Chapter 33

Chapter 33

I once promised myself I’d never shed tears again.

Not for myself. Not for my friends. Not for my family, or any stranger I happened to share a brief, happy moment with.

I broke that promise once — when Bart left. And though it nearly ruined me, I managed to rebuild the walls, to make that vow again and keep it.

Until that moment.

Until the tears came flooding down — the ones I’d buried deep for years, pressed behind my eyes.

Even when I heard about Tyler’s death, I almost lost it. Almost. But I had Precious and Aria to think about, and that was what grounded me. This horror. This fear. It just reminded me of that one time… after Emilio’s brother — Enzo — died.

\---

The sky was gloomy that day, dark and heavy like it knew a soul was ascending — a beautiful soul.

Enzo Falcone.

He was a beautiful person, inside and out. Everyone loved him. His charisma, his calm, the strange way he could make a room feel safe, even though he was Mafia — even though his hands were as stained as any of them.

He was the kind of man who made my father rethink everything — his choices, his sins, the family he built. Everyone believed that if something ever happened to Dad, Enzo would take over the family. And no one would have minded.

He was the only one who could balance both worlds — the blood and the peace.

When it came to Mafia business, he stood tall and cold, a man whose silence alone could bend others into obedience. But outside of that world, he was the calmest soul you’d ever meet. He’d laugh easily, smile often, joke like he wasn’t carrying corpses on his conscience.

And Dad loved him like a son — as much as he loved me and Aria.

To us, Enzo was the older brother we never had.

And when he died, something in our family died with him.

\---

That day at the cemetery, every Falcone stood together to bury an icon. He died young, but he lived well. Even the smaller families came — and the Genovese too, which said everything.

I had never seen tears on Dad’s face before. But that day, they fell freely.

Emilio was inconsolable — screaming in Italian, swearing over his brother’s grave that he’d avenge him. Aria wouldn’t stop crying, her face red and trembling, too young to understand that this family never offers happy endings. Even the Genovese geezer — who never showed a hint of emotion — had tears streaking down his cheek.

Everyone cried.

Everyone but me.

Not because I didn’t feel it. I did. But I’d already seen this coming. Enzo did too.

We used to talk late into the night — just the two of us — and he’d tell me how he longed for the life they’d left behind in Sicily. Poor, yes. Struggling, yes. But peaceful. No eyes watching. No smiles with glocks behind them.

But that life was gone.

He joined the Falcone family for his little brother. Emilio was young, reckless — always getting into trouble with the local dons. Enzo stepped into the fire to protect him. He chose this life out of love.

And now he was six feet under, rotting in the dirt, while the brother he died for swore to throw away his own life for revenge.

“Why? Why did he have to die?” Aria had cried, voice breaking through her sobs. She was so small, clutching my arm, drowning in grief too big for her age.

I didn’t answer. I just held her tighter, like I could absorb her pain into me.

“He didn’t deserve it,” she choked. “He was a good person, Francesca. I hate this family.”

Her words cut deep.

Was he a good person? I didn’t know. He was like a brother, yes — but I knew what he’d done for my father, the blood he’d spilled, the lives he’d broken.

But did he deserve to die?

I couldn’t answer that either.

Maybe no one in this family ever dies without deserving it in some way.

Maybe that’s just what it means to be a Falcone.

\---

Even now — standing in a room that reeked of blood and gunpowder, the screams still echoing in my head — the memory of Enzo’s funeral felt closer.

Because grief, no matter how long it’s buried, always finds its way back.

And sometimes, it arrives not with flowers or prayers… but with the sound of bodies breaking, blood spilling and guts ripping apart.

Was I grieving? I didn’t know. Maybe it was the sight of Lucian — the same calm smile that once disarmed me now soaked in blood — maybe that’s what pulled Enzo into my thoughts. That same deceptive simplicity. That same purity hiding something deadly underneath. The tears burned down my cheeks as I watched him drive his hand through a living man’s abdomen, then up into his face — his fingers opening like a bloody rose.

Maybe I was grieving. Grieving for Enzo. Grieving for Lucian. For myself.

Back then, I couldn’t shed a single tear for Enzo. But now, as I stared at this monster who once held my hand, everything came pouring out. Because I knew I’d never see him the same again — not the handsome, clueless gentleman I met in the club.

I couldn’t move. My body screamed to run, but it refused. My hand was pressed to my mouth as tears flowed uncontrollably, my heart hammering in my chest like it was trying to break free. Fear wasn’t enough to describe it. It was beyond fear — it was sickness, a deep ache in my soul as I watched a beast tear apart a man while some desperate part of me wanted to stay, to understand it. Because his eyes — those red, burning eyes — didn’t carry rage. They carried pity. And self-loathing.

Then, out of nowhere, a hand seized me.

Big Ross — or what was left of him. His once towering figure now looked small, desperate. He yanked me by the neck, pressing the cold barrel of his shotgun against my temple.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t flinch. I was too far gone for fear to mean anything. My eyes stayed on Lucian — on whatever he was now.

Blood covered him. His clothes were torn to shreds — only scraps of collar, sleeves, and fabric clung to him, all soaked through. Not his blood.

Ross dragged me back against the wall, the metal trembling against my head. His body shook, his arm ice-cold around my throat. He was terrified too — that much I could feel — but it didn’t make me any safer. My knees wavered but somehow held.

Everything started connecting in my head. Aria begging me to stay home. Precious warning me not to go. Sebastian asking what I knew about Lucian. Lucian himself telling me to stay away. All the signs. All the dots. How could I have been so blind?

