“I used to wonder,” I whisper, “if love could ever be stronger than fear. But I think it is.”
He stops walking.
I turn, heart thudding, and he looks at me like he’s seeing right through the layers I keep carefully stitched together.
“My hopeless romantic.” He leans in just enough to reach past me and plucks a single pink rose from the bush beside us and carefully strips the thorns with his nail.
My breath catches.
“Fiore mio,” he murmurs, then lifts a hand to my hair, brushing it behind my ear and tucks the flower just above the bruising I’ve hidden. His fingertips graze my hairline, then pause. His hand stills.
I hold my breath as his brow furrows, and he leans closer as if getting a better look.
The warmth in his eyes vanishes. Replaced by dark clouds swirling around his pupils. “Who did this to you?” His voice is low, like gravel and gunpowder. His eyes stay locked on mine.
I’d been careful. I thought it was covered.
“Who did this to you?” he asks again, this time with controlled rage simmering underneath.
“I’m fine.”
“Rose.” His jaw tightens. “Tell me.”
“I—I fell.” I bat his hand away and look down at my sandals, unable to look him in the eye.
He exhales slowly, like he’s reining himself in. “Don’t lie to me. Not about this.” His hand is still hovering near my face, but not touching, like he’s afraid to hurt me more. “I’ll kill the bastard. I’ll kill anyone who lays a hand on you.”
My eyes sting, but I blink the tears back. “It’s nothing.” I step to the side, allowing a couple to pass. “Please don’t make a scene.”
“Was it your brother?” His voice lowers further, like a threat he’s holding back.
I shake my head fast. “No. Elio would never hurt me. Never.”
Dan’s eyes narrow. “Then who?”
I bite my lip. My throat closes up, shame clawing at my neck.
“Whoever it is, you don’t have to protect them, Rose. Tell me.”
I whisper the words like they might shatter if I say them louder. “My father.”
Everything about him stills—his expression, his breathing, the soft breeze rustling his shirt. Then he blinks once, and that darkness in his eyes turns deadly.
The rose he placed in my hair trembles in the breeze. The petals brush my cheek.
He touches the bruise with a gentleness I didn’t know he had. His thumb grazes just beneath it, not applying pressure, but I still flinch. “How often?”
“Not… all the time.” I tug my cardigan sleeve over my hand. “Mostly when he drinks. Or when he thinks someone’s disrespected him.”
I look away, down at the gravel path. “Last night, he was yelling at Mamma. Calling her names. I said something. Told him to stop.”
Dan doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. I can feel the storm brewing under his skin, anger rolling off him in waves.
“He came at her,” I whisper, “and I stepped in the way. That’s all…”
His fists curl at his sides, knuckles white. “Don’t dismiss it like it’s nothing.” He curls a finger under my chin and lifts my head, forcing me to look into his dark eyes through my watery gaze. “My brave little flower.”
“Dan,” I whisper.
