“Your boys know about the situation?”
The situation, meaning the bloody history between the Faustis and the Stones. It hadn’t occurred to me to explain the situation to them. I knew time would solve that issue for me. As predicted, it had. Much sooner than expected though.
“No,” I said.
“Mine either. I suppose it’s in the blood then. No help for it. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather our children get along—at least, on the surface. You and Nick did all right.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We did.”
Something passed in his eyes then, a hatred and resentment he refused to hide any longer.
It was the first time I’d ever seen it for what it was. Even when he’d put his hands on me for no reason, he held it back, a coolness in him that came across as aloof hiding the truth behind a wall. There was no doubt that it was there, but some men had the ability to hide emotion from their expressions, choosing neutrality to counteract the overwhelming sense of hatred.
If shown, it could make a man seem weak, for being out of control. Being out of control gave the power over—gave some else the power to drive a man mad inside of his own mind.
We both knew control had been mine—all those times I never made a move to fight back, and when I’d finally had him in my grasp, my agenda was clear. I allowed the fury to flow out of my fists.
Some men would blame our history, but me almost killing him had nothing to do with the history between us.
It was as simple as this: no one touched what wasmine.
He blinked, and as quickly as it had come, the truth was gone from his eyes. From mine too. I had lowered my own guard, giving him the truth of my feelings as well.
If he ever touched one of my children again, there would be no turning back for me. I would touch one of his, and then there would be no more life for him to live.
He silently acknowledged this. He knew that we both held something personal close to the heart. Maybe that was why he’d done it. He had given me fuel for the ongoing fire.
The situation with Luca had always felt inherited. Something I hadn’t asked for but learned to expect and deal with. Hurting my son had made this personalfor me.
His nephew? Scott Stone. I hadn’t forgotten. I never would. When he touched my wife, he touched me. He’d pay for it.
“Vengeance. Retaliation. That’s what you Italians are known for, or so I’ve been told,” he almost muttered to himself. “You did something I can respect for your son. You stood up for him. I can give a man, even you, that much. I’d have done the same. But I’ll tell you this—” He lifted a finger, taking a moment to collect his thoughts.
“You came close to killing me. My wife saw it, and the doc confirmed it. Next time, I will kill you. Put a bullet straight between your eyes and not feel an ounce of remorse.” He paused again, this time for dramatic effect, as he had been known to do. “Now get out of my fucking house.”
8
Scarlett
It was no surprise that he refused to let me touch him. The last time he had been arrested, he had done the same thing. Refused to allow our skin to touch until he had washed off the jail filth. There was more going on with him, though, so I decided not to speak my thoughts aloud—then.
Instead, I watched him shower, taking in every bruise and laceration as if counting the sins of the men who had put their hands on him. I absorbed them as though they were my own, and my heart shattered, my stomach felt sick, and I had to force my fists to unclench.
He was a man, I knew it. Dammit, I knew exactly who and what he was. My husband. And to think of those men forcing his hands behind his back and then…
They struckhim, and tears fell frommyeyes.
I had to look away for a moment to compose myself. I had to allow the anger to surge and then recede with the intake and release of air from my mouth and nose. Or else…I’d be consumed with hatred.
My son. My husband.
Matteo’s face, followed by Brando’s, after the sheriff had snatched his ear. I felt so helpless to stop it all. Brando’s insane madness at the sight of the same man who had blamed him all those years, doing the same to his son...it would never leave my mind. My husband was who he was, but he was also a father who cradled his son’s heart inhischest so the world couldn’t hurt him.
If this were Italy…the thought both satisfied and alarmed me.
As if the thought summoned his attention, he turned his face toward mine. Our eyes met, and mine held on to his. I’d be damned if I let him see the turmoil inside of me. The deep hurt. The immeasurable fear. For him. For our children. For our future. Later. Plenty of time for that. But in that moment he needed me.
This was usually the time he ran to Luca. His father confirming the hateful words the sheriff had spoken in his ear.
