Page 118 of Merciless Daddy

I let go immediately and shoved his coat open.

“What ribs?”

“Joking, joking!”

I pressed both hands along his sides.

“Lena.”

“Lift your shirt.”

“Right here?”

“Right now.”

He looked over my shoulder, seeking help. Tonio climbed out from the other side carrying three paper bags and a thermos. A bruise darkened his jaw.

“Do what she says,” he advised. “I saw her stab Sal with jewelry.”

“I did not stab him. Not exactly. It was just a little jab.”

“You absolutely did stab him.”

Kiryl lifted his shirt.

No bruising. No bandages. No swelling. I checked his ribs, stomach, and back. Then his wrists. His face. His pupils.

He endured it for almost a minute.

“Tonio has fed me continuously since Brooklyn,” he complained. “I think I’ve consumed my own weight in pastry.”

“It’s possible,” Tonio said. “He’s very skinny. It’s not many croissants.”

“I was sleeping. He woke me with meatballs.”

“You needed protein. A man cannot survive on pattisserie alone.”

“At two in the morning?”

“Your muscles don’t care what time it is.”

Pietro exited the driver’s side. He looked tired and said nothing. He only gave me one short nod.

Safe. Delivered. I looked past Kiryl.

Sal remained on the porch.

He had not followed me down. He had not placed himself inside our reunion or waited near enough to be thanked. He stood with his hands in his coat pockets, watching the road beyond us while I held my brother.

Claiming none of it.

Kiryl followed my gaze.

“The frightening one,” he said quietly. “That’s who I meant.

“Yes.”

“He arranged this?”