The sky was still bruised with the last traces of night when Luciano finally left the garden. The smoke of his cigar lingered faintly on the humid breeze behind him, mixing with the sharp scent of roses and white lilies as he made his way back inside.
The sprawling mansion was silent, still draped in the heavy quiet of predawn hours, but his mind was anything but. The dream—the vivid, shattering memory of his mother's death—still clung to him like cold, poisonous oil.
He didn't sleep again. He knew better than to invite the nightmares back.
Instead, he changed into his workout clothes and walked to the private, state-of-the-art gym located in the east wing. The moment he stepped in, the familiar metallic, slightly sterile smell of equipment embraced him. The silence was a profound relief. Machines didn't ask questions. Weights didn't demand explanations. Sweat didn't lie.
He threw himself into the workout with the furious intensity of a man trying to exorcise a demon.
