

The flame in Michael's eyes that Liam was certain would burn for eternity, is nothing but a flicker.

He knows, as does the man seated.

Michael Davidé Luciano's time is coming to an end.

Liam tightens the grip on his blanket, hugging it closer to his bare chest. It trails holy ground and the thought makes him smile, ever-so-softly. Michael's office—the sanctuary—is never open to visitors. This was always the place Michael would retreat for peace and quiet during his reign. The rule was simple.

Walking into Michael's office without an invitation from the king himself was an immediate execution.

Liam can't count just how many bodies he witnessed them drag out his father's office on his way out the kitchen as a kid, his after-school snack in one hand and a gaming controller in the other.

He drops to the seat opposite of his father's as the ground beneath his feet trembles once more. The lone lamp in the corner of the room flickers as thunder roars and the wind picks up. Liam's grasp tightens in nervousness, but Michael's concentration doesn't divert from the framed photo in his hand.

With a sigh, Michael drops the picture to his desk, giving Liam an opportunity to glance at it.

"You never talk about him." Their eyes meet as Liam nods toward the old, black and white photograph. The gentleman in the photo is tall, dressed in a three-piece suit, just like Michael is tonight. He holds a small, innocent newborn in his hand and stares at the child like Michael was staring at this picture. "My grandfather. Your father," Liam explains, "You never talk about him."

The exhaustion in Michael's voice is evident. His accent is thicker than usual, his English choppier than ever. But Liam doesn't struggle in understanding him. "Does that bother you?"

Michael misses Liam's indecisive shrug.

"I mean," Liam pulls his attention from his father, dropping his gaze back to the photo of Michael's dad. "Rico talks about his grandfather, Antonio, sometimes. Vince's dad. You know Rico calls him—"

"Grand-daddy T." Michael nods, fighting back a grim smile. He's never really voiced his full, honest opinion on Vincenzo's protégé and son, Federico De Santis. But from what he's seen, he's liked—except when the bastard shot him in the fucking foot. The boy, however, works hard and trains harder. He was born with the confidence that Michael Luciano had to instill in himself at his lowest point. He sees a little bit of himself in Federico, yet he's never had to chance to tell the assassin that if he wants to reach his full potential, he must do what has to be done.

He needs to stop fighting himself and accept what he is – and what he will become.

"I wouldn't say it bothers me," Liam pauses, somewhat hesitating on what else to add. "When I was little, I used to ask about your past all the time and you always blew me off. And I know you probably thought I was just being an annoying child but..." Again, Liam hesitates. The clock on the wall strikes an hour long past midnight, making the admission of Liam's next statement easier than ever. "I've always wanted to know what made you, you. Like, how you became who you are. And I know little things, like mom and some of the wars you fought as King, but you've never gone back any further than that and I've never understood wh—"

"He died when I was an infant." Michael subtly tilts his head toward the photograph.

Michael has never been a man of too many words, but over the years, Liam has learned that he isn't much for facial expressions either. Liam once heard a few highly established Dons discuss how they would rather play Russian roulette than sit across from Michael Luciano in a poker game. But if your focused and patient, it has come to Liam's attention that his father does, indeed, express emotion.

"A hit?" Liam assumes.

Michael releases a breath and focuses on Liam. "No. His brother killed him."

Liam inches to the edge of his seat as disbelief and disgust twists his expression. "His own blood?"

Michael raises a finger, pointing towards one of the many enlarged photos that line his office. Liam knows most of them as the Kings who came before him. Some have no relation to the Luciano men, but Michael found it appropriate to respect some of the greatest each generation has seen. Each picture is displayed for all to see, except one. Tucked in the corner, easily hidden whenever the office doors are open, is the man who murdered Michael's father.

Unbeknownst to Michael, Liam has analyzed every single photo on these wall. More than once. As a kid, when he knew Michael wouldn't be home for hours, he would rush inside his father's office and pay respect to the men and women who came before him. To the men and women who led the way. He stumbled on that specific photo many times before yet was never able to find the courage to ask Michael who the man in the picture was.

"His name was Azazel." Liam turns back to Michael, his interest piqued. "He had a scar. It ran from him temple to his chin. Took up the right side of his face. No one knew him as Azazel, we were just unoriginal as shit and called him Scar." Michael looks up and if Liam blinked, he would've missed the spark that's threatening to ignite in his father's eyes. "But Azazel is the name I put on his gravestone when I was done with him."

The raging wind, rumbling thunder, and flashes of lightening are nothing but background noise now.

"To keep this short and sweet: Azazel convinced a third of the Luciano empire to betray their King and orchestrate his death. He murdered my father, took my throne, and lied to my face, every single day, till I learned the truth." Michael's eyebrows connect as a muscle in his jaw ticks.

"What happened then?"

Michael's lips press together as his attention diverts from Liam, and on to the photo across the room as old memories arise. "Nothing. But then even those who had worshipped the ground my father walked on treated Azazel like a god. Even though the throne was rightfully mine, they didn't want me on it. And he wasn't giving it up."

"What?" Liam lets out a breath as he tries to piece together the snippets of Michael's story. There's so much his father isn't telling him, yet Liam is thankful for even the slightest of glimpses into his past. "And your mom? She was okay with this? Was she even around?"

Liam's question is like a bullet to Michael's chest. It tears through every wall the ex-King has ever put up, until it finds itself where his heart should be.

Michael's eyes snap open and the pain that altered his expression is in his eyes as well. "She was never a mother to me. She was worse than Azazel and just like him, she stood in the way of what was rightfully mine. I beat her to death, and Vincenzo watched."

Liam's lips part, but Michael finds the words faster than him.

"I don't remember experiencing a woman's love until your mom."

Michael blinks slowly, drawn from his office as memories of he and his ex-wife unravel before him on replay. The first time he ever laid eyes on her. She was shy, reserved—simply waiting for the right person to bring who she truly was, out of her. He sees their first dance. Feels her first touch, her hug, and the warmth that danced across her fingertips. But what he'll never forget, is the way she made him feel.

"I think that's why I fell in love with her as quickly as I did. She gave me something nobody ever had. She was patient, loving, and kind. We had our problems—I had my problems—but we grew together." Michael smiles, reminiscing on memories he knows he'll never share.

"I hear that's important." Liam leans forward, eyes darting between his father's—trying to read between the lines. "Growing together, in a relationship, I mean."

Michael nods, taking a few seconds to remain in his thoughts. "You, and all the others, know your mother as Zara." He lifts his attention to his son, who sits on the edge of his seat, listening intently. "But I will always know her as who she was born as. Jaiyana. My Jaiyana. My strength. And my gift from God."

"Why did you send your gift away then?"

Michael Luciano has only been asked this same question a thousand times. Through hundreds of sleepless nights as he entertained the battle in his head—between the side of him that craved a woman's love versus the power-hungry leader who lost most of himself to claim this throne—he concluded. As much as he loved Jaiyana Zara, he loved this empire more—on the sole fact that he sacrificed most of himself to obtain it.

But Michael has never vocalized that, not to anybody, and especially not to his son. He doesn't believe Liam would understand, so instead, he responds as he always does when this question is poised—with silence.

Liam sighs. "Dad, listen, I'm—"

"Don't."

"No, I'm so—"

Michael rises from his seat, pressing his hips against the edge of his desk. His palm meets the wood below, causing pain to reverberate through his fingers and up his forearm. He's numb to it. "Don't." Liam forces himself to stay still, his immediate reaction to lean backwards, to create a distance between himself and his dad. Michael's voice is deep, his tone lethal.

