Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 62: Everything Was Fine

Luciano looked at Marcos, who was currently holding a slice of pepperoni mid-air.

​"Sir," Marcos said, his voice regaining its professional clip. "We were just... supervising."

​"Supervising the pepperoni?" Luciano’s voice was like a low-frequency hum, dangerous and silk-smooth.

​Andrés didn’t move. He just waved a hand toward the pizza. "You’re late, Lu. Eloise made enough to feed an army, which is lucky, because Leo eats like three men. Join us. We’re at the part where the big bad guy gets his feelings hurt."

​Luciano didn’t look at his brother. His eyes were locked on Eloise.

His gaze raked over her, and his jaw shifted with a dangerous, rhythmic grinding. Eloise was dressed in a new casual finds: soft, dark high waist denim and a gray crop top that was stylish, comfortable, and—in Luciano’s eyes—an act of high treason. The hem of the shirt rose just enough to reveal the pale, smooth curve of her waist, a sliver of skin that was now being viewed by every man in the room.

A part of her body—hers, and therefore his—had been exposed to eyes that were never meant to have access to it.

The thought detonated inside him.

Luciano felt the shift instantly. The quiet inside him snapped, like a wire pulled too tight.

His men. The guards. The maids. They were everywhere. Sitting comfortably. Laughing. Eating. Existing in her presence like this was normal. Like it was allowed.

Like they were entitled to see her.

A low, dangerous heat coiled in his chest. A red haze clouded his vision. To Luciano, Eloise wasn’t just a fiancée; she was a treasure he had stolen and intended to hoard. The idea that his men—men he paid to guard, men who were essentially extensions of his own will—had spent the evening looking at her skin while eating the food she had prepared made his blood boil.

​He had expected her to be a captive. Instead, he had walked into a scene where she was the heart of a community he hadn’t authorized. They had tasted her cooking. They had seen her laugh. They had taken the "firsts" that belonged to him.

​Luciano moved.

​He didn’t speak. He strode across the room, the heels of his Italian leather shoes sounding like the ticking of a bomb. He shrugged out of his suit jacket mid-stride—charcoal wool, still warm from his body—and draped it over her shoulders in one fluid motion. The fabric swallowed her small frame, covering that damn crop top, hiding her skin from prying eyes. She opened her mouth—perhaps to protest, perhaps to welcome him—but he caught her hand before a word escaped.

He didn’t just take her hand; he gripped it with a possessive strength that brooked no argument and began to drag her toward the stairs.

​"Whoa, big brother," Andrés called out, a teasing, dangerous smirk playing on his lips as he watched the exit. ​"Careful, Lu, the steam coming off your head is going to wilt the pizza. Or maybe you’re just upset because Leo got the last piece of the Margherita? It was excellent, by the way. Your fiancée is quite the chef."

​Luciano didn’t even turn his head. "Shut the fuck up, Andrés. And the rest of you—clean this mess and forget you have eyes."

​He hauled Eloise up the stairs and into the master suite, the doors slamming shut with a finality that made the crystal lamps rattle.

​Eloise ripped her wrist from his grip, her own anger flaring like a match in a dark room. "What is wrong with you? We were having a moment! The staff was actually happy for once, the movie was—"

​She didn’t finish. Luciano lunged forward, his hands framing her face with a terrifying intensity, and his lips crashed into hers.

​This wasn’t the "punishment kiss" from the ice-cream parlor. This was a territorial claim. It was rough, possessive, and fueled by a jealousy so thick it felt like a third person in the room. He kissed her as if he were trying to erase the very memory of any other man’s eyes being on her.

​Eloise gasped into his mouth, her hands coming up to push at his chest, but he was a mountain of muscle and focused intent. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure, frustrated hunger, and then he bit her—not enough to maim, but enough to mark.

​Eloise winced as a sharp sting radiated from her bottom lip. She pulled back, her fingers touching her mouth. When she pulled them away, there was a tiny, crimson smear of blood on her fingertip.

​"You’re insane," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Are you serious? Are you actually jealous of your own men?"

