Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 71: Who

The private tasting room of Luciano’s downtown office was designed to impress without appearing as though it tried.

Low amber lighting glowed against walls paneled in dark walnut. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the sprawling city, afternoon sun melting into gold across polished marble floors. Crystal decanters rested untouched on a sideboard — decorative, not for use. Luciano never drank during business.

He preferred a clear mind when men came to ask for things they could not retrieve themselves.

Luciano Solis De La Vega stood near the window, a silhouette of absolute composure. One hand was buried in his trouser pocket; the other was occupied with the slow, rhythmic rolling of his sleeve. Once... twice... the movements were precise, controlled, a physical manifestation of a mind that never raced. His suit jacket rested over the back of a leather chair, leaving the crisp, stark white of his shirt and the sharp, dangerous lines of his physique visible to anyone who dared look too closely.

​Behind him, Ian stood like a shadow carved into the walnut paneling—silent, observant, and utterly lethal.

​The heavy door opened with a muted click.

​A man in his late fifties stepped in, escorted by two security guards who peeled away as soon as he crossed the threshold. He wore expensive shoes and a tailored suit that likely cost more than most men made in a year. But despite the room’s perfectly calibrated cool temperature, a fine sheen of sweat beaded along his temples.

​Luciano did not turn. He let the silence stretch until it became a physical weight in the room. He let the man feel small in a space built for predators.

​Finally, Luciano spoke, his voice a low, melodic baritone that carried no warmth.

​"You requested my time," he said calmly. "You have it."

​Mr. Arturo Belmonte cleared his throat, the sound echoing awkwardly. "Mr. De La Vega, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I know your schedule is... demanding."

​Luciano turned then. His icy blue-gray eyes assessed Belmonte in one sweeping, clinical motion—posture, breathing rate, the slight tremor in the hands. He saw the fear, and more importantly, he saw the desperation. He gestured to the chair across the table.

​"Sit."

​Belmonte obeyed with the frantic energy of a man facing a firing squad. Luciano remained standing a moment longer—a silent assertion of dominance—before finally taking his seat opposite him. Ian moved with ghost-like efficiency to pour water for the guest. Belmonte accepted it, his hands trembling enough to make the ice clink against the glass.

​Luciano noticed everything. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

​"So," Luciano began. "You own vineyards across three countries. Your portfolio is the envy of the Mediterranean. You are a man of significant resources, Arturo. Yet here you are... asking me for help."

​Belmonte swallowed hard, the movement of his throat visible over his silk tie. "Yes."

​"What is locked," Luciano continued, his voice as smooth as the silk in question, "that you cannot unlock yourself?"

​Belmonte exhaled slowly, trying to gather the shattered remnants of his dignity. "My finest collection. The vintage reserves. These are bottles that date back generations—family stock, some of them truly priceless. They were being transported to a private auction in the north."

​Luciano said nothing. He simply watched, his gaze unblinking.

​"The shipment was intercepted," Belmonte admitted, his voice dropping an octave. "Not stolen in the traditional sense. It was... locked."

​Luciano’s brow lifted, a rare sign of intrigue. "Explain."

​"They were taken to a secured storage facility controlled by... competitors. Men who want leverage over my family’s exports. They refuse to sell the bottles back, and they refuse to return them. They simply hold them. They want to bleed my reputation dry by proving I cannot protect my own heritage."

​Ian shifted slightly behind Luciano. Leverage. The word always changed the gravity of a room.

​Luciano leaned back, his chair creaking softly. "And you want me to retrieve them. You want a thief to rob a thief."

​"I want the man who makes the impossible reachable," Belmonte said quietly.

​A faint, dangerous smirk touched Luciano’s lips. Flattery was predictable, but in this case, it wasn’t entirely inaccurate. "Where is this facility?"

​Belmonte slid a thick manila folder across the table. Luciano didn’t open it immediately. He kept his eyes locked on Belmonte’s.

​"Before I agree," Luciano said, his tone sharpening, "you will answer a more important question."

​Belmonte stiffened, his breath hitching.