Slowly, he lowers himself back into his chair, an explanation following shortly after. "I don't seek sympathy. I don't tell people my story because I know they would all try to get in my face and tell me how sorry they are. But I'm not sorry. The world—society—" Michael waves in dismission, "—they call them sob stories. But they're origin stories. We all have one. Everyone who has ever reached the top has lost somebody."

Liam frowns as he tries to process Michael's statement. "What about Vincenzo? Who did he lose?"

Michael shakes his head, deciding against telling his boy a story that'll certainly take the rest of the night. "That's Vince's story to tell, boy." He tucks his lower lip into his mouth, eyeing the eager look on Liam's face. "But let's just say that the brutality of this life hasn't changed a bit. Vincenzo's mother was African and because of that she was beaten and murdered by a gang of racist men. Vince was forced to watch."

Their eyes lock as two words fall from the lips of the father and son duo at precisely the same time, confirming the psychological issue both have seen in the De Santis leader. "Control issues."

Liam swallows hard, a part of him wanting to dive deeper, despite knowing he would have to obtain all the answers from Vincenzo himself. So instead, he refocuses on his father. "You never told me how you got the throne. How did you get Azazel to step down?"

Michael smiles slowly. "That's a story for another time."

And Liam nearly throws up his hands in protest. "Oh, come on! You can't do that. How did you get the throne?"

Michael lets out a breath and leans back in his seat, hands tightly gripping the armrests of his chair. He tilts his head to the side, scanning Liam's expression. The crease in his boy's brows deepens and his lips slightly part. Michael sees all of Zara's best features in his son. From his lips to his hair. But the eyes—Michael has always seen himself in his son. Not on the outside, but the in.

"When you were ten," Michael shifts in his seat, loosening a button of his suit jacket. "I was tucking you in bed and you asked me why we were bad people. I told you that we never had a choice to be good, because somewhere growing up, we came face to face with someone worse than us. And I told you, I said, you cannot destroy a monster—"

"—without becoming one," Liam finishes, remembering the conversation like it was yesterday. "Why're you telling me all this now?"

Liam senses his father's hesitation, struggling between two potential responses. The one on the tip of his tongue and the one in the back of his head. Michael glances away, eyes narrowing and when he speaks, he speaks slowly, coherently. He doesn't want Liam to miss a single word.

"Kings used to see their eightieth, seventieth, sixtieth birthday," Michael admits softly. "Not anymore. Each generation is living shorter and shorter."

"Why?"

"We're killing each other faster than we can birth heirs," He answers. "You don't live long in this world. Not anymore. I'm going to be honest with you." Michael allows his attention to fall on Liam. "I would be surprised if you made it out your thirties, boy. Vincenzo will be lucky if he lives to see forty-five and I—" For the first time in a while, Michael hesitates. "I'm not going to see my next birthday."

"Don't say that," is all Liam can plead, but when his father's eyes reach his once more, Liam knows, as does Michael. His time is coming to an end, and in one last desperate plea, Liam repeats, "Please don't say that. You can't say that. You've always been here. I can't do this without you—"

"Elijah, please—"

"No." The panic in Liam's voice is what causes Michael to stop. "You're a shitty father—"

"Well God fuckin' damn."

"—but you've always been here. You were here when I took the throne. When I made my first mistake. And you've done some stupid shit, but it's always been for the empire. Always." Liam scoots to the edge of his seat, worried. And Michael can do nothing but look away when emotion rises in the corner of Liam's eyes and threatens to spill over. "I'm—the thought of running this by myself—"

"We are going to save Faith." Michael insists. "You will have Faith. You aren't alone, just..." The corner of his lips curls upwards as he whispers, "have faith."

"That—it doesn't matter," Liam's voice strains as he clutches the fabric of his blanket, threatening to tear a hole through it's sheer, yet soft material. "I'm not you. I'll never be you and everyone knows that—"

"I gave you my empire!" Michael's startling shout rattles the walls of the Luciano estate. Liam swears even the storm calms at the sound of his father's voice. "The only thing I take pride in. If I didn't trust that you could reign without me, I would've never given this to you."

Michael balls a fist and slams it against his table, jaw working in irritation. He's angry, but he isn't mad at Liam. He's upset that his child still doubts himself. Despite all the good he's done. Despite how proud he's made his father.

"Boy—" Michael licks his lower lip and shakes his head, releasing a breath in astonishment as to what he's about to say. Michael's never been good with words. His presence has always done the speaking. His hand motions have always ordered his commands. And a swift expression change has always been his response. But he looks at his son now, lost. Lost for what he's about to say as he eyes down the boy he raised, the infant he once helped feed, and the future of this generation.

The words finally come.

"I love you. I trust you. And if I didn't feel as though you were ready, I would've never given you the keys to the only thing in my life that has continuously made me happy."

Liam fights back an unbelieving scoff. "I'm your only heir. You had no choice in whether you wanted to give me this shit or not."

"Bullshit," Michael grinds out. "I could run this empire from the grave. I may not be able to make the commute from here to hell and back, but my demons can."

Liam lets out a gentle laugh, not because he doesn't believe Michael could in fact run an empire from his grave, but a laugh of respect. Confidence is not something Michael has ever lacked.

"I used to be you." Liam snaps his eyes back to Michael's at the sound of the older man's voice. His eyebrows crease together in concentration as he listens carefully. "I wasn't always like this. I told you that everybody who reaches the top has lost somebody. I lost myself."

Liam grips the armrests of the chair and rises to his feet, jaw tight. "That's a nice story and everything dad, but I—"

"—Sit your ass down."

Liam plops back down in the seat with an aggravated sigh.

"You're not me because you haven't been broken like me." The detachment in Michael's tone is what captures Liam's attention for the final time.

Dancing between the deepening browns of Michael's eyes is the soul of the good man he once was, trapped behind the rage of the monster he inevitably became.

And just for a second, Liam sees himself in his father's eyes. Within that sliver of time, the future and the past collide in a way they never have before, and Liam witnesses what he may eventually become. Despite all the hardships they went through together, this moment—this is the closest Liam has ever felt towards his father. And it scares him.

Because as spatial perception suggests, people feel closer to objects that they are moving towards, than those they are moving away from.

"The things I saw—the things I had to do to—to get this." Michael gestures to the room, to the house, to the acreage their mansion resides on—to the empire. "What I went through to get the throne is not something I ever wanted you to go through. Stop doubting yourself. You're my son. You're the king I wanted to be. The man Jaiyana wanted me to be. You don't have to be me to accomplish great things."

Michael watches the fight, the anger, and irritation leave his sons body as he relaxes in his seat.

"You don't have to be me to be great," Michael emphasizes. "You're the king the future deserves. The king this empire deserves. You care, you love, you feel—and don't ever let someone make you think you're weak for that. You do not need to make people fear you to respect you, boy."

Only the kings that Michael conquered and the kings that Liam will would understand the fear and respect the power that radiates between the gaze the two Luciano men share.

And we know the end is near when the past leans towards the future and warns him. "The sins of the father are to be laid upon the children."

Liam nods, familiar with the quote. "William Shakespeare."

"I said it once and I'll say it again. If I didn't believe in you, I would've never given you my empire. Like Shakespeare said, the sins of the father will fall on the children—the sins of the man who reigned before you, will fall on you. My past mistakes will arise when I'm gone and everything I have ever done to you, every test I've ever put you through, was to see if you could handle them."

The future leans towards the past and lowers his own voice in question. "And what's the verdict?"

"You'll do fine."

"Even if I'm scared?"

