I’m already walking toward the door.
“Vin—” Tommy starts.
“Clean this up,” I say without turning. “There’s something I have to do.”
57
Sophie
The knock comes at almost midnight. I’m knee-deep in cardboard boxes, half my kitchen wrapped in newspaper, when three sharp raps sound at the door. Not urgent but deliberate.
I set down the wine glass I’ve been wrapping and move through the maze of boxes toward the door. My apartment looks like a tornado hit it. Everything I own sorted into piles: keep, donate, throw away. The life I’m leaving behind for the apartment above the new Arsenal neatly categorized and making way for a fresh start.
When I open the door, Vin is standing there, and the air leaves my lungs.
Blood. He’s covered in so much blood.
It stains his white shirt rust-brown in some places, still wet and dark in others. It’s spattered across his face and soaked into the knees of his jeans.
“Vin…” My voice falters. “You can’t be here.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just stands in the doorway with his head bowed, shoulders curved, gaze on the ground.
“This is over,” I whisper, even as I grip the door frame to keep from reaching for him.
His jaw works once, then twice. Then he does something I’ve never seen Vincenzo Demonio do in all the time I’ve known him: he reaches out his hand.
He’s not demanding, not taking. He’s asking.
I swear my heart splits in two right there. I should tell him to leave, close the door. I should protect what’s left of my heart because God knows he’s already destroyed most of it.
But I don’t. I take his hand.
His fingers close around mine as I lead him inside past the boxes and the chaos to the bathroom.
He doesn’t resist when I start unbuttoning his shirt.
The fabric is stiff with dried blood, and I have to peel it away from his skin in places. He stands perfectly still, staring at the wall above my head while I work. When I push the shirt off his shoulders, I see scratches across his ribs that are dark purple and match the bruises along his jaw.
I don’t ask. He wouldn’t tell me anyway.
I turn on the water, testing the temperature until it’s hot but not scalding. Steam curls up, fogging the mirror. While the tub fills, I kneel to unlace his boots. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder as I help him step out of them.
His belt buckle is at eye level, and I unbuckle it without meeting his gaze, slide the leather free, unbutton his pants. He steps out of them when they pool at his feet with his boxer briefs, and I guide him into the tub.
The water turns pink almost immediately.
“I’ll be right back,” I murmur.
I gather his clothes and take them to the washing machine, setting it to the hottest cycle, then make chamomile tea. He won’t drink it, but it’s something to do with my hands. Something to keep me from falling apart.
When I return to the bathroom, he’s exactly where I left him, sitting in water the color of rust, staring at nothing.
I kneel beside the tub and pick up the washcloth.
He doesn’t flinch when I press it to his skin, washing away the blood in long, gentle strokes. I clean his neck, his shoulders, the hollow of his throat where his pulse beats slow and steady.
His eyes finally find mine. There’s no fire in them, just emptiness, and I immediately know what’s happened, why he’s here. His father is gone.
