Chapter Four

Dante grabbed the plate of pasta from the tray and scooped up a forkful. He held it to Luca's mouth, his other hand gripping Luca's jaw.

"Open."

Luca pressed his lips together, glaring up at him.

"I said open your mouth." Dante's fingers tightened on Luca's jaw, pressing hard enough to force his mouth open. He shoved the fork in before Luca could react.

Luca choked, his body jerking. For a moment Dante thought he might spit it out, but then Luca swallowed, his throat working painfully. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

"Good," Dante said, loading another forkful. "Again."

This time Luca opened his mouth without being forced. He swallowed the second bite, then a third. His hands were shaking, his whole body trembling from weakness and hunger. Dante kept feeding him, until half the plate was gone.

"Enough," Luca finally gasped, turning his face away. "I can't—I'll be sick."

Dante set the plate down but didn't let go of Luca's arm. "You'll eat more in two hours. And you'll eat every meal I bring you from now on. Do you understand?"

Luca didn't answer. He slumped forward, his forehead nearly touching Dante's chest. His breathing was ragged.

"Do you understand?" Dante repeated, his voice harder.

"Yes," Luca whispered.

Dante released him and Luca fell back onto the pillows, his eyes closing. Within seconds he was asleep, his body finally giving in to exhaustion.

Dante sat there watching him for a long time. In sleep, some of the hardness left Luca's face. He looked younger, more like the boy Dante remembered. But the shadows under his eyes remained, and the bones jutting through his skin, and all the evidence of what five years had done to him.

Dante reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Luca's forehead. The gesture was gentle, careful. Nothing like the roughness of moments before.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, knowing Luca couldn't hear him. "I'm so goddamn sorry."

He left the room and went downstairs to his office. There was work to do, business that couldn't wait just because his personal life was falling apart. Three of his captains were waiting for him, wanting to discuss territorial disputes and a shipment that had gone missing.

Dante forced himself to focus, to be the ruthless leader they expected. But his mind kept drifting back to the room upstairs, to Luca sleeping in that bed.

Two hours later, he brought more food. Luca was awake, sitting up in bed with his knees pulled to his chest. He looked at the tray in Dante's hands with something like resignation.

"I'll eat," he said before Dante could speak. "You don't have to force me."

Dante set the tray down and watched as Luca picked up the fork with shaking hands. He ate slowly, mechanical bites that he chewed and swallowed without tasting. But he ate. That was what mattered.

"Why literature?" Dante asked, breaking the silence.

Luca paused mid-bite, looking up at him. "What?"

"You were studying literature. Why?"

For a moment, Luca didn't answer. Then he set down his fork and stared at the food. "I liked stories. I liked the idea that words could create entire worlds, that they could make people feel things." His voice was flat, emotionless. "Stupid, right?"

"No," Dante said. "It's not stupid."

"It is when you learn that the real world doesn't work like stories do. There are no heroes. No happy endings. Just people using each other until there's nothing left."

"That's not true."

Luca laughed, sharp and bitter. "Isn't it? Look at us, Dante. Look at what we are. You're a killer who runs a criminal empire, and I'm the thing you bought at an auction. That's not a story. That's a nightmare."

Dante wanted to argue, to tell Luca he was wrong. But what could he say? Luca was right about what Dante was. He'd built his empire on violence and blood. He'd killed men with his own hands, ordered the deaths of dozens more. He was exactly what Luca said—a killer.

"Finish eating," Dante said instead.

Luca picked up his fork again and continued, eating until the plate was clean. When he was done, he lay back down and turned his face to the wall.

Dante took the tray and left.

The pattern continued for the next two days. Dante brought food three times a day. Luca ate without protest but said nothing beyond single-word answers to direct questions. He slept most of the time, his body recovering from starvation and exhaustion.

On the fifth day, Dante entered the room to find Luca standing by the window. He'd showered—his hair was damp—and changed into the clothes Dante had left for him. Simple things: soft pants and a t-shirt. They hung loose on his thin frame.