Michael frowns, unable to fathom how easily the words came out of Liam's mouth. It's one of the many reasons he respects the boy, one of the many reasons he knows his kid is destined for greatness.

Michael Luciano was never given a chance to be gentle, to be open, to be one with what he's feeling. There was never anyone around for him to vent his feelings to, never anyone around who wouldn't judge him for feeling scared, nervous, or anxious. And by the time there was, it was too late.

One could put a gun to Michael's head, threatening to kill him if he didn't admit his deepest, sincerest feelings and the ex-king would still bite his tongue.

He was more confident in the fact that no weapon formed against him would prosper than in expressing his feelings.

"Even if you're scared." Michael nods. He stands moments later, his fingers finding the button of his suit jacket. He undoes the button, only to secure it once again as he rounds edge of his desk. Liam can tell his father wants to say more, but as Michael props himself on the edge of his desk, keeping one leg planted on the ground, he hesitates.

Liam stands, not entirely wanting Michael to further the discussion on why he's scared—because deep in his heart, Liam doesn't know either. Not entirely.

"I should get to bed." Is Liam's means of departure as he stands and turns to leave.

A multitude of appropriate responses shoot through Michael's head as he pushes himself off his desk, taking a hesitant step towards his retreating son. His fingers find the cool, polished band of the gold ring that clings to his fourth finger. The ring Michael would always find himself absentmindedly twisting and rotating whenever he was in a boring meeting. The ring Michael would mess with whenever he took his time deciding on whether he should take a life or spare it.

The ring infant Liam would always reach for, always grab whenever in his father's arms.

Michael tugs the ring off and holds it between two fingers as he announces. "I want you to have this."

Liam turns around immediately, eyes narrowing as he spots the jewelry in Michael's hand. He approaches slowly, always having been intrigued by fine jewelry. With just a glance Liam can decipher that the ring is old, but in good condition. There's a small scratch, maybe two. He reaches for it and swears his father's shoulders tighten when his fingertips brush the ring.

"Azazel took it off my father's body when he murdered him," Michael says, cautiously watching Liam appreciate the intricately designed ring band. "And I took it off Azazel's when I did the same. I figured you would take it off mine, but you never—"

"We have our differences." Liam's attention snaps across the short distance between them and lands on Michael's eyes. "But I wouldn't kill you. I couldn't kill you."

Michael fights back a smile. "Besides myself, you're the only man in this world that could end my life without me giving the permission to do so."

"I need you," Liam nods quickly. His eyes drop from his father, scanning his recently acquired gift. Liam knows the ring is of significant value, simply because Michael has never been one for giving gifts. And Liam understands as his eyes catch the four words engraved on the inner side of the ring.

Blessing. Honor. Glory. Power.

"No, you don't." Michael steps toward Liam, who glances between him and the engraving, like he's trying to piece together a puzzle of three thousand pieces. "You don't need me to beat Ryan. You don't need me to make a name for yourself. You don't need me for people to respect you, to fear you, to worship you. You've done all of this by yourself and you'll lead this family to the promised land, without me."

Liam looks like he's about to interject, but his eyes drop to the engraved words on the ring. He pauses, almost hesitates, before sliding the ring down his finger. It's a perfect fit.

Michael steps forward and starts the hallowed saying, one that's been passed down from generation to generation since the beginning of their time.

"Blessing and honor."

Liam meets Michael's gaze, intent in reciting the saying he's heard since he was a little boy. But only recently has it begun to truly make sense.

"Glory and power."

And together, the father son duo, the past and the present, the one who was and the one who is, declare, "Forever."

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Sleep and I have become strangers.

I can't remember the last night I slept good, and the streak continues when Liam jolts awake, gasping, breathless. His fingers curl around the sheets below us as a thin layer of sweat clings to his brow. He doesn't close his eyes, too afraid that he'll fall back into whatever nightmare he narrowly escaped from.

Nightmares. They're beginning to happen more and more frequently, and unlike before, Liam doesn't indulge me in the details of them. I know this one was bad, solely on the way Liam drags to take a breath in—the panic he felt in the dream far too real for his liking.

The sound of my voice softly calling his name and placing a gentle touch to his bare shoulders is enough to shake him from his fear. I know it's fear. I see it in his eyes when he snaps his attention towards me and catches my eyes in the dark room.

All I can do is tell him that it's ok, but as the seconds pass, I know that it isn't. I stray from repeating words of comfort and rely on the comfort of touch. I grab at his broad shoulders and lean down, planting a series of warm kisses across his skin. I don't stop till I feel the tension in them lessen.

I catch the digital clock on the nightstand, announcing in bright red numbers that it's nearly six in the morning. The morning of November thirteenth. My twenty-third birthday. But this morning doesn't feel any different than any other morning. That upsets me, but not as much as the shuddering sigh that escapes Liam's lips just a second later.

I rest a cheek against his shoulder and murmur, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Liam wipes the side of his face, clearing his complexion from the perspiration the nightmare caused. His hand finds my thigh through the mess of blankets I'm tangled beneath and gives it a gentle squeeze. "I just—" He runs his hand down my leg and lets out another breath. "I don't want to talk about it."

I scoot closer to him and lower myself back to the bed, pressing the side of my face into the nearest pillow. He hooks my legs across his lap while I tug his arm towards me and clutch his bicep like it's my lifeline.

"What do you want to talk about then?"

Liam's full lips part, showcasing the prettiest smile I'll ever lay eyes on. He draws closer to me and in a lower whisper, mumbles, "My favorite subject." He gives my leg another squeeze before pressing his lips to my cheek. He trails a short path to my ear as his smile grows. "Happy birthday, gorgeous."

He pulls back and I smile up at him. All I can do is smile. All I can do is focus on keeping my bottom lip from shaking. From revealing how I truly feel. But I came to realize long ago that there isn't much I can hide from Liam. There's nothing I can hide. He'll either figure it out now, or he'll figure it out later.

I can't even bring myself to voice how I feel. I can't bring myself to speak the words on my heart knowing how selfish they would sound. I'm upset because I'm not happy. I'm not happy on my birthday, a feeling that never sat right with me on this day out of the other three hundred and sixty-four. I don't want to be stuck in the middle of a goddamn war, with everyone I love in the trenches—fighting the battle we all know about, and the ones we do not. I want to be on the beach, watching the sunrise and the sunset with the man I love, not trying to find a five-year-old girl who's been snatched from her mother and placed in the arms of men who don't even deserve to hold their own children.

I don't say anything, for even complaining to Liam would sound ridiculous. I'm a white woman in a world that will accept me no matter what I am. A white woman in a world full of privilege for my kind, who could've become anything, who could've studied anything. But I chose this life. I chose Liam.

I would feel terrible to complain about a life I willingly chose, while the man hovering above me never had another option.

I smile up at him, eyes closing momentarily as he brushes a strand of hair away from my face. A breathless, "Thank you," is all I can say. Long enough to acknowledge his statement. Short enough that my voice doesn't crack.

But he sees right through it, and I should've known. "Next year will be different." He quietly promises. "I'll take you wherever you want for your birthday. I'll rent out an entire ski-resort, a whole lodge just for you to see snow again. I'll fly you to whatever island you want. You name it. You'll get it. I just—I feel terrible—"

"Don't." A single word is enough to cut Liam short. He releases a deep sigh, exhaling every ounce of disappointment within himself all at once.

"I couldn't even get you a birthday gift," Liam admits.