​"Why were they targeted?" Luciano asked. "Men do not risk a war over wine unless there is a catalyst. What did you do, Arturo?"

​The silence that followed was heavy. Belmonte looked away, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "There is a buyer. A man of... significant influence. He wanted exclusive rights to my oldest vineyard in Tuscany. I declined. I thought I was protected. Days later, my collection was ’detained’ for supposed tax irregularities at a private facility he owns."

​"So this is retaliation," Luciano murmured. He finally opened the folder, scanning photographs, blueprints, and security layouts with a practiced eye. His mind began to map the entry points instantly, calculating the variables of a kinetic entry versus a silent extraction.

​"High security," he noted.

​Ian leaned slightly closer, glancing at the prints. "Private guards. Armed. Ex-military by the look of the patrol patterns."

​Luciano closed the folder with a sharp thud. "Retrieving them will not be simple. It involves a breach of a high-profile facility and the humiliation of a powerful man."

​"I am prepared to pay whatever fee you request," Belmonte said, his voice thick with hope.

​Luciano’s eyes lifted slowly, turning cold. "I do not do ’fees.’ I am not a mercenary you hire from a catalogue, Arturo."

​Belmonte swallowed, realizing his mistake. "I... I apologize. I meant—"

​"I do partnerships," Luciano interrupted. "Or I do favors. And a favor for Luciano De La Vega is a very heavy thing to carry."

​"What do you want?"

​Luciano leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that felt like a blade against the skin. "I want distribution rights to your southern European reserves for five years. Entirely exclusive. My labels, your grapes."

​Belmonte’s eyes widened. "That’s... that’s half my profit margin. That’s—"

​"That is my price," Luciano said flatly. "You keep your heritage. I take the market. Or you can leave now and watch your family’s legacy turn to vinegar in a basement that doesn’t belong to you."

​A battle of pride versus desperation played across Belmonte’s face. He looked at the folder, then at the man across from him—a man who looked as though he had never lost a battle in his life.

​Finally... he nodded. "...Done."

​Luciano extended his hand. The movement was a contract signed in blood. "Then your wines will be home within forty-eight hours."

​Belmonte gripped his hand quickly, relief flooding his features so intensely he looked as though he might weep. "Thank you, Mr. De La Vega. Truly."

Luciano released him.

Ian escorted the man out.

​"Well?" Ian asked, his voice coming from the shadows near the sideboard. It was the first time he’d spoken since Belmonte entered. His tone was neutral, but there was an underlying edge of readiness.

​Luciano watched a helicopter bank over the harbor, its lights flickering like a dying star.

​"The facility will be cleared tonight," Luciano said. His voice was a calm, low vibration. "Tell the team I want a surgical extraction. No explosions, no unnecessary theatrics. Minimal noise. I want every single bottle in that collection untouched, unchilled, and unmarred. If a single label is torn, I will consider the mission a failure."

​Ian stepped forward into the amber glow of the desk lamp, nodding once. "I’ll put Elias on point. He’s the best for a silent breach. We’ll have the transport trucks standing by two blocks over."

​"Good." Luciano reached down, his fingers brushing the cool silk of his discarded suit jacket. He didn’t put it on. Instead, he began to adjust his cufflinks, the gold glinting in the fading light. He turned the small weights with methodical precision, ensuring the alignment was perfect.

​He paused, his hands going still.

​"And Ian..."

​Ian stopped halfway to the door. "Yes, boss?"

​Luciano didn’t turn around. He kept his gaze fixed on the reflection of the room behind him, watching Ian’s silhouette. When he spoke again, his voice had cooled a fraction, dropping into a register that felt like a blade being drawn slowly across whetstone.

​"The man who intercepted that shipment. The ’competitor’ who thinks he can use Belmonte’s heritage as a bargaining chip."

​A dark, expectant pause filled the space between them.

​"Find out who he is," Luciano commanded. "Find out where he sleeps, who he pays, and exactly what he thinks his life is worth. He made the mistake of holding leverage over a man who now answers to me. By extension, he is holding leverage that belongs to me now."

