I don't believe him at all.
I know what I'm seeing and I know what I saw earlier.
Those scabs weren't there.
I look more carefully at his knuckles, and see another scab, and another.
"And this?" I ask. "You didn't have this the other day when we were together."
"Angelica."
"Don't lie to me. Where did these come from?"
He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. His back is to me now. "I got into a situation. It's handled."
"What kind of situation?"
"The kind that happens in my line of work."
My chest tightens with the familiar feeling of fear creeping back in.
His line of work is the exact reason I am terrified of just letting go and trusting him. "When did this happen?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It does matter." I slip off the bed and stand, crossing my arms over my chest. "Tell me when it happened."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Tonight. During the concert."
I stare at his back. "When you said you were using the bathroom."
"Yes."
I feel anger rising in my throat.
I wondered what the hell took so long.
I should've known better.
"You lied to me. You said you needed to use the restroom and instead you went outside and got into a fight."
"I didn't lie. I handled a threat. That's what I do."
His eyes meet mine and I see the indignation there, maybe even resentment. He's upset that I noticed.
"You lied by omission. You let me think everything was fine when you were out there doing something violent."
He turns to face me.
His expression is hard now—defensive. "What did you want me to do? Tell you in front of Sofia that one of Antonelli's men was outside? Let you panic while I dealt with it?"
"I want you to be honest with me."
"I was protecting you," he growls more loudly than he should, and I scoff and throw my hands up.
"By lying?"
"By handling the situation so you didn't have to worry about it."
