Luciano had always appreciated silence.
Not the void of an empty room, but the viscous, expectant kind that followed a storm—the silence of aftermath. The kind that followed destruction.
The private booth was steeped in it.
Below them, the street still hummed with the echoes of the crash—shattered glass glittering like diamonds under the harsh sun, voices raised in shock, and the sobbing collapse of a man who had finally been exposed for exactly what he was. A necessary ruin. Surgical. Absolute.
Luciano barely spared the scene a second glance. He had already catalogued the wreckage and filed it away. Useless. Predictable. Done.
Men like Eric were interchangeable—weak where it mattered, loud when cornered, and utterly predictable in their rot. He had seen thousands of them across boardrooms, courtrooms, and shallow graves.
What held his attention entirely was the woman sitting beside him.
Eloise. Paloma. His.
