Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 43: Luciano What Did You Do?

The interior of the Maserati was a vacuum of high-end tension. The leather seats, hand-stitched and smelling of a blend of expensive citrus cologne and the cold ghost of the morning’s confrontation, seemed to press in on Eloise. Outside, the world sped by in a blur of gray and green, but inside, the air was static.

Eloise sat rigidly in the passenger seat, her hands folded over her lap, the red diamond on her finger catching the rhythm of the passing sun like a strobe light. She had decided, with the stubbornness of a cornered animal, that the silent treatment was her only remaining weapon. She wouldn’t look at him. She wouldn’t acknowledge the way his hands—hands that had systematically dismantled her life and rebuilt it into a gilded cage—gripped the steering wheel with effortless precision.

​Luciano, however, seemed entirely unfazed by her wall of ice. He cast a single, mocking side-glance at her, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as if her anger were nothing more than a delightful spice to his morning coffee.

​He reached for the audio system. His fingers, long and scarred at the knuckles, tapped the screen with a light flourish.

​The upbeat, soaring chords of One Direction’s Where Do Broken Hearts Go filled the cabin—bright, poppy, painfully earnest. Eloise expected him to change it—to find something dark, operatic, or perhaps just static—but he didn’t.

​Instead, Luciano began to sing.

It wasn’t a half-hearted hum or a muffled mumble. His voice was deep, rich, and effortlessly on pitch—a professional-level baritone that could have filled concert halls if he had ever bothered to be anything other than a warlord. He hit every note with casual precision, the lyrics rolling off his tongue with a smooth, rhythmic confidence.

"Tell me now, tell me now, tell me where you go when you feel afraid?..."

Eloise had imagined Luciano in many scenarios: gun in hand, blood on his knuckles, contract in front of her trembling fingers. But Luciano Solis De La Vega singing One Direction in perfect harmony while driving a car?

Her mouth fell open. The "ice wall" she had spent twenty minutes building shattered into a million pieces. Her head whipped around, her eyes wide with genuine, unadulterated shock.

​"You... you can sing?" she blurted out, her silent treatment dying a quick, undignified death.

Luciano glanced at her sideways, his eyes dancing with dark amusement. "So the silent treatment lasted exactly forty-three seconds. A personal record for you, Paloma."

She scowled, clutching her bag. "That’s not—you’re singing One Direction! Why are you singing One Direction?"

Luciano didn’t miss a beat, finishing a high note with a vibrato that made the dashboard hum before casting her another smirk. "I’ve been told I have a few talents beyond debt collection and atmospheric brooding."

​​​​"I thought you were all about... you know. Blood. Debts. Kidnapping. Death," she stammered, still trying to process the auditory whiplash. "Not boy bands."

He chuckled, the sound low and unbothered. "Ah. Yes. Because men who break bones are strictly forbidden from enjoying a good melody. It’s in the Geneva Convention, I believe."

"That’s not what I meant."

"But it is what you thought."

She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, finding no ground to stand on.

Luciano shifted gears, the engine growling in response to his touch. "Extracting information from people is an art form, Eloise, but even art becomes tedious after the tenth hour. They all have the same script: ’I’m loyal,’ ’I don’t know anything,’ ’Please don’t kill me.’ It’s repetitive. Boring, really. It lacks soul."

He tapped his fingers against the wheel in time with the drum kit. "I had to find something to kill the monotony between the screams. Music became the stand-in. Music... and Candy Crush."

Eloise stared at him, her brain short-circuiting. She tried to conjure an image of Luciano sitting in a dark, damp basement, the sounds of wet thuds and agonized pleas echoing off the walls, while he calmly swiped colorful candies on his phone to get a "Sugar Crush."

The image was so absurd she almost laughed—but then the horror of it settled in. He treated torture like a boring wait at the dentist’s office.

​​"Candy Crush?" she echoed, her voice climbing an octave. "You? Luciano Solis De La Vega? You play a game with cartoon candies? Even I don’t play that."

​​"Level 4,872," he replied, his tone as deadpan as if he were discussing his quarterly net worth. "It requires strategy. Pattern recognition. Patience. Much like my business. Though, I find the chocolate-covered levels particularly offensive."

​Eloise let out a huff of disbelief, but Luciano pushed forward, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming genuinely curious. "But now that we are having a normal conversation—or as normal as we get—tell me about you. Do you like music? Who is your favorite artist? I’m assuming your taste leans toward Katseye, considering the anthem you chose for your failed escape attempt on the train."

​Eloise swallowed hard, the mention of the train bringing back the sting of his manipulation. She looked out the window, watching the trees whip by, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag. "You’ll be surprised to know that I actually used to hate music as a child. It was Jayla who made me listen to it again."

​As the name left her lips, reality crashed back in. Jayla. Her best friend was likely sitting in her apartment, heart in her throat, wondering if Eloise had made it to her destination or if she was lying in a ditch somewhere. Panic flared in her chest.

​"Oh God," Eloise whispered, frantically unzipping her bag. "Jayla. She must be terrified. I need to call her—I need to tell her I’m alive."