Ross edged toward the door, using me as a shield, his hand trembling on the trigger. Lucian’s gaze followed, fixed and unrelenting, not even glancing at me. The bloodlust in his eyes was for Ross alone.

Ross’s mistake came when he looked away for just a second — to find the door handle.

Lucian moved faster than my eyes could follow.

In an instant, he had Ross’s wrist in one hand, the other swinging toward his throat — Ross ducked, and Lucian’s arm slammed through the wall instead, cracking concrete.

I dropped to my knees, free at last, staring upward in frozen disbelief. Lucian twisted Ross’s arm, forcing the gun against him. Then, with terrifying ease, he lifted the man into the air and slammed him down across the wooden frame of the bed.

The crack was sickening.

Ross screamed — a deep, guttural cry that echoed through the room as he writhed, dragging himself backward, shotgun still clutched tight. He managed to fire. Once. Twice. Then again.

Each blast tore into Lucian’s chest, sending splinters of flesh flying — but every time, the wounds closed again. His skin stitched itself together like something unseen was forcing it back. His skull burst open, only to reform as if time itself bent around him.

Ross kept firing, screaming incoherently now — until the gun clicked empty.

Lucian stepped forward, slow and silent, pressing his foot down on Ross’s shoulder. The sound of bone cracking filled the room, followed by another scream that ripped through me.

I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I broke.

I screamed too — loud, helpless, raw. My fists clutched at my chest as tears and mucus and everything poured out. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted someone to wake me up.

“Stooooooop!” I cried, my voice shattering into the silence that followed.

Only my sobs remained — ragged, echoing in the bloodstained room.

Then I heard footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Coming toward me.

I froze.

I didn’t dare look up. The man I had laughed with, shared a drink with, now walked toward me — a ghost, a demon.

“Please…” The word barely escaped me, breaking apart as I whispered.

He crouched in front of me. I felt his cold, wet fingers lift my chin.

“Open your eyes,” he said softly, though his voice carried a command that made me flinch.

I couldn’t. I kept them shut.

“Do you fear me?” His tone was calm — too calm.

His touch was gentle, yet I could feel the blood on his hand, sticky against my skin.

“Do you see a monster when you look at me?” he asked again — slower this time, like he wanted an answer. Like he needed it.

I didn’t speak. Maybe I didn’t want to see a monster. Maybe I still wanted to see him. The Lucian who smiled. The Lucian who made me feel safe.

But I made the mistake of opening my eyes.

And it broke me.

His face was calm again — human, almost — but covered in blood. His eyes, once soft, now held something heavy: sadness. Regret. Self-hatred.

A sob tore from me. Loud. Unrestrained. I wept like a child — because seeing him that way hurt more than all the blood, more than the screams.

He sighed, wiping his eyes with the clean edge of his shoulder. “I am not safe for you,” he said quietly, his voice flattening with resolve.

The lights flickered on.

And for a moment, I wished they hadn’t.

Blood coated everything — the floor, the walls, the furniture. The reflection of the ceiling lights shimmered off the thick, wet crimson. Bodies lay still across the penthouse.

Lucian turned to me again. “Your father cannot come after me now. I think he’ll get the message. I also saved your life.” His tone was calm. Too calm. “Sebastian will take you home. I hope that will be the last I hear from you.”

I just sat there, trembling, as he walked into the bathroom — the only untouched place — and came back with a black towel. He wrapped it around me gently. His eyes changed color again, softening. “It’s been a rough day,” he murmured. “You need rest.”

And just like that, my body gave in.

Sleep washed over me like a wave. My consciousness faded as I fell against his chest, the blood on him smearing against my face.

The last thing I felt was his arms lifting me, carrying me through the scent of blood and smoke.

I heard the door open. Footsteps.

“Did you compel her to forget?” Sebastian’s voice — cool, detached.

“No,” Lucian answered.

“Why?” Sebastian pressed. “If she’s to live, she doesn’t need to remember. Unless you want her to.”

“Stop it,” Lucian warned. “I hate when you do that.”

“I’m just doing my job. So why?”

“She needs to warn her father,” Lucian said quietly. “He’ll stop looking for me if she tells him. She can’t do that if she forgets.”

Sebastian exhaled. “We both know that’s bullshit. But fine. I’ll drop her off.”

“Thank you,” Lucian said — and his voice broke just a little.

That was the last thing I heard before darkness took me.

\---

When I woke, I was in the back seat of a car, wrapped in the towel. The sound of rain hammered against the windows, thunder rolling like distant grief.

Sebastian was driving. His eyes found mine in the rearview mirror.

“Wakey wakey,” he said with a smirk.

I didn’t answer.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” His voice flattened. “Can’t drop you off at your house — your father would have my head before I parked. But this is close enough.”

He got out, umbrella in hand, and opened my door. I stepped out, clutching the towel tight.

“Take care,” he said simply, then disappeared back into the rain.

The car drove off, its taillights fading into the storm.

And I stood there — empty, drenched, my mind hollow.

The umbrella did nothing, the rain hit sideways, soaking me completely and I couldn’t even tell if I was crying.

I felt so detached, empty and ... Hollow, staring into the empty street. The only thing grounding me was the sound the sound of rain and thunder, I could barely even feel the rain beating against my skin.

Then a black van pulled up beside me.

The door slid open.

Hands grabbed me, yanking me inside and black cloth thrown over my face.

And everything went dark.