Luciano Remus
He knew her name—or at least the name she had allowed him to know.
“Lucci,” his mother used to call him. No one had used that name since the day she died. No one except her—the woman who vanished, leaving only the scent of her skin on his pillow and her torn dress draped over his chair.
Luciano Remus replayed that night over and over. At first—with fury. Then—with unease. And finally—with a scorching, bone-deep longing that slid into obsession.
He went through every club on neutral territory. Bought surveillance footage. Bribed guards. Tracked down the bartender who handed her that drink.
Everything except one thing—her real name.
“Lucci” was a shadow. An illusion. A temptation that had left a mark of refusal on his shoulder, and a far deeper one—on his soul.
He sear
