Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
I looked down at myself, suddenly aware of how absurd I must look. "I didn't exactly pack for this."
"Here." He shrugged off his jacket, stepping close to settle it around my shoulders. His fingers brushed my neck as he adjusted the collar, and I caught a hint of his scent, something warm and distinctly male.
In the elevator, Luca leaned against the wall, seemingly unaffected by the chaos we'd just escaped. "Fair warning about the fourth floor," he said casually. "The vending machine by the stairs is definitely haunted."
I blinked at him. "Haunted?"
"Oh yeah." He nodded solemnly. "Eats your money, then gives you exactly what you didn't ask for. Giuliano says it's just old, but I've seen it give Angelo a protein bar when he clearly pressed for chips. Twice." He tapped his temple.
The elevator ride up had me fighting back a laugh. I couldn't figure him out; one minute he's expertly dodging people trying to kill us, and the next he's going on about a haunted vending machine like it's the most normal thing in the world. I should have been terrified. Instead, I kept catching myself smiling.
But when we reached his door, he hesitated, key hovering near the lock. For the first time since I'd met him, his grin turned sheepish.
"So, fair warning," he said, fiddling with his keys, "my place is kind of a mess."
"After tonight, I think I can handle anything."
"We'll see about that," he muttered, but pushed open the door.
The apartment wasn't what I expected. Yes, there were signs of bachelor life: video game controllers on the coffee table, takeout menus magnetized to the fridge. Still, something about it felt real. Lived in. A shelf in the corner caught my eye, filled with an eclectic mix of motorcycle repair manuals, medical textbooks, and a collection of graphic novels.
"Not quite up to Vittorio's standards, huh?" he said, watching me take it all in.
"No," I breathed. "It's so much better."
His grin came back, full force. "You might want to hold that thought until you see the kitchen."
"I'm serious." I wandered to the shelf, noticing a motorcycle helmet beside stacks of well-read comics. "Everything in Vittorio's world is for show. Perfect and cold and empty." I picked up a graphic novel, finding coffee stains and handwritten notes in the margins. "This is actually lived in."
"Well, if you like mess, you're definitely in the right place." But something in his voice had softened.
"Kitchen's through there," he said, gesturing vaguely. "Though I should warn you, my cooking skills are limited to exactly three meals, and one of them is cereal."
My stomach growled, reminding me how long it had been since dinner. "Cereal sounds great, actually."
"Really? A girl after my own heart." He moved to the kitchen, grabbing bowls. "Though I should mention I only stock the kind that turns milk into interesting colors."
I settled at his kitchen counter, watching him pour what looked like tiny rainbow explosions into our bowls. "I can't believe they still make these. The milk's going to be nuclear pink in about two minutes."
"That's half the fun." He hopped onto the counter opposite me, his own bowl filled to the brim.
I took a bite, tasting pure childhood nostalgia. "I haven't had cereal like this since..."
"Since?" He leaned forward, something shifting in his expression.
"Since before my father died." I surprised myself with how easily the words came out. "He used to sneak me the sugary snacks. Called it our secret rebellion."
Something flickered in Luca's eyes, his usual smile fading. "Sounds like a good man."
"He was." I stirred my cereal, watching pink swirl through the milk. "Vittorio... he tried to erase all that. Make everything perfect and controlled."
Luca's jaw tightened. For once, there was no hint of his usual playfulness. "Vittorio's good at destroying things people love."
The bitterness in his voice made me look up. He was staring into his bowl, shoulders tense, like he was fighting some internal battle.
"I had someone once," he said quietly. "Sonia." His voice softened on her name. "She was an artist—always had paint on her clothes, saw beauty in everything. Even in me, I guess." He traced patterns in the condensation on the counter. "We were good together. Happy. Until we weren't."
"What happened?" I asked gently, recognizing the pain in his voice.
"It started with parties, you know? Just having fun, letting loose. I thought I could handle it—we both did. But Sonia..." His knuckles whitened around his spoon. "She started needing it more. To sleep, to work, to feel normal. And I was too caught up in my own shit to see how deep she was getting."
His voice caught. "Then Vittorio started pushing this new synthetic on the streets. Said it was pure, safer than the other stuff out there. She thought it would help her quit. But what he was selling..." He swallowed hard, looking away.