​Luciano’s hand reached over, his fingers gently but firmly covering hers, stopping the search. "Don’t worry, Eloise. She knows you’re safe."

​Eloise froze. "What?"

​"I had Ian call her hours ago," Luciano said, his voice smooth and untroubled. "He informed her that you were back under my protection and that the ’travel arrangements’ had been cancelled. I didn’t want your friend making a nuisance of herself by calling the police or, worse tabloids.

​Eloise froze, her hand halfway inside her bag. She looked at him, her eyes narrowing. "She didn’t threaten you through Ian, did she? Because Jayla has a black belt in verbal evisceration."

​Luciano actually laughed—a genuine, chesty sound that made the car feel smaller. "Ah, that one. I like her. She’s protective. Ian said she promised to set my world on fire if a hair on your head was out of place."

​Eloise couldn’t help a small, reluctant smile. "Funny thing is, she actually likes you. All because you... you know, dealt with William. She thinks you’re a hero. She has a very dark sense of justice."

​"Aha, aha," Luciano murmured, his eyes dancing with mischief. "As much as your friend’s flattery is noted, we are not changing the subject, Paloma. You used the word again. You said she made you listen to music again. That implies there was a time before the hatred. A time when you loved it."

​Eloise felt the trap closing in. He was a master at this—using a light, casual conversation to lead her right back into the dark corners of her mind. She looked out the window, her reflection ghosting against the glass, pale and fragile.

​​"I did love it," she said, her voice barely a whisper, the memory of Pavarotti on the TV screen flickering in her mind like a dying candle. "I had a favorite artist. I had dreams. But something happened... something that made the music sound like screaming. So I stopped. For years, I lived in the quiet."

​"Jayla found out," Eloise continued, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "In high school, she used to corner me in my room. She’d lock the door and tell me that if I didn’t listen to at least one song, she was going to read me the most graphic, disturbing Chapters of her latest collection of dark romance novel out loud. Detailed descriptions of... well, things that made my face turn as red as this diamond."

She held up her hand, the red stone glinting. "She threatened me with literary smut until I gave in. She’d play something upbeat, something loud, and eventually... I started hearing the melody again instead of the silence."

​She felt Luciano’s gaze on the side of her face—heavy, quiet, and uncharacteristically patient. "I think I made the right decision to reward her, then," Luciano said, his voice dropping into a smooth, dark purr. "To let her good karma find her for her loyalty toward you. Loyalty is the only currency I value, and your friend seems to have a surplus of it."

​Eloise’s brow furrowed. The idea of Luciano handing out "rewards" felt like a glitch in the universe.

"You want to reward Jayla? For what?"

​"I already did," he replied simply, shifting the gear as they glided through the city streets.

​​"What does that mean?" she pressed, her heart skip-throbbing. "Luciano, what did you do?"

But the man was a vault when he chose to be. Instead of answering, he pivoted with the grace of a shark. "What made you hate music, Eloise?"

​The air in the car suddenly felt too thin. The memory of the funeral, the smell of lilies, and her mother’s screaming accusation clawed at the back of her throat. Eloise wasn’t ready to bleed in front of him. Not yet.

Desperate to divert him, she blurted out the first thing she could think of. "I once cried because a vending machine ate my money."

The confession hung there—useless, ridiculous, and utterly unrelated.

Luciano didn’t blink. He knew exactly what she was doing; he could see the walls slamming shut in her eyes. He chose to let her have the retreat, though his smirk suggested the debt of that answer would be collected later.

"We were talking about music, but you changed the subject to avoid the ’why’ of your hatred. So, tell me, since we are playing at being a ’normal’ couple—what is your favorite color?"

​Eloise leaned back into the leather, crossing her arms. She knew exactly what he was doing—allowing her the illusion of control by letting her pick the topic. "Green," she lied, then sighed. "No, it’s blue. Like the ocean before a storm. Now you. And don’t say ’blood red’ just to be edgy."

Luciano stared at the road, his eyes reflecting the dashboard’s glow. "Black. It’s the absence of light, the perfect camouflage. But," he added, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the hair on her arms stand up, "if there is ever a day you wish to truly surprise me, cariño... sexy black lingerie, red heels, and a very specific shade of red lipstick. Those are my kind of kinks."

Eloise felt the heat climb from her chest to her hairline in a scorching wave. "I didn’t— I asked for your favorite color, Luciano! Not a list of your... your fetishes!"

​"Oh, Paloma," he leaned closer at a red light, breath warm against her ear. "You don’t need to be shy. Those are just the basics. The entry-level requirements. Do you want to know the high-intensity ones? The ones that involve silk ties and the sound of you losing your breath?"

​"No! Thank you!" she blurted out, turning her face toward the window to hide her scarlet cheeks. "I don’t want to know. And don’t even think about trying to control my body like that again."

He pulled back, grinning like a cat who’d cornered a particularly entertaining mouse. "And yet," he said softly, eyes dropping to where her thighs pressed together beneath the red dress, "the body in question is trembling just at the mention of it. I suspect Jayla’s novels have done a significant amount of the heavy lifting for me. Your imagination is far more scandalous than you lead on."

