Love,Written In Ruins-Chapter 20: I’m Fine

The dream had teeth. It was an old, recurring nightmare, always waiting for the moment his guard dropped, always ready to drag him under before he could fight it off. It was the primal scene of his life, the fracture point.

​The night was unnaturally still—too still. A suffocating quiet that pressed on Luciano’s chest like an invisible hand.

He lay in the center of Eloise’s vast, luxurious bed, the silk sheets half-twisted around his waist, the scent of her still clinging to the fabric. The city’s dim glow leaked through the blinds, painting restless stripes of light and shadow across his sculpted jaw.

​His body looked sculpted from marble in the moonlight, perfectly still and powerfully masculine.

But inside—everything burned. The memory was a chemical fire in his blood.

​His fingers curled into tight fists in his sleep, catching the sheet. His breath hitched, a soft, strangled sound. A muscle near his temple twitched, a nervous habit he couldn’t suppress even in unconsciousness.

​And then—

​The world dissolved. He wasn’t a man anymore. He was a boy.

​Ten years old.

​The scent of sun-baked asphalt and diesel fumes filled the air, mingling with the sweet, greasy aroma of street food drifting from the corner vendor. The Los Angeles neighborhood of Pacoima shimmered under the harsh California sun.

A boy sat on the cracked sidewalk, kicking at a pebble, his small body buzzing with expectation. His school uniform—a cheap, slightly too big polyester shirt and dark shorts—was already smudged with dust from the rough pavement. But he didn’t care about the dirt.

​He was waiting for her. The only person in the world who made the harsh reality of their life bearable.

​​"Mama said she’ll be here soon," he whispered to himself, his eyes darting toward the busy intersection, memorizing every passing vehicle. The cars roared past, honking aggressively, coughing black smoke into the dry air. A public bus squealed to a stop, letting out a puff of air like a tired sigh before lurching away.

​Then he saw her.

​His mother, the center of his small universe.

​She stood across the street, navigating the uneven sidewalk, a small grease-stained paper bag lifted high above her head, waving one tired arm in greeting. Inside it, he could just make out the faint, shape of his favorite snack—churros dusted thickly with sugar, still warm from the fryer.

​Her lips curved into a soft, loving smile, but even from this distance, he could see the exhaustion etched around her icy blue eyes. Her platinum-blonde hair, so similar to his own, was coming undone from its hurried bun, and her blouse stuck to her back with sweat. Still, to him, she looked like magic. Like the promise of everything good in the world.

​"Mama!" he called, jumping instantly to his feet, his voice ringing with pure, joy and relief.

​Her smile widened, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Wait for me, mi sol! I’ll cross very soon!"

​He waited, bouncing impatiently on the heels of his worn school shoes, gripping the strap of his backpack so hard his knuckles turned white. The world seemed suddenly full of light—no shadows, no fear. Just his mother, his snack, and the promise of home, where she would brush his hair and tell him everything would be okay.

​Then the light changed.

​The traffic signal blinked red. Cars slowed, their brake lights flashing a temporary warning. The street became still for a heartbeat, a moment of perfect, terrifying calm. She stepped off the curb, her shoes clicking against the hot asphalt. The sun glinted briefly off her small silver earrings. He grinned, already gathering himself to run into her arms and feel the warm hug she always gave him.

​And then—

​The high-pitched, abrasive scream of tires.

A blinding flash of silver chrome and dark paint.

The world snapped, fracturing into sudden, devastating violence.

​The car came out of nowhere, running the red light with brutal speed. It didn’t slow. Didn’t even hesitate. It hit her with a sound that would replay in his mind for years—the dull, sickening thud of flesh meeting steel, the terrible crunch of bone, the high-pitched shatter of the windshield.

​Time fractured.

​Her body lifted from the ground, weightless for a terrible instant, suspended against the harsh blue sky, before gravity reclaimed her. She hit the asphalt with a sound that tore through him—a soft, final, impossible thud that silenced all other noise.

​The paper bag flew open, arcing through the air. The churros spilled across the black road, sugar scattering like snow on the hot, black pavement.

​The driver didn’t stop. The car swerved violently, straightened itself, and disappeared into the stream of traffic as if nothing—absolutely nothing—had happened.

​For a long, frozen second, Luciano couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred, sound fading into a high-pitched, ringing void. His brain refused to process what his eyes were seeing: his mother, suddenly unmoving, impossibly small.

​Then—he ran.

​He ran faster than he ever had in his life, his school shoes slapping frantically against the asphalt, tears blurring his vision, his lungs burning. "¡Mama!" His voice broke, raw and panicked. "¡Mama!"

​He fell beside her, his knees skidding on the rough asphalt, his small palms scraping painfully. There was blood. Too much of it. Dark, sticky, and spreading, pooling beneath her, painting his hands crimson when he tried, futilely, to lift her slight, broken body.

​Her eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused still retaining a sliver of the blue he knew. Her lips moved, and for a fleeting moment, he thought she was smiling again, trying to comfort him even as she died. "Mi... sol..." she whispered, the last word a breath. Tears, the final, desperate ones, filled her own eyes.

​He gathered her head and shoulders in his small, desperate arms, then pressed his forehead against hers, sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, his body shaking uncontrollably.

"Don’t go, Mama. Please, I’ll be good, I’ll—I’ll do anything you ask—please, stay with me—"

​But her chest stilled beneath his touch. The warmth in her skin faded with agonizing speed. Her eyes fixed on nothing, staring straight through him and into the empty sky.

