Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 21: The Past Is Dead

The sky was still bruised with the last traces of night when Luciano finally left the garden. The smoke of his cigar lingered faintly on the humid breeze behind him, mixing with the sharp scent of roses and white lilies as he made his way back inside.

The sprawling mansion was silent, still draped in the heavy quiet of predawn hours, but his mind was anything but. The dream—the vivid, shattering memory of his mother’s death—still clung to him like cold, poisonous oil.

​He didn’t sleep again. He knew better than to invite the nightmares back.

​Instead, he changed into his workout clothes and walked to the private, state-of-the-art gym located in the east wing. The moment he stepped in, the familiar metallic, slightly sterile smell of equipment embraced him. The silence was a profound relief. Machines didn’t ask questions. Weights didn’t demand explanations. Sweat didn’t lie.

​He threw himself into the workout with the furious intensity of a man trying to exorcise a demon.

​Pushups until his shoulders screamed. Pullups until his grip failed. Weighted squats until his legs felt like liquid fire. Then the heavy bag—hard, fast, precise. Every strike was a release, every expelled breath a cleansing burn against the memory of asphalt and blood.

​The sound of his fists slamming into the leather echoed through the insulated room, the rhythm sharp, relentless, and perfectly controlled. His knuckles reddened, then darkened and swelled slightly. His breathing steadied into something controlled, heavy, like the sound of machinery.

​But not calm.

​Calm was a myth he never owned; control was his currency.

​By the time he finished, the sun had climbed enough to spill morning gold across the gym floor. Luciano’s shirt clung to him with sweat, every muscle taut, his chest rising and falling in heavy, labored pulls. He was physically exhausted, but mentally, he was sharper, the edges of the nightmare pushed back into the shadows.

​He walked out.

​The shower was hot, scalding—even then, he stood there longer than usual, palms braced against the sleek marble wall, letting the water beat down on him as if it could wash the trauma and the guilt out of his very bones.

​It didn’t.

​When he finally stepped out, he felt clean physically... but hollow inside, the hollowness of a man who has replaced emotion with ambition.

​He dried off, dressed in a fitted gray shirt that clung to his powerful form and a pair of perfectly tailored trousers, and headed for his private study. He expected an empty room, quiet enough for him to gather his thoughts before the day’s planned chaos began.

​But Andrés was already there.

​He had expected him eventually, perhaps after breakfast, to deliver his report.

​The younger man sat perched on the edge of the leather chair opposite the desk, long legs stretched out, scrolling through something on his phone. He only looked up when the door clicked shut.

​The moment their eyes met, Andrés straightened, instantly reading the residual tension and exhaustion on his brother’s face.

​"Hermano," he said softly, using the familiar term that was both respectful and intimate. "Did you have the nightmare again?"

​Luciano paused, letting the silence hang heavy.

​Andrés had known about his nightmares since they were children. He was the only person Luciano allowed to witness those early years—the grinding poverty, the white-hot rage, the debilitating grief, the necessary violence. Andrés knew the truth behind Luciano’s silent mornings and sleepless nights.

​Luciano moved to his desk, his voice perfectly even, burying the truth deep.

"It’s nothing. I’m fine."

​A lie. The most familiar one.

​Andrés’ jaw tightened. He didn’t believe him—he never did—but he didn’t push. Luciano appreciated that silent deference more than he’d ever admit.

​He walked behind his desk, the massive leather chair creaking softly as he settled into it, fingers steepled in their characteristic gesture of control.

"What were your findings in Barcelona?"

​Andrés mirrored his posture, one hand resting over his knee, then exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose before speaking, switching instantly into business mode.

​"It’s worse than we thought regarding the Davis family, Lucho."

​Luciano arched a skeptical brow, waiting.

​"Marcia isn’t just on vacation," Andrés began, leaning forward slightly. "She’s there with her long-term boyfriend."

​Luciano leaned back, unmoved. "Is that so? Expected."

​"Yes. He owns a coffee shop—small place, cozy, nothing special. But in her parents’ eyes..." Andrés shook his head with a mocking smile. "He’s a stain to the Davis name. A disgrace. They don’t approve. At all."

​Luciano almost laughed. Of course they didn’t approve. The Davises worshipped status like a religion; a coffee shop owner was blasphemy.

​"But that’s not the most shocking part," Andrés added, his tone sharpening.

​"Oh?" Luciano drawled, inviting the disclosure. "What is?"

​"The Starlings know," Andrés confirmed. "They know she’s dating him. And yet they are still desperately pushing you to get engaged to her. Publicly. Quickly." His brows furrowed in confusion. "It feels wrong. Like the Starlings are being threatened by the Davis family, forced into a deal they can’t escape."

​Luciano clicked his tongue. "Of course they are being threatened."

​Andrés blinked. "You knew?"

​"Why," Luciano asked calmly, using the Socratic method he preferred, "would the Starlings put more effort into pushing me toward the engagement, when they knew how desperate I was for their assistance? That kind of heightened pressure only happens when someone has a knife directly to their throat, Andrés."

