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Luca

Two years later

For most of my life, I’d never dreamed or wished for anything.

It was only after a very special woman appeared in my life eight years ago that my brain had begun to rewire itself.

To think as an individual again.

To hope.

To want.

My heart followed, reanimating after it had stuttered to a stop when I was nine, under the shock of Fiammetta’s love and loyalty.

Love, family, and loyalty.

Our new family motto.

Because now at forty-four years old, on the anniversary of my brother’s death and sacrifice, I had everything I’d never even known to dream of.

A wife who was as obsessed with me as I was with her.

One I didn’t have to share or lie to or hide from.

Fiammetta knew everything about me, mostly because she had helped me rediscover who I really was. My favorite color, the same shade of green in her eyes. My preference for comedy films and stand-ups because I had forgotten how to live for such a long time and relished it now. Sharing the best burger in Chicago with her at Raven’s Burgers and searching for thoughtful presents to spoil my wife with wherever I went.

The best part of this new life wasn’t living in the light of Chicago with Fiammetta on my arm and the Outfit at my feet, operating as it hadn’t in years under my leadership.

It was this.

Waking up in an orange-red bed with my own little flame in my arms.

She was passed out, sprawled mostly on top of me, her full shell-pink mouth open against my left pectoral, where her name wreathed in fire was tattooed over my heart. All those soft, silken curls were spread across my chest, one hand curled around my ear even in sleep, a habit she’d adopted after everything that happened last year.

As if she had to make sure I was Luca and not Dario.

She didn’t like calling me Dario, but we’d both agreed it was the safest and most sensible move for me to assume Dario’s identity instead of trying to resurrect Luca from the dead. Too many questions and even more chaos to add to the aftermath of Carla and Niccolo’s attempted coup.

It was dangerous for her to call me Luca, and she rarely did, only in quiet moments safe in our home.

Mostly, she called me Ghost.

She even had Ghost tattooed on her lower back, where I liked to spread my hand from hip to hip whenever I got the chance.

I did so now, cradling her against me as I tipped my head to drag in a lungful of that honeysuckle-sweet scent.

“Creep,” she said on a sleep-rough exhale.

I laughed into her hair. “You love it.”

“Mmm,” she hummed in agreement, kissing my ink. “I do. Should I tell you how much?”

“I would prefer a demonstration,” I admitted, flipping us in one quick maneuver that had her giggling as I pressed her into the mattress.

“If you want me to show you, shouldn’t I be on top?” she countered, but her hands tunneled into either side of my hair to move it off my face, and her eyes were soft as she gazed up at me.

“You’ll take too much time,” I said, already kissing a path down her neck to her breasts and one peaked red nipple. “We have to be quick.”