Page 114 of Ruined

Luca glanced at me. “I don’t want you here.”

The words punched through me, but I didn’t flinch. I turned for the door, my pulse pounding. I reached for the handle and paused. Luca still stared out the window, his silhouette a lonely outline.

You’re going to get yourself killed. Do you even care?

I swallowed hard and stepped out of the apartment.

The air outside felt colder. I sat in my car, staring up at his apartment window. I ran a hand down my face, my chest aching. I thought I could keep him safe, but this fight wasn’t with Frank or even the damned Bratva. Luca struggled with an identity he didn’t understand. I couldn’t be the one to sort through hisproblems, nor could I be the one to feed his delusions. He had to figure himself out first.

I loved him, but maybe walking away was the only way to help him.

I sat there, staring up at that window, wondering how much more of him I could lose before it broke me, too.

TWENTY-SEVEN

LUCA

Tonight was a mistake the moment I walked in.

The scent of garlic and fresh herbs filled Santino and Delilah’s kitchen. I sat at the table, ignoring the dull ache in my side. It’d been weeks since I’d seen them. Every smile they gave me reminded me how far I’d drifted from them. Santino leaned against the counter, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

Delilah moved between the stove and counter, her dark curls slipping free from their pins. Her vintage apron was smudged with sauce. She brought out plates of food, the scent of roasted vegetables mixing with something far more familiar. She set down a bowl of solyanka in front of me. My mind flashed to cold nights in a locked room—metal trays, lukewarm stew, the sharp tang of vinegar masking cheap meat.

Auntie Cecilia nudged my ribs. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Why don’t you call?”

I forced a smile. “Been busy. You know how it is.”

Her eyes narrowed. Aunt Cecilia was sharp-eyed and petite, her gray-streaked hair in a low bun. When I was a kid, she’d neverbought my excuses. Maybe that was why I avoided her the most. Before I was kidnapped, I used to go to her house every Sunday. Santino and I would run around the streets, stealing bikes and throwing tomatoes at people’s windows from her garden. I used to run inside smelling like dirt and sweat, collapsing into my mom’s lap while she scolded me softly, brushing my hair back with her fingers.

A gentle voice. Soft hands. I barely remembered her face. Just flashes of black curls and the sound of her bright laughter.

“You can’t call yourziafor two minutes?” she pressed.

She didn’t get it.I don’t want to remember what’s gone.

I hesitated. “I’ve been injured.”

Her eyes widened. “How bad?”

I shrugged. “It’s nothing serious.”

Santino cut in. “Luca got into a scuffle. He caught a bad hit, that’s all.”

Auntie’s gaze shifted to Santino. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Santino shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s not his fault,” I said quickly. “I told him not to say anything. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“You boys,” she muttered, ripping off a chunk of bread. “Always thinking you need to handle everything alone. I want to know if something happened to you. You’re all I have left of my baby sister.”

I reached for the bread basket. “I’m alright,zia.You don’t need to worry.”

The doorbell rang.

Santino pushed off the counter. “That’s probably Dom.”

He’s here?