We did just that and Giorgio started to lift his arms. His face screwed in pain as he tried to stifle a grunt. The more I pulled up the shirt, the more I could see of the marks that were hidden beneath. Burns, bruises, scratches – all manner of marks that were sure to leave scarring behind. Around his left rib change was a focused bruise which was more black and blue than the rest of him. No matter what I tried, I couldn't keep my fingers from brushing along the spot, and then he couldn't hold back his yelps of pain.
"I'm sorry," I whimpered. "I'm almost past it."
Giorgio grit his teeth as the shirt lifted upwards and relief rocked us both as I finally got the shirt up and over his head. Sweat was pouring down Giorgio's brow as he was taking deep breaths in and out. There were tears bunched in the corners of his eyes, probably due to his hurting body and his hurting pride.
My eyes drifted over his torso, and I said a silent prayer for the work of art that had been meticulously destroyed by my father. Even having been mostly starved, Girogio still boasted an impressive fitness. His cut abs and defined arms were crown jewels on a body that had clearly been worked on regularly over the course of his life.
Now, unfortunately, his pecs were sliced and covered in burns from being electrocuted, and there were bruises all down his sides from where he'd been beaten senseless. His stomach held several wide gashes, likely from someone using a knife on it directly, and though I knew my father wasresponsiblefor Giorgio's torture, likely always in the room when it happened, I was beginning to wonder if he'd tried his hand at it personally. He didn't typically like getting dirty himself, rather enjoying torture from a distance, but maybe he made an exception for the Bonifacios.
Then, my eyes drifted downwards. If Giorgio could barely walk, it wasn't likely he'd be able to do the bending necessary to take off his pants. My face burned imagining Giorgio's lower half, and it was probably the first time since the dinner before everything happened that I allowed myself to reflect on just how trulysexyI thought Giorgio was. Even with his damage, he was godlike in appearance, and laying eyes on what was hidden beneath his pants just may have the kind of effect on me I was hoping to avoid.
"Um," he said, piercing my thoughts. "I probably can get them off. If I sit on the toilet maybe."
"Oh." I almost felt disappointed as I dragged my eyes up to meet his gaze. "Okay, yeah. If you think you're good, I'll leave you to it."
A smile found his face that was borderline sly despite the circumstances. Had he read me? "Yeah, I think I'm good."
"Okay. Great. Move slowly and carefully. I'll get your change of clothes and food ready. Holler if you need me."
"I will. Thanks, Natalia," he replied.
"You're welcome."
For some reason, I was embarrassed as I left the bathroom. It was as if Giorgio had read my mind and could sense me lusting for a minute. Maybe I just failed to keep a good poker face? The bathroom was warm from the shower, but even as I stepped out, heat remained clung to me.
I sat down on the bed and took deep, even breaths. What was I thinking getting all hot and bothered over Giorgio with the position we were in. It wasn't like anything could happen. Even thinking about it could get him thrown back in the dungeon for more torture.
It'd been two years, but maybe it was time to venture out and find someone to share my life with, just to get rid of any temptation. It wasn't just that Giorgio was a Bonifacio, he was a prisoner of my family and he'd just barely escaped death. The risk wasn't worth the reward, even if the promise of the reward was stoking a rarely tended fire in my gut.
"Ah, fuck!" preceded the sound of a loud bang from the bathroom.
I leaped up off the bed and rushed into the bathroom where Giorgio was collapsed on the ground, half in and half out of the bathtub. He was totally naked, but his legs were shaking and I thanked my brain for letting legitimate concern dominate my mind over the eroticism that sprang forth at the sight of Giorgio's whole form.
Crouching down to get under one of his arms, I felt like I was bench pressing twice my weight to get him back to his feet. I helped him over to the toilet to sit again and stood back.
"Are you okay? What happened?"
"I'm okay," he huffed. "Left leg is stronger than my right, so when I put my weight on my right side to step in, my leg gave out and I just collapsed." Despite saying he was okay, shifting even slightly caused him to wince and groan.
I held my hands out. "What is it, Giorgio?"
"My back," he admitted. "Worse than anything else."
"Okay, I need to take a look at it then," I responded. "Let's kill a couple of birds. I'll help brace you so you can get in the shower, and you keep your back turned to me so I can look. It may need better bandaging or maybe even stitches depending."
"Would…youstitch it?" he asked, nerves evident.
I giggled. "No, but I could pay someone to come do it and keep their mouth shut about it. Regardless, it needs to be seen first so…"
Giorgio reached out and took one of my outstretched arms, and I did everything in my power to keep my gaze upwards as I helped him back towards the tub. The shower water was still running, so I stuck my hand in briefly to make sure the water's heat hadn't gone down too much, but it was still warm, so I held Giorgio's weight as he climbed into the tub, that time left leg first so I could brace his right, and then used his stronger leg to get his other over, with me there as a balance just in case.
Once he was in the shower, he used the wall to work his way around until his back was to me, and when I saw it, my whole body froze. An icy chill blanketed me, and my mind went numb. Covering Giorgio’s back, from shoulders to hips, were long, split, red slashes. The cleanliness and direction of them told me in no uncertain terms that he’d been whipped, and several of the gashes were still bleeding. A lot of them were focused around his spine, indicating the whips had been intentionally driven at a spot that may eventually paralyze him, or worse, kill him. No wonder he was struggling to walk.
“Is it that bad?” Giorgio replied, but I couldn’t speak. It wasn’t that the slashes were there that was upsetting to me.
It was the fact that they were familiar.
“My father did this to you,” I said. “He whipped you.”
