Lorenzo watches me, expression unreadable. “That’s a scar.”
“I know it’s a scar.” My throat tightens. “But how are you—”
“Alive?” he supplies, leaning back like the story is entertaining. “Stubbornness. Spite. Excellent medical care. Take your pick.”
I stare at the scar like it might start bleeding in front of me.
Because all I can see is Lorenzo. This new Lorenzo. The violent one, with scars and wounds I can’t even see.
What happened to this man?
“Tell me,” I whisper, then immediately want to slap myself for wanting to know so badly.
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, catching on my eyes. “No.”
My stomach drops. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s tired of being like this to me. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
His fingers tap the rim of his scotch glass once. Twice. “Sit.” He nods to the couch beside him. It isn’t a request, and it certainly isn’t gentle. But it also isn’t a command, either. It’s . . . something else. And I’m not sure what that something else is.
I hesitate, then lower myself onto the couch, keeping space between us because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t. My hands clasp in my lap, fingers twisting tight.
Lorenzo shifts, angling toward me just enough that I feel his heat without him touching me.
“A few years back,” he says, voice low. “I was running a collection.”
My brows lift. “You make that sound like you were selling coupons and not collecting money from bad people.”
His mouth twitches. “Don’t be impressed. I was a glorified errand boy.”
I stare at him. “You?”
He rolls his eyes, letting out a short breath that might be a laugh if he didn’t look so exhausted. “Yes, me. Believe it or not, I didn’t wake up one day with a god complex.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Debatable.”
His gaze flicks to mine, sharp, then the corner of his mouth lifts like he likes that I still fight. “Anyway. I was sent to collect from a crew who thought they could . . . restructure their payments.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “By restructure, you mean refuse?”
“By restructure,” he replies, picking up the scotch and swirling it, “they meant ‘ambush.’”
My stomach twists again.
Lorenzo’s eyes drop to his scar as if he’s seeing it happen all over again.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just talks.
“They picked a dock warehouse,” he continues, voice steady. “Late. Cold. Definitely dangerous.”
I press my fingers into my knee, grounding myself.
“I walked in thinking it was going to be simple.” Lorenzo shrugs. “Some threats. Some broken fingers. The usual.”
I stare. “That’s your version of normal.”
His gaze slides to mine, deadpan. “Don’t pretend you’re surprised.”