The last few days have been intense. Liam and the rest of the soldiers have amped up their attempts on finding Savaughna and Veleno's daughter, knowing time is now of the essence. I've been spending my time with my mother, trying to keep the peace all while making up for all the years we lost—and, in fact, keeping my eyes on her. Long days transformed to even longer nights and it often felt like the only time I saw Liam was when we were getting in and out of bed. It doesn't surprise me that Liam never found the time to buy me something.

"Sleep in with me. That would be a gift in itself."

His faint smile is a rare one, but it urges on my own as he lays back down beside me. His eyes close as he rests a hand on my hip, tugging me closer. I entangle my legs with his, only to watch him flinch when my cold feet touch his. His reaction drags a laugh out of me and the sight of him relaxed, even if only for a moment, makes my smile grow.

"I have a question."

"Hm?"

I snuggle closer to him and rest my head just below his chin. "Back at the hospital it was mentioned that somewhere on the internet there's a picture of you and Rihanna. Is that true?"

Liam opens his eyes and pushes himself up on his elbow. "I wasn't always family focused," His voice is deep, laced with sleepy fog that makes him appear even more attractive than he already is. Liam smiles as he reminisces on memories long before I came into his life. "I had a ridiculously rich father who didn't really care when I came home or what I did, throw in the fact that we lived in Los Angeles and you could say I mingled with more than my fair of celebrities in my party years. But when I took over the company as CEO I was invited to a lot of premieres and red-carpet events. That's how I met Rihanna."

"And how did this picture get taken?"

"My bodyguard nudged me and said Rihanna had asked if she could take a photo with me."

"You're bullshitting."

"I kid you not."

"Rihanna asked to take a picture with you?"

"Should I be offended that you're so shocked?"

"Wow," I sigh blissfully. "I don't know who's luckier. You, because Rihanna requested a picture of you two together. Or her, for taking a picture with you."

There's no hesitation in Liam's voice as he declares, "Me." He rolls over, smothering me by surprise. My muffled scream doesn't make it far. He leans back, just long enough to add, "Because you love me."

Liam kisses the side of my neck, making it the perfect time to announce, "I mean, I love Rihanna too—"

Liam's laugh is the best sound I've heard in days and as he pulls away, I notice that his smile is wider than I've seen in what feels like the longest time. He drops to the mattress beside me, whispering his love and appreciation for me in my ear. He's smiling against my skin, his tone light—happy—and it feels like the perfect moment. Something we haven't had in I don't know how long. But then someone knocks on the door and like every other, our moment is cut too short. Liam's smile fades. My stomach drops.

Austin and Steven march in without a command. They haven't slept. That much is obvious. They look like they both tried to mask the fact that sleep hadn't come to either of them. But their lack of sleep doesn't scare me, nor does the fact that their clothes are wrinkled, and they've probably consumed more cups of coffee this morning than the average human being.

And although the tears in Steven's eyes churn the concern growing in the pit of my stomach, what scares me is the fact that they've marched into our bedroom—Liam's bedroom—without so much as an invitation from the king himself, knowing the repercussions that he's laid on unknowing soldiers who have done the same.

Steven uses a sleeve of the slightly oversized sweatshirt he sports to wipe at his eyes. He doesn't see Liam swing his legs over the edge of the bed, grasping at the edge, not sure if he should stand up or remain seated. He doesn't see me scoot to my knees, palms beginning to sweat as I anticipate the explanation for their reasoning as to why they're standing in our room so early in the morning. And he doesn't witness the caring look he receives from Austin, who's lips part at the sight of him crying.

Austin turns away from Steven and clears his throat. "Because of..." I can feel the eyes of Liam's second in command fall on me. It's been a while since I've felt so exposed. The t-shirt I'm wearing doesn't cover up much and I find myself tugging our comforter up to my chest. Austin's eyes drop in an honest apology.

Then he steps forward, leaving Steven behind him. "Savaughna and Veleno's daughter, Analía, was dropped off at the house this morning."

Something tells me not to jump for joy.

"Dead." Austin prepares to conclude. "In a box. With a note from Valentin that says, Happy Birthday, Ms. Faith Ann Crawford."

My hand can't move fast enough to stop the sound of the sob that slips past my lips. I can't blink fast enough to stop my vision from blurring. I can't grab something to hold onto fast enough to stop my hands from shaking as tears freefall.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise, but there isn't much in this world that I've wanted more than to hear Austin tell us that the little girl was found safe, sound, and ready to come home to her mother.

We were supposed to save her.

I wipe my eyes hastily, catching eye contact with all of them. Steven buries his face in his hands, while Austin shifts awkwardly, casting his eyes to the floor. Liam is the only one in the room with dry eyes and it takes all but a second for me to understand why.

He saw it coming. This was his nightmare.

"In retaliation a—shit." Austin turns away quickly, drawing a finger to the corner of his eye. We wait, anticipating Austin recovers from the wave of emotion that hits him, but it never comes. In fact, it only worsens when Steven steps to his side and rests a comforting hand on his back.

I never thought the day would come that Austin would stand before us, openly vulnerable. Over the last couple of days Austin, Liam, and Giovanni have been spending countless hours together trying to pinpoint the Analía's location before it was too late. They fell short—whether it was by days, hours, or minutes, they fell short. They were too late.

Austin exhales briefly, ignoring the unsteadiness of his voice. "In retaliation to what we found this morning, a soldier broke protocol." Both he and Steven share a quick knowing glance, but when Austin refocuses he can't manage to look Liam in the eye. "In a war like the one we find ourselves in, we cannot afford missteps. This soldier made a mistake, and he deserves to be punished as—"

"They tortured her."

Two soldiers' storm into the room behind the commander of our army, desperately trying to grab hold of him—desperately trying to contain him. Austin and Steven part ways as Giovanni stumbles forward, breathless. Blood is smeared across his face, partially dry, partially wet. My eyes travel down the rest of his body, catching the blood that trails a line down his jaw and slips beneath his shirt. His shirt appears to be soaked with it, but I know his own perspiration creates that effect.

"I found the body. I found her body." Giovanni begins his plea, and despite the number of individuals in the room, he only addresses the highest in power. "They tortured her. Valentin tortured a little girl."

Austin steps forward, shooting the soldier a wicked glare. "That doesn't make what you did right."

Giovanni returns the stare but finds no words to say.

Liam's jaw slackens and for the first time since the news broke, he looks like he's about to say something. His silence is scarier than the blood dripping from Commander Esposito's fingertips. It's scarier than any outburst I've ever seen from him because I know his anger. I wish he would punch a wall, shatter his phone, or chuck the nearest lamp. Anything but this. Anything but silence.

Austin faces Giovanni, speaking before Liam can find the words. "Without your approval, this idiot—the commander of your army, the soldier every other supposedly respects, looks up to, and follows, got a group of soldiers together and organized a retaliation." Austin turns to Liam. "They ambushed a few safe houses belonging to the Rostov family that held a multitude of his soldiers' families. They killed innocent women and children."

Liam's attention falls on the soldier whose actions are now in question. "Is this true?"

The exhaustion that washes over Giovanni's stern expression is like I've never seen before. His shoulders fall, his face drops, his head bows, and it takes all of the energy he has left not to drop to his knees. Every word spoken from the mouth of the commander has been laced with power and high authority, but not today. Today, it's defeat. "Liam, they tortured her."

And I see Liam's shoulders drop.

"That doesn't make it right," Austin insists.

Giovanni's eyes shut as he lets out a shuddering breath. "Aus—" He winces and corrects himself, knowing the man he wants to argue with is still of higher power than him—than he ever will be. "Mr. Romano, sir, they had it coming."