​The world didn’t stop for them. Cars began to move again, honking in irritation at the traffic bottleneck. People shouted, gathering into a horrified circle.

Somewhere, a police siren wailed, too late. But Luciano heard none of it. He stayed there, on his knees, his small hands stained with his mother’s blood, until strong hands gripped his shoulders, dragging him back from the spreading red.

​Her body lay still. The churros were scattered like fallen, broken promises, dusted with funeral snow.

​The boy screamed—a sound that was torn from his very core.

​Luciano woke up with a violent start, his body jerking upright, breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. Sweat clung to his skin, his t-shirt damp, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum attempting to burst free.

​For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The room was dark, the shadows deep and unfamiliar. The faint hum of the mansion’s air conditioning filled the silence, but in his ears, he still heard the echoing shriek of tires and the brutal sound of bones breaking.

​He dragged a trembling hand over his face, feeling the dampness there—sweat, yes, but also tears he couldn’t control. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and constricted, and pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes as if he could physically erase the image burned behind them.

​"Mama," he whispered, his voice hoarse.

​He hadn’t said that word aloud in years.

​The clock on the wall ticked with monotonous precision. 3:17 a.m. The city outside was quiet, asleep beneath his control. But inside his head, the chaos of that accident still raged violently.

​He swung his legs off the bed and sat there for a long time, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together they were white. The moonlight caught on the faint scars across his knuckles—old, pale reminders of a life built exclusively on violence, iron control, and survival.

​He had been ten when he learned the world didn’t care.

Ten when he learned that love was vulnerability, and mercy was a myth.

Ten when he made his first, unshakeable vow: never again.

​Never again would he be powerless. Never again would someone he loved be taken because of someone else’s cruelty.

​That promise had carved itself into his bones, shaped the man he became—the man who ruled through fear, who planned every move three steps ahead, who trusted no one well except Andrés, and Listo, his silent companion. The man who built walls so high no one could climb them.

​And yet...

​His mind flickered to her.

​Eloise.

​The girl with defiance in her eyes, who looked at him like she could still see the boy underneath all the armor. The one he’d sworn to control, to cage, yet somehow couldn’t bring himself to truly break.

​Because when she crossed his mind in the silence of the night, the deep, paralyzing panic hit him like lightning—the echo of that day, that scream, that loss.

He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but she terrified him. Not because she was fragile, but because she made him remember what it felt like to care, to anticipate a simple, joyous moment, and to lose everything in a flash of silver.

​He leaned back against the headboard, dragging in a long, shuddering breath. The sheets were tangled, the pillow damp. The night pressed in, heavy and suffocating.

​He closed his eyes again, but the darkness was worse behind his eyelids. He could still see her—the broken figure on the asphalt, the red staining her white blouse, the smile fading from her lips as she whispered his name.

​He couldn’t stay in the room.

​He stood, moving on instinct, and reached for the nightstand. His fingers brushed the lacquered wooden box. He lifted the lid, took out a Cohiba Behike 54, and walked out.

​The mansion was silent, asleep—even though he wasn’t sure he’d ever truly slept since he was ten. The hallway was long, the faint glow of the sconces casting soft, yellow shadows along the marble.

​Outside, the large garden breathed life into the darkness.

​Red roses. White lilies. White hydrangeas.

​The colors glowed faintly under the moon, like beautiful, dangerous ghosts blooming in the night.

​He lit the cigar with steady hands, the flame licking the end of the tobacco. He took a long, slow drag.

​He inhaled.

​Slow.

​Deep.

​Painfully steady.

​The thick smoke filled his lungs, grounding him immediately with its rich flavor. But the ache didn’t ease. Not tonight.

​He closed his eyes.

​And whispered the lie he told himself every single night.

​"I’m fine."

​The truth was a silent, agonizing roar in his chest.

​He wasn’t fine.

​He hadn’t been fine since he watched the world destroy the first person who ever loved him without wanting something in return.

​He took another drag. The cigar’s ember glowed bright, fading slowly.

​The garden remained still. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath around him, as if afraid to disturb the storm brewing behind his icy eyes.

​Footsteps approached.

​Luciano didn’t move. Didn’t open his eyes. But he knew who it was from the solid, respectful rhythm alone.

​Marcos.

​Always steady. Always respectful. Always careful around him at night, when Luciano’s edges were sharpest and his control thin.

​"Boss," Marcos said quietly.

​Luciano finally opened his eyes, letting the smoke slip from his lips in a slow, icy ribbon. "Speak."

​Marcos hesitated—just enough to betray concern. "Leo sent me a message. He said Miss Winters is still at her friend’s place. She... hasn’t gone anywhere."

​Luciano turned away, staring at the roses but seeing only a ten-year-old boy kneeling over a dying mother. He gave her freedom, and she hadn’t taken it. She hadn’t run.

​"Continue to monitor her," he said quietly. Too quietly. "Make sure she is safe."

​Marcos straightened instantly.

"Yes, sir."

​"And Marcos?"

​He stopped mid-step. "Yes?"

​Luciano didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed locked on the perfect, pale white of the lilies.

​"If something should happen to her... under your watch." He flicked ash from the cigar, his voice turning cold enough to frost steel. "If a single hair on her head is harmed by anyone other than me, I will have your heads. All of you. Do you understand?"

​Marcos swallowed hard. "Understood, Boss."

​Then he left, his footsteps fading quickly into the night, leaving Luciano alone with his cigar, his past, and the profound, terrifying realization that Eloise had already found a way to climb his walls without even trying.