​Luciano stepped into her space, his chest heaving. "You dressed like that in a room full of men, Eloise. You sat there, laughing and eating, while they stared at skin that belongs to me. You think I’m a ’nice’ man? I am a man who protects his assets. And you are the most precious thing in this house."

​He leaned down, his voice dropping to a gravelly, dangerous whisper. "I should fire every one of them. Should I pull out their eyeballs? Gouge them for daring to see what l protect so fiercely?" But they were his—loyal, trained, extensions of his will. He couldn’t. Wouldn’t. But the urge twisted in him like a knife.

​"They weren’t looking at me like that!" Eloise yelled. "We were watching a movie! They were eating pizza!"

​"And that is your second offense," Luciano snarled, his eyes flashing. "You cooked for them. You spent hours in that kitchen, pouring your effort and your heart into food, and you let them have the first taste? You let my guards and my brother experience your talent before me?"

​Eloise stared at him, genuinely dumbfounded. "You... you’re upset about the pizza?"

​"I am upset that you gave them a version of yourself that I haven’t even seen yet," he replied, his possessiveness reaching a fever pitch. "From now on, you are not allowed to dress like that outside this room. And you are not allowed to cook for anyone in this house unless I am the first person at the table. Do you understand me?"

Eloise blinked—dumbfounded.

Luciano was a picky eater.

Everyone knew it.

He barely touched food unless it was chocolate or something painfully sweet.

Yet here he was—furious because he hadn’t been first.

Sensing the need to de-escalate the monster before it truly took hold, she softened her posture. She reached up, her fingers trembling slightly as she began to undo the silk tie around his neck.

​"I made something special for you," she said quietly, her eyes searching his. "Something I didn’t give to them. Why don’t you take a shower and wash off the day? I’ll go downstairs and get it for you."

​The mention of something "special" just for him seemed to act as a cooling balm. The tension in his shoulders didn’t disappear, but the murderous glint in his eyes faded into a dark, simmering hunger. He released her, though his hand lingered on her hip for a moment too long.

​"The jacket stays on," he warned, his voice still gravelly.

​He turned and headed toward the bathroom, stripping his shirt off as he went.

​Eloise let out a long, shaky breath. She hurried downstairs, navigating the now-silent living room where the staff had vanished like smoke. In the kitchen, she pulled out the dish she had hidden at the back of the warming drawer: Osso Buco over Saffron Risotto.

She had spent three hours on the veal shanks, braising it in a reduction of white wine and vegetables until it was tender enough to fall apart at the touch of a fork. The risotto was a vibrant, creamy gold, infused with the most expensive saffron she had found in his pantry. It was a dish of patience and soul—nothing like the cold, sterile meals the French-trained chef usually produced.

​When she returned to the suite, Luciano was out of the shower, wearing nothing but black silk lounge pants, hair wet, droplets sliding down the planes of his chest, over the dove tattoo above his heart. He looked at the plate she set on the small dining table by the window.

​​"We have a world-class chef, Eloise," he grumbled, though he sat down, the scent of the braised meat hitting him. "He is trained in three different Michelin-starred kitchens. You don’t need to be standing over a stove like a servant."

She watched him, head tilted. "A servant? Cooking’s not a chore, Luciano. It’s... me. It’s how I survived after my dad and brother died. Mom stopped caring, so I learned. And I loved it. New recipes every day. It was the only thing that felt like hope."

He paused, fork midway to his mouth. Her words landed soft but heavy, peeling back layers he hadn’t asked to see.

​Then he took the first bite.

​The flavors were complex, earthy, and deeply comforting. It tasted like warmth. It tasted like the opposite of his life. The sauce was velvety, coating his tongue with a depth of flavor that no restaurant could replicate. It was thick with the richness of melted marrow and a quiet patience; it tasted, quite simply, of her time.

​"Were Agnes’s designs acceptable?" he asked, his voice low and raspy. He didn’t look up from his plate, but the question was loaded. He had hand-picked the dressmaker, a move that bypassed the usual high-fashion vultures in favor of someone who understood the architecture of a woman’s body without wanting to exploit it.