​Silence.

​The memory of the original deal—the desperate, unforgivable transaction that forced Luciano to ally himself with his father—flickered across Andrés’s face like a shadow. An old wound Andrés regretted every single day.

​Andrés lowered his head. "I’m... sorry. I knew how much you hated them, and still—I just— "

​Luciano cut him off instantly with a raised hand. "Don’t," he said sharply, the word a command. "Don’t even go there, Andrés. The past is dead."

​Andrés froze, meeting his eyes.

​Luciano leaned back, his gaze steady, his voice firm and final. "It wasn’t your fault. It happened. Life happened. You are more important than any deal I made with those people. You know that."

​Andrés swallowed hard, guilt still clouding his expression. Luciano rarely said words like that. When he did, they hit like bullets.

​"Now," Luciano continued, his tone snapping back to business. "What else did you find out?"

​Andrés cleared his throat, regaining his professional composure. "As you predicted... Marrow Prince has started his move."

​Luciano’s lips twitched in a cold, expectant smile. "Predictable fool."

​"He went to Marcia," Andrés confirmed. "He believes she’s your future fiancée, the one you’ll be tied to. He plans to use her—a public, high-profile target—to get to you."

​Luciano laughed—a low, dangerous, amused sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

​"Of course he would do that." He shook his head slowly. "Too bad Marcia isn’t the one I’m getting engaged to."

​A subtle chill ran through the room, generated by the simple, absolute statement.

​Luciano still didn’t fully know why Marrow Prince was targeting him—why a man with no direct ties to him kept circling his name like a persistent vulture. But it didn’t matter. That foolish man was bound to die by his foolishness.

​Luciano pulled open the top drawer of his desk. Andrés straightened instantly as Luciano lifted the small velvet box—the one containing William’s severed future.

​Luciano slid it across the table with two fingers. Andrés leaned in, opened it—and let out a slow, long whistle.

​"Madre de Dios," he muttered, shaking his head. "You actually did it. I thought the rumors were exaggerated for effect."

​Luciano didn’t blink. "Rumors about me rarely are, Andrés. They are generally warnings."

​Andrés softly exhaled, then looked up at Luciano with a complex mix of respect and a flicker of deep-seated fear. "Remind me never to betray you, brother."

​Luciano’s expression didn’t shift.

"You won’t. And even if you did... you wouldn’t get far."

​Andrés laughed nervously, a strained sound.

​Luciano rested his forearms on the desk and gestured toward the velvet box. "Just throw this out on your way out. It’s served its purpose."

​Andrés closed the box carefully and held it in his hands.

"Yes, sir."

​"And," Luciano added, a nod of approval. "Good job on your findings. You always deliver."

​Andrés smiled slightly, genuinely pleased by the rare compliment. "I did nothing, really."

​He hesitated. Then added:

"Your fiancée isn’t back yet. She missed the soft deadline."

​The word fiancée came out like ashes in his mouth. He hadn’t forgotten Eloise’s brutal words at breakfast, her calculated insult against his mothers.

​Luciano’s lips curved slowly, dangerously.

"Oh, she needs all the time and hope she can get, Andrés."

​His eyes narrowed with something dark. Possessive. Dangerous.

​"I’ll bring her back after she’s had enough of her attempt at freedom."

​He paused, then a smirk, voice dropping into a silky, terrifying threat.

​"Which is very soon, by the way. I have an engagement to announce."

​Andrés nodded, adjusting the box in his hand, understanding the depth of the impending capture.

"I should get going."

​He walked toward the door. His hand was on the handle when—

​"Andrés."

​He turned back, immediately on edge.

​Luciano’s eyes were cold. Controlled. Sharp as glass, cutting through the remnants of their shared past.

​"Let what happened at breakfast yesterday be the last time you talk to her like that."

​The air thickened instantly. Andrés stiffened.

​"But she started it, Lucho," Andrés said tightly, defending his loyalty. "She talked to you like—" 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

​Luciano rose from his seat slowly, deliberately, the height of his body commanding the room.

​"She is my woman," Luciano said, his voice cold enough to freeze the air between them, an absolute, non-negotiable decree. "My fiancée. And no one"—his gaze sharpened to a killing edge—"talks to her like that but me. Are we clear?"

​The silence that followed was thick, heavy, choking. The lines of dominance were drawn.

​Andrés held his gaze for a long, painful moment, then lowered his eyes in submission.

"...Yes. Clear."

​"Good." Luciano sat again, dismissing him with a final, curt nod.

"You can go now."

​Andrés left quietly, the small velvet box clutched in his hand.

​The door closed behind him with a soft click.

​Luciano leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting to the window where the sun finally spilled fully across the city. He lit a fresh cigar, the smoke clouding the light.

​He whispered it again under his breath, a promise to himself, to the girl who had dared to defy him.

​"Very soon."