​Luciano’s eyes narrowed in the glass, the amber light catching the cold vacuum of his pupils.

​"I do not like people touching my things, Ian. Even before I’ve officially collected them."

​Ian’s expression didn’t change, but his posture tightened—the stance of a hound that had just been given the scent.

​"I’ll have a name and a location by midnight," Ian promised.

​"See that you do."

---

​The drive back to the estate took forty-three minutes.

​Los Angeles glittered below the SUV like spilled diamonds as the vehicle climbed the winding canyon road. Luciano stared out the tinted window, his mind already shifting gears. He was thinking of Rotterdam logistics, trusted crews, false manifests, and the specific bribes required for port officials. It was routine. Mechanical. The kind of work that had built his empire brick by bloody brick.

​But tonight, the calculations felt distant. Usually, the thrill of a new acquisition fueled him, but a strange restlessness tugged at his chest.

​Because tonight, he was going home to her.

​The estate gates slid open silently, a pair of iron sentinels guarding his sanctuary. The courtyard lights were low and warm, casting long shadows across the stone driveway. He stepped out of the car, dismissed the driver with a sharp nod, and walked through the front doors.

​The house was quiet—too quiet.

​Usually, there was the distant sound of laughter of the staff in the kitchen, all thanks to Eloise. Tonight, the air felt stagnant.

​He loosened his tie, dragging it from his collar as he moved toward the living room, his footsteps soundless on the Persian rugs. He was ready to pour a drink, to forget the smell of Belmonte’s fear.

​He stopped dead in the archway.

​Eloise sat on the edge of the large velvet sofa, her knees drawn up to her chest. She looked small. Mary, knelt in front of her, holding an ice pack against the left side of Eloise’s face with trembling, gentle hands. The room smelled faintly of arnica and chamomile—Mary’s remedies for pain.

​Luciano’s blood didn’t just boil; it turned to jagged ice.

​He crossed the room in three long strides, the predator from the office returning with a vengeance.

​"What happened to my fiancée’s cheek?"

​His voice was quiet. Terrifyingly quiet. It was the sound of a storm a hundred miles out, moving fast.

​Mary startled, nearly dropping the ice pack. She scrambled to her feet, her head bowed low. "Sir—I was just—she came home and—"

​Eloise looked up.

​The left side of her face was a map of violence. Her cheekbone was swollen, the skin turning a deep, angry shade of plum. There was a faint, jagged split at the corner of her mouth where the delicate skin had given way under the force of a slap.

​She met his gaze steadily. There were no tears in her eyes, and her hands weren’t shaking. Instead, there was an exhausted, stubborn spark of defiance—the very thing that had made him want her in the first place.

​Luciano knelt in front of her—slowly, with a terrifying kind of control—until their eyes were level.

​"Paloma," he whispered.

​She tried to smile, but the movement pulled at the split in her lip, causing her to wince and hiss through her teeth. "Bad day at the office?" she asked, her voice raspy but light, trying to shield him from the very rage she knew was coming.

​He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.

​His hand lifted—slow, careful, as if he were touching something made of spun glass—and brushed a stray lock of hair back from her temple. His fingertips were cool against her heated, injured skin. He studied the bruising, his mind already cataloging the force required to leave such a mark, the height of the attacker, the angle of the strike.

​"Who," he said.

​It wasn’t a question. It was the beginning of a death sentence.

​Eloise reached out, her fingers curling around his wrist, trying to ground him. "Luciano, it’s fine. I handled it. It was just a disagreement that got—"

​"Who," he repeated, his voice dropping into a register that made the air in the room feel thin.

​He didn’t care about the wine. He didn’t care about the distribution rights or the southern European reserves. The world outside the gates of this estate ceased to exist. There was only the girl with the broken lip and the man who was about to burn everything down to find the person who touched her.

​He looked at the bruise again, his thumb grazing the edge of her jaw.

​"Tell me a name, Paloma. I want to see if they can bleed as beautifully as you."