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Lucia rushes in. I didn’t hear the bedroom door open, nor do I sense her until she lowers herself onto the tile beside me. She doesn’t touch me or speak but sits with her back against a cabinet and her hands folded in her lap.
I realize, while sitting here on the tile with bleeding hands, that no one has ever given me this kind of companionship before. She offers no judgment, just quiet understanding.
“I’m afraid of what I am,” I confess through clenched teeth. “I’m not sure how to go to war with the man who made me. The anger, the discipline, how I survive, all of it comes from his training. Destroying him means dismantling the foundation I’m standing on.”
The heavy, irreversible admission hangs in the air between us.
“For three years, I’ve been Enzo’s enforcer. I keep telling myself that by repaying my debt to him, I can redeem my soul. I flex the fingers of my injured hand, and a sharp sting of pain shoots across my skin. “But when I pummel a man, it feels right.”
The truth tastes bitter.
“I tell myself I’m doing this for redemption, but I’m not sure a man who thinks violence feels right can be redeemed. Maybe you should leave now before you get stained by all the blood on my hands.”
Lucia listens to all of my concerns. She doesn’t interrupt. When I look up, she’s regarding me with the same focus she must use when diagnosing a difficult case.
“You might not be the most righteous or moral man I know,” Lucia leans closer, “but you’re a good man.”
Her voice is quiet and raw.
“I’ve been in this world long enough to notice the difference between men who are violent because they enjoy it and men who are violent because it’s the only tool left to protect what they care about.” Her eyes fixate on mine. “You are unambiguously in the second category. And the fact that you’re afraid of being in the first is the clearest evidence that you’re not.”
The reassurance burrows under my ribs and settles there, in a crevice where nothing has ventured for years.
I reach for her hand, the contact stabilizing a fracture inside me that’s been threatening to split open since the clinic. She grabs my other hand and turns both of them over, palms up, checking the cuts with soft touches.
“The shoulder needs a fresh dressing, but nothing needs stitches.” She finally heaves a sigh of relief.
“Nothing?”
“Nope. I’m glad.” She clutches my hands a moment longer, then releases them. “Help me clean this up.”
Chapter 15
Lucia
It feels anything but normal to wake in a villa in Naples and wander into the kitchen to find Marco making pasta at seven forty-five in the morning.
He hovers at the counter near the stove with his back to me, his sleeves pushed up, his broad shoulders working in a quiet rhythm as he kneads the dough. Morning light spills through the tall Italian windows and casts the kitchen in a golden glow.
My brain—traitor that it is—notes the obvious. Marco Santori looks amazing in the kitchen.
I pour myself coffee that he brewed, which tastes way better than my abysmal attempt. Leaning against the counter, I linger a moment longer than necessary.
“You cook like you fight.”
He glances over his shoulder. “What does that mean?”
“Decisively.” I gesture with my mug. “No wasted effort. Like you’re very sure of the outcome.”
He frowns, trying to decide whether I’m teasing him, then nods toward the table. “Sit down before you hurt yourself struggling to compliment me.”
“It’s my fault for trying to sweet-talk you.” I roll my eyes and push away from the counter. “And there’s no need to sit when I can help.”
The look he gives me shows he’d rather the earth combust. “I don’t think you should bother. I’ve got it covered.”
“C’mon, give me a job.” I set my mug down and fold my arms over my chest.
He sighs like a long-suffering chef forced to tolerate a child in the kitchen. “Measure the flour.”