"You're up," Dante said.

"You told me I could leave the room," Luca replied without turning around. "I want to see the rest of the villa."

Dante set down the breakfast tray. "All right. I'll show you around."

They walked through the villa together, Dante showing Luca the library, the kitchen, the sitting rooms. Luca said nothing, just looked at everything with those empty eyes. When they reached the library, though, he paused.

The room was two stories tall, lined floor to ceiling with books. Dante had inherited most of them from his father and had never read any of them. They were just decoration, proof of wealth and status.

Luca walked to one of the shelves and ran his fingers along the spines. "Dante, Petrarch, Leopardi," he murmured. "You have first editions."

"They came with the house."

Luca pulled out a slim volume and opened it carefully. "This is worth a fortune. Do you even know what you have here?"

"Books," Dante said. "Just books."

"They're not just books." For the first time since Vienna, there was something like life in Luca's voice. "They're history. Art. Someone's entire soul poured onto pages." He looked up at Dante. "Can I read them?"

"You can do whatever you want with them."

Luca held the book against his chest like it was precious. "I thought I'd never get to read again. They didn't—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "It doesn't matter."

"What didn't they let you do?" Dante asked, moving closer.

Luca turned away, setting the book back on the shelf. "Nothing. Forget it."

"Luca—"

"I said forget it." Luca's voice went hard again, the brief moment of softness gone. "Are we done with the tour?"

Dante wanted to push, to demand answers. But he held back. "There's one more place."

He led Luca to the back of the villa, through a set of French doors that opened onto the gardens. It was early morning and the sun was just burning off the dew. The gardens stretched out before them, carefully maintained by a crew that came twice a week.

Luca stepped outside and stopped. He tilted his face up to the sun, closing his eyes. For a long moment he just stood there, breathing.

"When was the last time you were outside?" Dante asked.

"I don't remember." Luca's voice was barely a whisper. "I don't remember what it felt like. The sun. Fresh air. I thought I'd die without ever feeling it again."

Dante watched him, something twisting in his chest. "You can come out here whenever you want. The gardens are yours."

Luca opened his eyes and looked at him. "Nothing here is mine, Dante. We both know that."

Before Dante could respond, his phone rang. He pulled it out and checked the screen. Marco. His younger brother. The call he'd been dreading.

"I have to take this," Dante said.

"Then take it." Luca walked further into the garden, putting distance between them.

Dante answered. "Marco."

"Is it true?" Marco's voice was sharp, angry. "Tell me it's not true."

"What are you talking about?"

"I heard you were at an auction in Vienna. I heard you bought someone. And I heard—" Marco's voice cracked. "I heard it was Luca."

Dante closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Where is he? Is he there with you right now?"

"Yes."

"I'm coming over. I need to see him. I need to know he's okay."

"Marco, wait—"

"I'm already in my car. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The line went dead. Dante lowered the phone and looked at Luca, who was standing by a fountain, trailing his fingers through the water.

This was going to be complicated. Marco had blamed himself for Luca's disappearance, had spent five years drowning in guilt just like Dante. And now he was about to find out that Dante had found Luca and hadn't told him.

Dante walked over to Luca. "Your brother is coming. Marco. He'll be here soon."

Luca's hand froze over the water. He turned slowly, his face going pale. "Marco? He's coming here?"

"Yes."

"Does he know? Does he know what you—what you did?"

"He knows I found you. That's all."

Luca's breathing quickened. His hands were shaking again. "I can't. I can't see him. Not like this. Not after—"

"Luca—"

"He is my brother." Luca's voice broke. "He was my best friend and I disappeared and he probably thought I abandoned him and I can't, Dante, I can't face him."

Dante grabbed Luca's shoulders. "You don't have a choice. He's coming and he's not going to leave until he sees you."

Luca stared up at him, panic clear in his eyes. "What am I supposed to say to him?"