Leone stays at the table, head in hands, breathing ragged.
I walk to my room, close the door, and lock it.
I don’t cry.
I don’t feel shame.
I sit on the edge of my bed, press my palm to my wrist, and smile.
The bruise is beautiful.
And I want more.
I don’t make it five minutes in silence before the sound of Leone’s pacing needles under my skin. I’m out the door and leaning against the wall, rage causing my chest to rise and fall rapidly.
“Can you stop? You’re annoying me. Just… go.”
He has a rhythm to his rage, an old Sicilian two-step: three strides across the kitchen, a hard pivot at the fridge, then back again, like he’s carving out a trench in the tile. When he finally speaks, the words are acid.
“Why do you let him touch you?”
I step from my room, towel slung around my shoulders, damp hair dripping cold down my spine. I meet his eyes, steady as stone.
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He stops, chest heaving. “Because you are not like them.”
I cross to the counter and brace both palms against the marble, daring him to push me further. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about me.”
Leone’s eyes are bright with fury, but there’s something else under it—a kind of terror, feral and ancient, the fear of a man who knows the world is always waiting to rip apart the things heloves. He slams his fist into the counter hard enough to rattle the glasses.
“Enough,” I say, and the word slices through his tirade like a razor. “You will not talk to me like I’m your ward. I’m not a child, and you are not my father.”
The silence after is thick as wet cement.
He stands there, fists planted on either side of the sink, head bowed. His shoulders are so broad they nearly block out the light from the window. I realize, not for the first time, how much space he takes up. How much of my life he’s been allowed to fill.
I step forward, closing the gap. The kitchen tile is cold under my feet but I barely feel it.
“Iama Bonaccorso,” I remind him. “It’s not your job to manage my virtue or my reputation. It’s your job to keep me breathing.”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even look up. His breath comes slow, dangerous.
“Your mother would not recognize you,” he says finally.
“My mother is dead.”
He flinches. I press the advantage, jabbing a finger into his chest, leaving a smear on his pristine white shirt. “Your job is to watch the door, Leone. Not watch me.”
He seizes my wrist, grip iron. Not cruel, but absolute.
“You want this?” he demands, voice just above a whisper. “You want to be ruined by some piece of shit who—”
“Yes,” I say, cutting him off.
He stares at me, horror blooming on his face. He squeezes my wrist, just enough to make my pulse jump. “Why?”
I don’t answer. I yank my arm free, step back, and fold it protectively across my chest. I know he sees the bruises forming, and I know what he thinks about them, but I don’t care.