Eloise hated that he was right. Her mind was a traitor, already flashing images of black silk and the weight of his gaze. To save herself from her own thoughts, she pivoted. "What movie are we going to watch?"

​"It hasn’t been decided yet," Luciano said, pulling a sharp turn into a more commercial district. "But knowing the female lead, it’s going to be a thriller. Possibly a tragedy, depending on the supporting cast."

Eloise stared at him in genuine shock. "You don’t even know the title? Or the genre? Who goes to a movie without knowing what it is?"

Luciano shrugged, his shoulders broad and imposing under his casual jacket. "It’s one of those avant-garde films. The story comes together as it goes. High stakes, real-time pacing. You’ll know the genre the moment it starts."

He eased the Maserati into a parking spot in front of a brightly lit, vintage-style storefront. Eloise looked out, expecting the neon marquee of a theater. Instead, she saw a charming, pastel-painted ice cream parlor called The Sweet Spot.

​She froze, her hand halfway to the door handle. "Luciano... this is an ice cream shop."

​"Sharp as ever," he noted, his eyes glittering with a predatory mirth. "Let’s get going. We don’t want to be late for the opening credits."

Inside, the air smelled of waffle cones and sugar, a jarring contrast to the tension vibrating between them. The shop was nearly empty, save for a few couples in the back. A waitress, a young girl with a nervous smile, led them to a private booth in the far corner. It was shielded by a frosted glass partition, giving them a clear view of the rest of the shop while keeping them in the shadows.

Eloise’s stomach dropped.

Luciano slid in beside her—close, thigh pressing hers—and signaled the waitress.

"Two of the house special," he said. "Extra cake."

The waitress returned quickly with towering sundaes: scoops of dark chocolate and strawberry swirled with hot fudge, crowned with whipped cream, cherries, and thick slices of red velvet cake.

Luciano took a bite and let out a low, genuinely pleased hum.

"Try it," he said, offering her a spoonful.

Eloise ignored it, arms crossed.

"You said we were going to the movies."

"I said we were having a movie date." His eyes gleamed as he corrected, licking fudge from his thumb. "I never specified the screen."

She muttered "liar" under her breath.

​"I don’t lie Eloise. I promised you a movie, and this," he gestured with his spoon toward the front of the shop, "is the screen."

Eloise felt the urge to dump the ice cream over his head. Luciano didn’t look at her. He looked past her. "Look down at the floor, then slowly look toward the booth near the window. You see that guy? He’s the, let’s say, traitorous side character."

​Eloise followed his gaze, her breath leaving her lungs in a jagged rush.

Sitting by the window was a man she recognized instantly. Eric. Jayla’s boyfriend. The "perfect" guy Jayla had been dating for a year. He was sitting with a waitress—not the one who served them, but another girl. He wasn’t just talking; he was leaning in, his hand sliding over hers, his eyes filled with an intense, predatory heat that was definitely not meant for a friend.

Rage, hot and blinding, boiled up in Eloise’s chest. She started to stand, her chair screeching against the floor. "That son of a bitch. I’m going down there. I’m going to tear his—"

​"Wait," Luciano commanded, his hand snapping out to grip her wrist. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an anchor.

​"Wait? He is betraying my best friend! He’s playing her!"

​"Sit down, Eloise. You’ll ruin the climax. A good director knows when to let the scene build."

​Reluctantly, trembling with fury, she sank back into the booth. Minutes ticked by like hours. Then, Luciano pointed toward the front entrance.

​"And there," he murmured, "is our female lead.

The door swung open.

Jayla strode in like vengeance given form.

Red leather shorts so short they should be illegal. Fishnet stockings climbing endless legs. Black crop top clinging to every curve. Leather jacket slung over her shoulders like armor. High ponytail swinging like a battle standard. Red lipstick sharp enough to cut glass.

In her right hand, she carried a polished wooden baseball bat, swinging it casually by her side as if it were a designer handbag.

​She looked magnificent. She looked terrifying.

​​"Oh my god," Eloise breathed, a mix of horror and awe. "She looks like a character from one of her books."

​​"Isn’t this the best movie ever?" Luciano asked against her ear, sounding genuinely entertained.

​Eloise glared at him, now fully convinced the man was a sociopath. "You’re sick. You’re actually sick."

​She turned back to the scene. The waitress returned—same one he’d been flirting with—took their order with a knowing smile. And after she left, Eric slid a stack of papers toward Jayla. Jayla read them, her smile never wavering.

Then reached into her jacket and produced an envelope and a credit card. Eric opened the envelope. His face went ash-gray. Whatever was inside made his hands shake. He recovered quickly—smirked, leaned in, started talking.

Jayla listened.

Silent.

Bat resting against her leg like a promise.

​Luciano’s fingers traced lazy circles on Eloise’s thigh. "And that," Luciano said, his voice sharpening with interest, "is our main male lead."

​At that moment, Eric pointed toward the door. Both Eloise and Jayla turned their heads. Eloise’s heart dropped. She swore under her breath.

​"Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me."

​Luciano’s laugh was low, dark, and utterly delighted. "Welcome to the movies, Paloma."

​He fed her a spoonful of ice cream.