​Eloise nodded, clutching the lapels of his suit jacket closer to her chest. "They were beautiful. More than I expected. She’s... very talented. And very chatty." She paused, watching him eat. "I learned she’s Ian’s childhood friend. It was sweet of him to recommend her."

​Luciano gave a curt nod. "Ian knows I value loyalty over a label." He took a slow sip of water, his icy blue-gray eyes finally lifting to meet hers. "If the designs were ’perfect,’ then why did you feel the need to leave the estate today to buy more? My men reported a stop at a common boutique."

​Eloise felt a flush of heat rise to her cheeks. She should have known he’d have a full inventory of her shopping bags before he even stepped through the door. "Because there were no casual clothes. Everything felt... formal. Like I was always dressing for an audience." She gestured lightly. "This is a house, not a gala."

​Luciano’s gaze drifted to the gray crop top visible beneath his jacket. His jaw tightened for a fleeting second before he returned to his meal. "I see." He was quiet for a moment, the only sound the scrape of silver against porcelain. "Did something happen in my absence? My staff knows the rules, but I know how they can... interpret silence."

​Eloise’s mind flashed to Maya—the deliberate pinch, the yank on her hair, the cold, calculated spill of the juice. She could tell him. She could say the word, and Maya would be gone, likely in a way that didn’t involve a simple resignation letter. But Eloise wasn’t ready to be the person who pulled the trigger, even metaphorically.

​"Everything was fine," she said, her voice steady. "I just wanted to get out for a while."

​Luciano studied her. He didn’t just look at her; he dissected her. He looked for the micro-expressions, the hesitation in her breath, the way her eyes darted away. The intensity of his focus made her skin prickle with discomfort. Desperate to shift the spotlight, she blurted out the first thing that had been nagging at her.

​"Andrés told me you weren’t always like this," she said, leaning forward. "He said you became a... notoriously picky eater around the age of sixteen. I was wondering why. Did something happen? Were you poisoned?"

​Luciano stilled. The fork in his hand remained suspended an inch above the plate. The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, turning heavy and stagnant. The mentions of poison were common in his world, a standard occupational hazard, but the truth was far more visceral than a drop of arsenic in a glass of wine.

​He set the fork down slowly. He looked at the golden saffron risotto, a dish that looked like sunlight on a plate.

​"No," he said, his voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. "I wasn’t poisoned. At least, not by a substance." He leaned back, his shadow stretching long against the wall. "After both my mothers died... no food tasted the same as theirs. The street food sellers were technically perfect, but the food was dead. It was ash in my mouth. I stopped eating because I couldn’t stand the reminder of what was missing."

​Eloise felt a pang of profound, unexpected sympathy. She thought of her own eleven-year-old self, standing on a stool to cook because her mother had checked out of reality. She understood the relationship between grief and the kitchen—how the absence of love can make even the finest feast taste like nothing.

​"I’m sorry, Luciano," she whispered. "I didn’t mean to pry."

​"Don’t be," he replied, his eyes finally locking onto hers. The coldness was back, but there was a crack in it—a small, barely visible opening.

He didn’t say another word. He ate with a ferocity that surprised Eloise; it had been a long time since Luciano had eaten with such genuine appetite. He finished the entire plate, even using a piece of crusty bread to swipe up the last of the golden, starchy remnants of the rice.

He leaned back, a look of genuine surprise on his face. He looked at his empty plate—the first meal he had finished with genuine relish in years—and the hollowed-out bone resting in the center.

"That was..." He paused, searching for the word. "...unacceptable."

Eloise blinked. "Unacceptable? You ate the whole thing!"

"It is unacceptable because now I will never be able to eat the chef’s Osso Buco over Saffron Risotto again. You have a way of making things taste... alive," he grumbled, though his eyes were warm. "It tastes like ash compared to this."

​

​Eloise laughed, a bright, clear sound that seemed to chase the last of the shadows from the room. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "Then I’ll cook for you more often. If you’re a good boy."

​Luciano reached across the table, his fingers tangling with hers. The possessiveness was still there, but it had transformed into something softer, something more intimate.

​"Every night," he said, his voice a low command. "But only for me."

​"We’ll see," Eloise teased.