He'll find nothing. The real damage is all internal, invisible, irreversible.
"Sofia." Just my name, but weighted with everything: relief, fury, questions he won't ask yet.
He opens his arms, and I go to him, letting him enfold me in that particular safety only big brothers can provide. His cologne is the same, bergamot and cedar, but underneath I catch gun oil, the metallic scent of recent violence. His hands move over my arms, subtle but thorough, checking for injuries through the silk.
"I'm okay," I murmur against his shoulder.
He pulls back, those dark eyes searching mine. "Are you?"
No.I'm so far from okay I don't remember what it looks like. But I give him the smile he needs, small, reassuring, the sister who can handle anything.
More brothers materialize like summoned spirits. Dante emerges from the music room, silent as always, but his eyes speak volumes. He pulls me into a careful hug that says more than words ever could.
I nod against his chest. He smells like cigarettes and that expensive cologne Ana buys him. When he pulls back, his dark eyes linger on my throat where makeup covers the bruising from Alexei's fingers. Dante always sees too much.
Luca sprawls against the staircase bannister, that unsettling smile playing at his lips. "Little sister. Still breathing, I see."
"Disappointed?"
"Never." He pushes off the bannister, moves to embrace me with that loose-limbed grace that hides how quickly he can go from laughing to lethal. "Who else would I torment?"
His hug is brief but his pale blue eyes, so like mine, scan me thoroughly. "You're different," he says quietly. Not anaccusation. An observation, filed away in that brilliant, twisted mind of his.
"It's been a long week. You?"
"Bored. Marco won't let me storm the Volkov compound." He pouts—actually pouts. "I had a whole plan. Very dramatic. Lots of fire."
"I'm sure it was beautiful."
"It was ART." He pulls away from the hug. His eyes—bright, slightly unhinged—focus on me. "You smell different."
I freeze. "What?"
"Different soap. Different…" He sniffs the air. "Man."
Oh God.
"I've been living in his compound, Luca. Of course I smell different."
"Mm." He starts spinning a knife he had stashed somewhere on his person. "Be careful, little sister. Enemies have a way of getting under your skin. And then—" He mimes slitting a throat. "Messy."
"Is that advice or a threat?"
"Yes." He grins and saunters away.
Then Nico. My trainer, my confidant, the keeper of our sacred pact. He hangs back, watching from the doorway to the dining room with those hazel eyes that have witnessed every evolution of my character. He doesn't move to hug me, just studies me like he's reading a tactical report.
"Nico," I say, and my voice catches.
He crosses to me then, but instead of embracing me, he takes my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. The calluses on his palms are familiar: gun work, knife work, the careful violence he taught me.
"You're lying about something."
My heart stops. Of course he knows. Nine years of absolute truth between us have taught him every tell, every micro-expression.
"Nico—"
"We'll talk later." He releases me, but the promise in those hazel eyes makes my stomach clench. "Eat first. Maria will kill us all if the food gets cold."