Austin turns to Giovanni, his jaw tight. "An eye for an eye and the whole fucking world goes blind."

All respect goes out the window as the Giovanni whirls on Austin, fire burning in his eyes. The soldiers who escorted him in jump forward to restrain Gio, but they fail. Their chests meet, but Austin doesn't back down, despite the transfer of blood from Giovanni's clothes to his.

I don't realize how intense Giovanni's accent is till he says, "Then we all best start learning fucking braille."

Austin shoves him, sending Giovanni stumbling backwards. The bottom of his boot is slick with the blood of all their victims, and he slips, leaving multiple boot-prints on the floor. He hits the ground hard, the expression on his face twisting to a half smile, half grimace. His teeth are white against his brown complexion and appear even whiter thanks to the blood that's smeared across his handsome face.

"Tell him he was wrong." Austin pleads his case to Liam as he turns away, uninterested in how Gio finds his way to his feet again. "We don't kill innocent women and we especially do not kill innocent children—fuck, children in general."

"Just..." Liam turns his back on our visitors, and his tear-filled eyes meet my tear-stained cheeks. It isn't till he presses his palms into the mattress and shuts his eyes, focusing on his breathing that I understand his silence was due to him feeling overwhelmed. His fingers tighten on the sheets below and his jaw tenses. "Stop," He breathes out.

Austin doesn't hear him and takes another step forward. "We aren't like that, are we?"

Liam's silence is deafening. Terrifying.

But it's nothing compared to the look he gives me when he opens his eyes.

I've seen that look before.

In Michael's eyes.

"So, what? What do you want me to tell your soldiers, Liam? That we execute babies now?"

"Kill them all," is his simple command.

"Have you lost your—" Austin chuckles, nearly beside himself. He points a finger out the bedroom door. "I understand you're upset, we all are, but we can't—I can't—they're just children."

Liam spins around, nearly coming face to face with the man who took Dominic's position all those months ago. "We were all once children and look what we've become. There was a time when Federico and Veleno had lived more years than bodies they'd dropped. There was a time when Vincenzo and Michael were innocent. A time when I wasn't me. A time when Diavolo was nothing but an infant and look at us all now. A bullet in the head would've hurt less than everything we've ever gone through, so don't make me tell you again. Kill them all."

Liam nimbly moves past Austin, avoiding any type of contact that may escalate the situation.

"So, you're playing God now?" Austin calls out.

"I'm not playing him. I am him."

"You sound like Michael."

That is what causes Liam to stop in his tracks. I expect him to backtrack, to put Austin in his place – as he should – but all he does is chuckle. A laugh that doesn't include much humor. "Your point?" He looks over his shoulder, shooting a deadly glare in Austin's direction. "I'm going to end up where he is one day, I might as well do what he did to get there."

"Liam, for the love of—"

Luciano spins on him once more. "Address me one more time, and the only thing this world will remember you by is the white chalk around your body."

Austin turns around, drastically looking for someone else to speak to—someone with a voice of reason, and his eyes fall on me. But I have nothing for him. The woman I was would've chased after Liam, pleading he spare the lives of those who have truly never done us any harm, pleading for those who are just as much victims as they are. And I hate myself for hesitating, for not standing up for what I know is right—

"You're okay with this?" Austin questions, vividly disappointed.

I swallow my tears. "I'm not trying to get into heaven. I'm trying to win a war."

"Help him up." Our attention diverts to Liam, who watches as the two soldiers assist Giovanni to his feet. Liam continues, "You're in trouble for not seeking prior authorization within myself to orchestrate the raid you pulled this morning. We'll talk punishment later, but for now, go get yourself cleaned up. Your assignment remains the same. Keep Faith in sight at all times."

"Yes, sir."

Liam makes a beeline for the door, fresh air certainly on his mind. I can only imagine his mind racing with the future conversation he's going to have with Savaughna, with Veleno. I know Liam's had tough conversations before. Every time we lose a soldier, Liam notifies family—a conversation I would never in my life ever want to have. But I know telling Savaughna that she will never hold, hug, or watch her little girl grow up will take the cake when it comes to the toughest conversation Liam's ever had to have.

I slip out of bed and call after him. "I'll tell Savaughna."

"No, you won't." He shoots back as he reaches the door. "I would never let you—"

"Tell Savaughna what?"

Veleno stands in the doorway, eyebrow quirked upward in question.

"What're you doing here?" Steven blurts out, earning a long look from the assassin himself.

"I heard talking." Veleno shifts in his stance and locks eyes with Liam. "Tell Savaughna what?" He repeats.

"V—"

"Tell Sav what?" He repeats a third time and the tone he does it in tells us all that he won't ask again. He drifts his gaze to the two soldiers that stand just a hair behind Giovanni, then to the soldier covered in blood. He eyes my tear-stained expression, the way Steven wipes at the corner of his eyes, and the angry look that resides on Austin's face. A rare glimpse of worry passes Veleno's face as he stutters for what is possibly the very first time. "Liam—"

I don't hear Liam tell Veleno that his daughter is dead.

But I witness Veleno's face fall entirely.

And I see the assassin go through the five stages of grief in seconds.

Denial. He takes a step back, blinking rapidly, fighting to keep the tears at bay. He shakes his head, his mouth forming the word, no, over and over but the word itself never makes it past his lips.

Anger. A tear slips out the corner of Veleno's blind eye and trails a slow, tantalizing path down his face.

Bargaining. "I'd take her place."

Depression. Veleno once told me that he didn't believe mercy exists—at least, according to him, because it never comes when he calls. Analía's name meant grace, and he wasn't shown that either. He wipes underneath his eye, accepting the idea that he may never experience grace or mercy in any of his lifetimes.

Acceptance.

I once heard that there is nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing to lose and whoever said that stands corrected.

For there is simply nothing as frightening and nothing as dangerous as an assassin and his smile.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Of all the places I dreamt about being this year on my birthday, the bedroom of Giovanni Marcello Esposito was not amongst the long list consisting mainly of luxurious beaches.

But, if I had to search deeply for a positive underlying, I will say that finding myself in the bedroom of a very attractive man on my birthday was not utterly horrible.

I couldn't stay in bed after the news broke this morning. Liam stalked out the room in chase of Veleno, whispering harshly as he attempted to delay the inevitable—telling Savaughna. I remember seeing Vincenzo slither out his room at the noise coming from the hallway and they formed a circle, discussing everything we had feared—even though deep down, most of us knew the outcome. But it wasn't an outcome any one of us was willing to accept.

Austin and Steven spoke in hushed whispers as the two soldiers checked on their superior, hands running down Giovanni's arms, legs, checking for something—anything—that would indicate the blood he's covered in is his.

Then I had spoken. "Get out."

The two soldiers followed Austin and Steven out the room, muttering something about offering them a ride back to the Luciano estate. One looked over his shoulder, making eye contact with his commander, and lifted a brow in question.

And even covered in blood from head to toe with exhaustion written all over his face, Giovanni said, "I can't leave her."

Even with Giovanni standing in the room with me, I cried like I never cried before. I cried for Savaughna. I cried because we let her down, because we let Veleno down. I cried for the soldiers who had invested so much time and energy in finding Analía alive, only to come up short. I cried for Liam, then I cried for myself. I cried because I knew what this world had to offer, but even the smallest part of me thought that not all humanity had been lost—that a five-year-old girl would not fall to the same fate as so many others. I cried for the mercy that Valentin didn't show. I cried for the grace that he did not lay upon a child—then I sat up, as realization dawned.

