My stomach drops and tears blur my vision. A nine-year-old girl. Three weeks of terror. A body in a ditch.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper. “Why didn’t he go to Aurelio?”
"He didn’t want to bring hell to his door. Aurelio had bigger problems and he’d cut my father from his ranks. We were in the family, but not really in it. I found out later that the men who took her never intended to give her back. The ransom was a game to them. Something to do while they waited." He stops. Swallows. "She wasn't the first girl they'd taken. Just the first one anyone had bothered to count."
I stand. Cross to him. Kneel in front of his chair and take his hands in mine. They're cold. Rigid. Holding on to control by the thinnest thread.
"You don't have to keep going," I say.
"No. You wanted to know." He meets my eyes. "You should know all of it."
I wait.
"It took me a few months to find them. The man who grabbed her. His name was Carlo Benedetti. He ran a chop shop on the south side, cut up stolen cars, kept to himself. No one suspected him of anything worse than grand theft auto."
"How did you find him?"
"I listened. Watched. Asked questions that didn't sound like questions. I was fourteen. People don't notice twelve-year-old boys. They talk in front of them like they're furniture." His mouth twists. "Eventually, someone said the wrong thing to the wrong kid."
"And you killed him."
"I killed him." The words come out flat. Factual. "Waited outside his shop until he closed up for the night. Followed him home. Broke in through a window while he was watching television." He pauses. "I used a kitchen knife. I didn't own a gun yet."
I don't flinch. Don't pull away. I hold his hands and I look at him and I let him see that this doesn't change anything.
"What happened after?"
"I went home. Washed the blood off. Went to school the next day like nothing happened." He shakes his head. "My mother knew something was wrong. She could always tell. But she didn't ask. I think she was afraid of the answer."
"And your father?"
"Dead six months later. Someone returned the favor for what I did to Benedetti. Shot him outside a bar while I was at school." Leone's voice is distant now. Disconnected. "My mother fell apart after that. Stopped eating. Stopped leaving the apartment. She was dead within a year. The doctors said it was her heart. I think it was grief."
I squeeze his hands. "Leone."
"I was seventeen when Aurelio tracked me down. He’d heard what happened apparently. Felt guilty. Living on the streets, picking pockets, running errands for anyone who'd pay. He offered me a job. I said yes." He looks at me. "That's the whole story. That's who I am. A boy who lost his sister and killed the man who took her and has been killing ever since because it's the only thing that feels like ice."
I rise. Stand between his knees. Cup his face in my hands and make him look at me.
"You are more than that," I say.
"Alexandra."
"You are more than the worst thing that happened to you. More than the first man you killed. More than the violence and the blood and the years of emptiness." I press my forehead to his. "You are the man who defied his don for me. Who slept in a chair for two weeks because he didn't trust himself to share a bed. Who laughs like he's forgotten how and kisses me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters."
His hands come up to cover mine. His eyes are wet. I've never seen him cry. I'm not sure he knows how anymore. But the wetness is there, hovering at the edges, fighting to fall.
"I don't know how to be anything else," he whispers.
"Then let me teach you." I kiss him. Soft. Brief. A promise. "Let me show you what it feels like to be loved for who you are, not in spite of it. Not because you're useful or dangerous or good at killing. because you're you."
He pulls me into his lap. Wraps his arms around me. Buries his face in my neck.
We stay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. holding on.
Eventually, his grip loosens. He pulls back. Looks at me with wonder. Like he can't quite believe I'm real.
"How did I get so lucky?" he murmurs.
