Can you damage someone beyond repair?
Luca plays his role as the loyal underboss. Violent, lethal, flawless. The lapdog, the starboy.
On the surface, he maintains his facade of smirks and casual charm, but beneath the mask, thereʼs a profound dark...
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THE CROWD IS THE SAME as always. Families, old men, a few well-dressed women pretending they’re here for something other than gossip. This is what passes for a community, I guess. All dressed up in their Sunday best, like it’s going to absolve them of their sins.
I’m not sure why I’m even here.
Habit, maybe.
I break away from Ma, Mickey and Phillip, letting them sit closer to the front as I walk down the aisle to the back.
And then I see her.
Wren.
How fitting — my little troublemaker is a Catholic angel. She’s in a baby blue dress floats around her knees, swaying gently with every step she takes, the fabric catching the sunlight filtering through the stained glass.
Sweet sixteen, and so innocent, so damn sheltered and naïve it pisses me off.
When real life decides to take a bite, she’ll be in for a rude awakening.
I watch as she walks alongside a man I presume is her father. His hair is slicked back, with three deep lines in his forehead, square jaw, and a slight beer gut that strains against his slacks. He walks with a self-assured stride, and she follows dutifully with a dark-haired kid —probably her brother—at her side.
She still hasn’t noticed me, but my eyes track her, following the sway of her long, dark hair tied neatly by a blue ribbon at the back of her head. That damn hair. I’ve never seen a girl with such long hair. Even tied up, it almost brushes the base of her spine. She’s like a brunette Rapunzel.
She’s walking past me now, still completely oblivious. She’s either got the most tunneled vision ever, or I’m really just another body in the crowd for her. The thought works me up more than it should.
Just as she’s close enough, I reach out, fingers brushing against the satin of the blue ribbon before I tug it free.
Her hair spills down instantly, falling in waves over her shoulders.
She turns, and for a second, our eyes lock. Fuck, she looks even better now. Free, wild, messy. I’m sporting a fucking semi in church. She’s beautiful. Like actually fucking stunning. Puffy pink lips and the biggest brown eyes on the fucking planet, like a damn baby deer.
Her wide, alarmed eyes meet mine, and there’s a spark of something—surprise, panic, maybe. I don’t move, just hold her gaze, daring her to demand her ribbon back.
But like the good little girl she is, she swallows whatever she wants to say and turns back, following her father to the front pew.
Her steps are quicker now, and she tries to hide it, but I can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way she quickens her steps. She’s rattled.