If Valentin Rostov can kill Analía, then he wouldn't hesitate to kill Dominic and there was no way in hell I was going to let that happen.

"Do you see me differently because of what I did?"

I turn around, surprised to hear the commander's voice. He hadn't spoken a word from the moment I started crying, to the second I stopped and offered to take him back to the estate—to clean up, change, then accompany me to find Dominic.

He didn't offer to drive, and spent the short ride taking in the scenery. He didn't speak until I pushed open the double doors leading to his massive bedroom, located within the main house of the Luciano estate. Not everyone on these grounds lives in such luxury, only those who hold high positions find their rooms in the main house.

I hesitate. I hesitate long enough that he gently shakes his head, trying to forget what he asked.

Giovanni turns to shut the doors behind him then hesitates, quickly deciding to leave them slightly ajar. He turns around and motions toward the wall opposite of his large bed. His dresser on the large wall is one of the finest I've ever seen. Three rows of pull-out drawers line the bottom of the deep brown wood while the sides split and open, leaving room to hang up any items too nice to be cramped inside a drawer. Hanging on the left side are plain black t-shirts, while the right holds multiple bulletproof vests. Between either side is an empty spot specifically designed to hang a television, and that's exactly what Giovanni had done.

"Feel free to watch something." He motions towards the general direction of his dresser top, stating that hidden somewhere between his numerous bottles of cologne and pieces of jewelry is the television remote. He mumbles something about going to take a shower and being quick, and heads in the direction of the bathroom.

I stop him before he gets there.

"No." A single word said with no hesitation or remorse. He stops, hand on the doorframe and glances over his left shoulder with a look I won't soon forget. "To answer your question, no." I reiterate, "I don't see you differently. How can I judge you for what you did when I sat there this morning and let Liam greenlight more deaths?" I lower myself to the corner of his bed, eyeing his curiously. "But my question for you is this. What's the difference now? Between us and them? Are we the bad guys' now?"

Giovanni cracks a smile and looks away, quietly tapping a rhythm against the doorframe. His response comes seconds later, one that helps put my question to rest—for good.

"We've always been the bad guys, Ms. Crawford."

Gio disappears into the bathroom and the door locks behind him as I ponder his response. I push myself away from his bed but flipping on the television is the farthest thing from my mind.

I'd rather learn more about the man who's been sworn to protect me than watch the news.

There's not much to tell about Giovanni by his room. There're no pictures on the walls, no pictures on either nightstand, or nothing to indicate a loved one on his dresser. His bed is made. The floor is clean. There isn't a single article of clothing draped over a piece of pointless furniture. Nothing. The only object indicating that someone occupies room is the closed laptop that lies on his bed.

I settle for the television instead and cross the large room quickly, scanning his dresser for the remote. My attention falls on each piece of shimmering jewelry—from every diamond studded watch to glistening necklace. I've always heard that the jewelry one wears can tell you a lot about a person, but all I can pick up is that Giovanni is versatile. Each watch is different, unique and special in its own way, whereas most of his necklaces have more similarities than differences.

"Do you belong in here?"

I tip over the watch stand in fright, sending Giovanni's jewelry scattering to the already somewhat unorganized dresser top. The voice isn't one I recognize, but I take time in responding to his accusing tone. Each watch, each necklace is properly placed the way I found it before I spin around and welcome the new face.

I would be lying if I didn't say that the tall, white gentleman standing before me with a thick manila folder and his phone trapped between his fingers was intimidating. I would, again, be lying if I didn't say that he wore the all-black cargo pants, black tee, and black boots really well.

"Belong?" I restrain myself from throwing my head back in a true laugh.

Recognition dances across his expression, followed shortly by an apologetic look. "Ms.—oh shit, I thought you were—forget what I thought."

The door to the bathroom swings open and Giovanni steps out, fastening the button on his pants. He pauses just long enough to overlook his visitor. "Are you flirting with my charge, T?" He teases.

"Flirting, that's funny." The fellow soldier extends a hand to Giovanni in greeting, performing a quick handshake that the two must've come up with on a boring evening. T, as Giovanni called him, smirks, "I don't have a death wish, even though most of everyone here knows the queen would be worth it—" I catch his eye, but don't respond to the compliment. "Happy birthday, by the way, ma'am."

My nod suffices for a thank you.

Giovanni takes the folder from his friend's hand and flips through it quickly, scanning its contents at lightning speed. "Tatum has been working with the Luciano family longer than me. We served on Michael Luciano's security detail for a while before I was transferred to Liam's. That's how we met."

"Michael Luciano?" I quirk an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. "What was that like?"

"Funny as all shit," Tatum declares.

The two break out in a fit of laughter, causing my smile to widen. It's nice to see Giovanni relax, something I don't think I've ever witnessed. He's always kept a straight face—eyes constantly trained and ears focused on the world around us. He's constantly living in the future when he's on duty—scanning our surroundings to make sure nothing can (or will) hurt us. And if he's not in the future, he's in the past—remembering suspicious faces, body movements, or anything that he might've missed in the moment.

But right now, he's in the present, laughing with someone he's comfortable with.

"I don't know how many times we would get out the transport, all of us trying not to laugh because Michael said some stupid shit right before we were about to walk into a serious ass meeting—" Gio reminisces with a smile on his face and laughter dancing off his tongue.

Tatum chuckles along with him with a shake of his head. "And here we were, trying to look bad as shit escorting thee Michael Luciano to a meeting with the council and we're all grinning like fucking children—" The soldier's smile nearly fades as soon as the last word makes it past his lips. "It's crazy." He looks between us both, "You never know what's going to be a memory you'll look back on when you're in it."

I'm intrigued to say the least. If anybody knows Michael Luciano, it's the men that spent nearly every waking moment with him. So, I ask the most generic question I can think of and hope the two tell me an interesting story. "What was he really like?"

Giovanni answers first. "Michael was always the hardest on the people he respected the most. He picked on me a lot when I first joined, and it discouraged me. He made me believe that I wasn't as good of a solider as the militia made me believe I was. He made me believe I wasn't as good of a bodyguard as my resume stated. But I came to understand that the only reason he continuously picked on me was because he saw my potential before I could."

Michael wasn't easy on me and although I doubt it wasn't for the same reason as Gio, I can't help but wonder. Did he respect me? Would he respect me now? There hasn't been a moment where I wanted Michael to raise from the dead more than this one for two reasons: for Liam, and to hear him confirm whether he treated me the way he did from dislike, or if he saw something in me that even I haven't discovered yet.

"Protecting Michael didn't even feel like work, to be honest," Tatum recalls. He spreads his legs a shoulder-width apart and folds his arms across one another, flexing the muscles in his arms without much thought. A gun is nestled safely in the holster attached to his hip, while another is secured to a holster on his opposite leg. A badge, similar to the one Gio supports on the front of his vest, is attached to the holster on Tatum's hip.

"It really didn't," Giovanni agrees.

"What was he like?" Tatum repeats my question as he tries to summarize every thought that's running through his mind. "Michael made everyone around him better because he didn't take much bullshit and never settled, never. He never diverted from the mission, even when it came to the woman he loved—I don't think I can explain to you what kind of man Michael was. He accepted no bullshit and put the fear of God into men he had to look up at, but he's the same one who took all of Rosalie's hand-drawn pictures and taped them inside the SUV we transported him in the most."

"Why weren't you transferred to Liam's detail when he was killed?" I question.

"Liam extended the invitation when Michael passed to join 'Vanni on his detail, but I dedicated nearly nine years to protecting Michael and a part of me just wanted a break." It's hard to miss the sincere look Giovanni gives his friend, whose eyes can no longer meet mine as he continues to explain. It seems like a topic that bothers him—one they've discussed in further detail behind closed doors. "I declined and recommended another soldier who I thought would do an even better job."

"That was kind of you."

The soldier nods and offers me a weak smile. He turns to Gio and clears his throat, motioning towards the folder on the bed. "You'll have a chance to review that in detail and get back to me before this evening?"

Giovanni answers with, "Yes, sir," despite being of higher rank than his fellow soldier. And maybe that's one of the reasons why he was graced with such a leadership position. He's confident, not cocky—knows when to lead and when to fall back and let those who come behind him do what they do best. But most importantly, he makes everyone feel respected—from the top of the hierarchy to the bottom.

The soldier turns to leave once sharing a departing handshake with his commander. He stops just short of me and offers a faint bow of respect accompanied with a deep, accent laced, "Ma'am," before continuing towards the door, his stride hardly breaking.

Like Gio, everything he does is smooth.

"Solider?" I call out after him.

He stops.

"Is Tatum your first or last name?"

He rocks on the balls of his feet for a second too long. A second that's just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the tattoo that snakes down the back of his neck and slips beneath the collar of his shirt.

His lips pull into a smirk as he looks my way, "Yes."

And as quickly as he answers, he's gone.

"So, I'm just going to say it." I fold my arms across my chest and turn back to Gio. "That was a fast shower you took."

He smiles when our eyes meet. "Ex-military, remember?"

It's hard to forget that minor detail as Giovanni makes his way across the room, shirtless. There's no denying how good of a shape he's in, but it's even harder to ignore the way each muscle is emphasized as he walks. His abdomen is as defined as I've ever seen, each ab cut to perfection. I'm guilty of lowering my gaze an inch too far, but it's when I identify Gio's sharp v-line that I turn away, cheeks warm.

I move out of his way and backtrack to the edge of his bed. I sit down without a word, watching as he rummages through the small variety of similar looking tee-shirts he has hanging. He plucks one off the hanger, pulling it over his head, and if the front of his upper body didn't offer up a nice view, the back has him covered. His back muscles ripple as he pulls the shirt down over his frame and straightens it.

I look away towards the door Tatum just exited and clear my throat. "He seems like a nice guy."

"He's my closest friend."

"Can I ask why he isn't commander, and you are? Especially if he's been working here longer?"

Giovanni leans comfortably on the dresser behind him. He crosses one ankle over the other, thinking briefly before he speaks. "In terms of hierarchy, T would be considered an LC. Lieutenant Commander. But I don't even think I would rank him as such. He's an outstanding soldier with one of the hardest work ethics I've ever seen. Now that I'm that I'm with you and Liam so much, he's taken some of the pressure off by doing things I would typically do when I'm here."

He senses that I'm pleased with his answer and pushes himself forward, clearing the large room quickly and ducking into another door. I follow him and find myself standing underneath the doorway of a walk-in closet that mirrors Liam's. Closet truthfully isn't even a word I would use for rooms as massive as these.

A decent-sized island is the center of the room where one can fold and separate their laundry. The drawers on all four sides of the island are labeled—whites, darks, lights—which I can only imagine makes it much easier for the staff when it comes to cleaning the soldiers' gear. Shoes are lined up on either wall from the floor to the ceiling, shimmering beneath bright lights that illuminate them. From brands like Jordan to Nike, Adidas to Under Armour. From Louboutin to Gucci to Prada.

Giovanni's ridiculous collection of shoes eventually ends, putting his full wardrobe on display. All I've ever seen Gio wear is the typical soldier attire: tan or black cargo pants, paired with a tight black shirt—since anything baggy would be irritating to wear under a bulletproof vest—and military styled boots.

But what I'm surprised about is the variety of Giovanni's closet. I run my hand along a multitude of suit jackets, easily over thirty—it would seem like a lot to anyone else, but thirty suit jackets is nothing compared to Liam. I wouldn't be surprised if he had over a thousand different suit combinations.

I find Gio near the end of his closet, settled down in a chair carefully lacing black boots to his feet.

"Do you like living here?" I ponder.

"It's nice," is his simple answer. He pauses and drops a lace to lean back, resting a hand on his knee. Gio glances up at me. "It's definitely one of the nicest, more luxurious places I've ever been put in by a boss. But, there's a lot you don't see..." He lowers his gaze and resumes tying his boots. Before I can inquire further, he continues, "Men breaking down, missing their families..."

"Do you miss your family?"

Gio looks up quickly and a shadow—a hint—of displeasure crosses his face. "If you're trying to get to know me, Ms. Crawford—"

"I'm just curious." I wave my hand around in defense, "I don't see one picture—"

"—if you're reserved about my ability to protect you, which would be understandable due to the fact that I have not before, I have a resumé and a psychological evaluation—"

"—that you supposedly failed."

"That I failed with flying colors," He adds with a slight smirk, "The point is if you're concerned about my ability to protect you, I have proof that states I can."

"I'm not worried about that at all," I shoot back confidently. "I just want to get to know the man that's going to be attached to my hip for the foreseeable future."

Giovanni knots his laces and stands quickly. It's only then that I notice how close we are. My chin nearly brushes the fabric of his cotton shirt and when I breathe in, all I can smell is the lasting scent of the soap he lathered himself in during his shower. I take half a step back. He doesn't move.

"Then ask away, but I will be the first to say," He leans toward me, lips hovering by my ear. "I don't have a sob story."

Gio doesn't witness the smile that pulls my lips apart as his response replays in my mind once, twice, then again. I pick up in a slight jog to catch him just as he flips the lights off in his closet and re-enters the main bedroom, me right on his heels.

There are so many possible questions that run through the forefront of my mind. What's his favorite color? Favorite movie? Favorite type of food? But I wouldn't be me, Faith Ann Crawford, if I didn't hit him with the questions that matter the most—at least to me.

My first question. "How does an ex-Italian militia, turned private sector bodyguard of the rich and famous, turned mafia soldier escape without any visible scars?"

His response is timely. "Going for the throat, I see."

"It's how Liam taught me."

I stop to fold my arms across my chest and wait for Gio's answer. He reaches for one of the many gold necklaces in his possession. He clutches it tight in his palm and looks over his shoulder, unable to hide the teasing smile on his full lips. "It's called coco-butter, shit works like a motherfucking—" Our eyes meet, and when he sees the serious look on my face, his smile drops, as does his hand by his side. "Not all scars are visible to the naked eye."

I nod, accepting an answer that doesn't need further elaboration. "Do you talk to your parents?"

"Every day."

"How much does Liam pay you?"

"50,000 a month, approximately 2,308 a day, and about 308 an hour." I blink, watching intently as he latches on a gold chain and tucks it neatly in the collar of his shirt. "And before you ask, my favorite color is sunset orange and I prefer books over movies. I'm 32 years old and no, I'm not looking to marry right now. I've seen what this life does to relationships and I—yeah. I don't have a girlfriend. I'm not interested in men, and before you inquire, no, I'm not. You aren't the only woman that's been in this room."

I gape. "How did you—"

Reflexes are the reason I catch the badge Giovanni tosses in my direction as he secures the final strap of his vest. My thumb grazes his badge number: 8598566, then ghosts over his last name: Esposito.

"My ability to anticipate what's going to be said, asked, or done beforehand is the reason I'm in sole command of your army, ma'am." His gaze is sharp. No matter what I do I can't tear my eyes away from the intensity of his. "I earned the title that comes before name. Remember that."

I toss his badge back and he catches it, swiftly fastening it securely to his vest without a second glance.

"One last question for the road?" The last thing Gio reaches for before we leave the room is his gun, which he slips inside the holster on his hip, fastening it in place. He grunts in approval and hooks a hand to the inside collar of his vest as we stride down the long, open hallway of the second floor.

I poise my final question. "Dominic or Austin?"

"Dominic."

"You didn't hesitate."

"I don't know Dominic as well as I should," He answers truthfully. His stride slows and I match mine to meet his, occasionally glancing over and up to catch any expression that might tell me more than his words ever will. "He bridged the gap between Liam and the family. Liam is often so busy that he can't visit or talk or check up on us, but Dominic always did. He was always over the house, holding meetings, working, talking." A happy memory earns a faint smile from the soldier. "He'd even play some of the guys in video games on light workdays. He never made you feel left out. I wasn't always around when he was, but every time we passed each other in the hall he would make sure he noticed me. He would nod, say hi, sometimes just call me by my rank—something so simple, but would mean a lot, especially on bad days."

We begin our descent down the stairs, overlooking the beautiful foyer below.

"I'm surprised you don't know Dom that well, I just thought..."

"That because I protect Liam, I'm friends with them all?" Giovanni stops, resting a hand on the intricately detailed railing. His attention spans the foyer, eyes following soldiers as they greet one another, chat, and walk in different directions—everyone on their own mission. "I don't know him on a personal level. I only know what I saw whenever I was with Liam. From what I heard, he seemed like a good guy. Can't say the same anymore."

"Why aren't you friends?"

"Reality." His tone is sad, and when he draws his attention back to me, the look in his eyes match it. "Tatum told you the truth, but he held back the most important detail—the real reason he didn't join Liam's detail with me. He protected Michael for goddamn near a decade. Michael was his friend. And then his friend died and he wasn't there to stop it, wasn't there to help—wasn't there to say goodbye. I'm not sure how you or the others see us, soldiers, as but we're people—we love, we care, we cry, and we get attached."

"But soldiers die every day, does that not hurt, too?" I challenge.

"That's different," Gio strains. "It's hard to explain, but it's different when another soldier goes down. They took the oath, that if it must be done, they die for the empire. It hurts, but it's different when a person you vowed to protect through anything, and everything falls. When someone you spend roughly 365 days with, 14 hours a day or more dies it's just...different. You feel like you failed. I saw what T went through when Michael died. Even to this day he corrects anyone who says he was murdered, and I have to agree with him."

"What do you mean?"

Giovanni adjusts his vest once more, absentmindedly toying with the edge of his badge that's strapped to it. "Michael wasn't murdered. He gave up. There's a difference." I remain silent, observing as Gio finds himself lost in his thoughts. But as curious as I am to what he's thinking about, I refrain from asking. He looks back at me. "Seeing how T struggled with Michael's death is all more the reason as to why I keep a pure professional relationship with Liam, with Dominic, with whoever I'm needed to protect."

He continues his way down the stairwell. I follow suit a second later.

"We're all going to die eventually," I call after him.

Gio doesn't respond until he reaches the first floor and turns around. He rests a hand on the handrail and rests a foot on the second step, keeping me from moving forward. "Now I have a question for you."

I smile. "My favorite color is—"

"No." He cracks a smile, fighting to keep a serious expression. "No. I know everything about you. I know everything about everybody I ever protected. This is about your friend, Carmen."

"You have my undivided attention."

Gio doesn't miss a beat as he asks, "What was her relationship with Federico De Santis?"

"You know him?"

"You're avoiding the question."

I slip past him and stride ahead. He quickens his pace to reach up to me as I clear the foyer, heading towards the front doors. A few soldiers walk by and offer a respectful nod towards me and a handshake paired with a verbal greeting towards Giovanni. He never breaks stride as he returns their greeting, shouting that they find him later to talk more and they agree.

Gio finds my side again, his stride matching mine as the front doors are held open for us. The sun offers no mercy as it shines, temporarily blinding my vision. I feel Giovanni grab my hand, gingerly resting it on my forearm as he escorts me down the front stairs.

"I didn't know Federico personally," He finally says. "I gathered a bit of his personality here and there whenever he was around Liam. I admired his work...and evidently, his taste in women as well."

"So you find Carmen attractive?"

Air rushes out of Giovanni's lungs. "You would have to be absolutely blind if you didn't think—" He catches my eye as we near the blacked-out SUV. Instead of elaborating, he finishes with a simple, "Yes."

"But you wouldn't want a relationship with her." It's more of a statement than a question considering Gio admitted it, whether he noticed or not, during our interview session.

"I guess not, I..." He falls silent as we reach the SUV. He reaches for the passenger door, offering his hand as I climb inside. I stop him from shutting the door by twisting in my seat the face him. Gio doesn't appear to be the type to slam a car door on my legs, so he's stuck between me and the door. He looks away from me, like he's trying to find the appropriate answer somewhere in the sky. "No, I don't. I just get lonely."

My chest tightens when his attention lands on me and I can't help but feel some sort of pity for him. I understand his fears of opening up to someone, letting them in, leaving them both vulnerable in the name of love, and then breaking their heart because he works in one of the most dangerous occupations I know of. I've learned a damn lot since my time with the Luciano family, but there's one lesson that will follow me till the end of my days.

Love is worth the risk.

I let out a sigh. "I don't mean to sound harsh, because in the end it would be Carmen's decision, but I don't think my friend is looking for a fling. You asked about the nature of her and Rico's relationship, but I feel like you already know. They were the classic best friends to lovers..." Their story, in my eyes, has yet to end but with Federico withholding the truth—that he's alive—I can't end the sentence the way I truthfully would. Instead, I conclude with, "And you know how that story ended."

"I don't mean to speak ill of your friend and I'm sure Carmen cared for him very much—"

"But?" I sense.

"—But I'm a very serious person and from what I gathered, he was not." Gio's eyebrows press together in thought. "He had, and I don't mean this in an offensive way, child-ish tendencies."

I twist myself back inside the car and grab my seatbelt, strapping myself in place. "I don't think it's fair for you to judge before you actually got to know him."

"So you disagree?"

"He has...he had his childish moments," I agree with a subtle nod, "And I could see his constant jokes, and his never-takes-anything-seriously-even-with-a-gun-in-his-face attitude would be annoying, but his childhood was taken from him. If you knew his story, or got to know him, I think you would understand."

Giovanni nods. "I wish I would've gotten to know him then."

"Me too. You'd be surprised. You probably would've found more similarities between yourselves than differences."

"Name a few?"

Easy. "You both have scars." I twist myself to face him and lean down against my restraint to pat his vest. "Differences? Yours are internal."

Federico stands before me, merely like a picture in my mind, and my eyes immediately water. The image of him that stands before me is so lifelike, so real, like I could reach out and touch his damaged skin. I don't, because I'm afraid I'm going to hurt him. His back is the most insecure part of his body because of his scars. All his scars. They take up the entirety of his back. Some are long, some short. You can tell which ones were deeper wounds, and which ones were shallow. You can tell which ones hurt more, and which ones he hardly felt.

The picture of Federico in my mind slowly turns to face me, and I catch his tear-stained eyes.

I welcome reality when I see Gio staring up at me, anticipating what I say next.

"Your scars are internal. His weren't."

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

a/n: before the 'see ya'll next year' jokes i would just like to say that that is completely inaccurate and you will be seeing me sooner than you think

and for those asking, yes, there will be a 3rd book and final book to the luciano series. instagram saw it all first.