Chapter 51
51
Victoria
The house feels different when I come back.
I’m not sure why, but it is. Hell, I can’t even put my finger on what’s different about it.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m different.
I step inside, the front door shutting behind me with a soft click. Surprisingly, Nico doesn’t follow me this time. He stops at the threshold, one hand still on the door.
“You made it back,” he tells me, as if that answers why he’s practically stuck in place.
The man is so weird.
Sometimes I think he feels bad for me, and other times, I think he’s just plain annoyed.
I peel off my coat and hang it in the foyer closet. “Try not to sound so disappointed p>
Nico’s mouth twitches. “Rafe texted that your husband is in his study p>
The way he says husband makes me pause. Almost like a reminder to me that he, too, covered for Lorenzo, or maybe it’s something else… I’m not sure.
“Did Rafe mention if he’s in a mood p>
“From what I’ve gathered, yes p>
“Charming.” I adjust my sweater, needing something to do with my hands.
Nico lifts a brow. “Don’t wander around p>
I glance at him, letting my smile sharpen. “Wouldn’t dare p>
He huffs a quiet laugh, then takes a step outside.
I nod, but as soon as the door closes, I do the opposite of what he tells me. One place is calling my name, and even though I probably shouldn’t go there, I find myself standing outside the door to the study.
My hand reaches out and rests on the wood. Should I? I pull back, hovering now, deciding whether I dare. What about Lorenzo makes me so damn confused?
I should hate him, and I shouldn’t be seeking him out, yet… I push the door open anyway.
Lorenzo is stretched on the couch, one ankle propped on his opposite knee, scotch in hand.
He looks… wrecked.
Yet dangerous all at the same time.
It’s scary.
His dark shirt is half unbuttoned, his tan skin peeking out, and his sleeves are shoved up to his forearms.
His hair is slightly out of place, the way it looks when he rakes his fingers through it because he’s pissed. And if I weren’t sure of his attitude, his jaw seals the deal. It looks like it’s been clenched for hours.
I stand in the doorway for a few seconds, and he doesn’t look up. Just continues to swirl the scotch in his glass slowly.
“You’re home.” He finally breaks the silence with a voice deep and rough.
I step farther inside and shut the door. “Don’t sound so thrilled p>
His gaze finally lifts, finding me with that intensity that always makes my skin feel like it’s under a spotlight. He drags it over me, then settles back like he didn’t just make my whole body tingle.
“How was it?” he asks, the words casual.
I blink once, forcing my mouth into something neutral. “Wonderful p>
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t look like you believe that p>
I walk deeper into the room, heels silent on the rug. “Doesn’t matter p>
He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Your parents behave p>
I shrug. “They made tea p>
“Enlightening. And you,” he prompts, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Did you behave p>
I scoff, stopping near the coffee table. “Don’t I always p>
His expression shifts, almost amused. “Debatable p>
“Can’t you just stop already?” I shoot back, then stop myself from saying more. I don’t want a fight right now.
Not when I’m still unnerved by Grant.
I exhale and then tilt my chin up. “It was… fine p>
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows I’m leaving something out.
I keep my face still.
He stares one beat too long, then leans back into the couch like he’s letting it go. Not because he believes me, but because he doesn’t want to be bothered right now. He really must have had a bad day.
“Good p>
I should turn and leave. The smart thing to do would be to go upstairs and lock myself in my room, but instead, my gaze drops.
To his hands.
I squint.
His knuckles are bruised, and they are not old bruises. These marks are fresh. Purple and red. The skin looks swollen.
He was in a fight. My stomach twists, and before I can stop myself, my body moves until I’m so close I’m able to reach out. My fingers hover over his bruises, hesitating.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, concern evident in my voice.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves. There is something sinister in the way he looks right now. Almost bitter.
He shifts his hand away slightly, not fully withdrawing, just enough to keep control of the situation. “That… is nothing p>
I swallow, my hand pulling back like I’ve been burned. “Nothing doesn’t look like that p>
“You should see the wall p>
I blink. “You punched a wall p>
He makes a small, dismissive gesture with his bruised hand. “In my defense, the wall started it p>
“That’s a lie,” I chide.
Lorenzo’s gaze lifts to mine, and a flicker of something is there. If I had to guess, it looks like a mixture of humor and pain. A nostalgic moment, which I know he will shut down as fast as I saw it.
“You’re staring.” He narrows his eyes, and it feels like a curtain is dropping on a show I’ve been watching.
“I’m assessing you, if you want to know the truth.” I smile.
“Assess this,” he replies.
Slowly, he turns his forearm outward, and I’m met with a long scar running up the length.
It’s not a thin white line. No, this one looks like it cut to the bone.
It’s jagged, thick, and pale against his skin. It disappears beneath his sleeve, but I can tell it goes higher. Farther.
My breath catches hard enough that my chest aches, then my eyes snap up to his face. “What is p>
Lorenzo watches me, expression unreadable. “That’s a scar p>
“I know it’s a scar.” My throat tightens. “But how are you p>
“Alive?” he supplies, leaning back like the story is entertaining. “Stubbornness. Spite. Excellent medical care. Take your pick p>
I stare at the scar like it might start bleeding in front of me.
Because all I can see is Lorenzo. This new Lorenzo. The violent one, with scars and wounds I can’t even see.
What happened to this man?
“Tell me,” I whisper, then immediately want to slap myself for wanting to know so badly.
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, catching on my eyes. “No p>
My stomach drops. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s tired of being like this to me. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
His fingers tap the rim of his scotch glass once. Twice. “Sit.” He nods to the couch beside him. It isn’t a request, and it certainly isn’t gentle. But it also isn’t a command, either. It’s… something else. And I’m not sure what that something else is.
I hesitate, then lower myself onto the couch, keeping space between us because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t. My hands clasp in my lap, fingers twisting tight.
Lorenzo shifts, angling toward me just enough that I feel his heat without him touching me.
“A few years back,” he says, voice low. “I was running a collection p>
My brows lift. “You make that sound like you were selling coupons and not collecting money from bad people p>
His mouth twitches. “Don’t be impressed. I was a glorified errand boy p>
I stare at him. “You p>
He rolls his eyes, letting out a short breath that might be a laugh if he didn’t look so exhausted. “Yes, me. Believe it or not, I didn’t wake up one day with a god complex p>
I snort before I can stop myself. “Debatable p>
His gaze flicks to mine, sharp, then the corner of his mouth lifts like he likes that I still fight. “Anyway. I was sent to collect from a crew who thought they could… restructure their payments p>
I tilt my head, watching him. “By restructure, you mean refuse p>
“By restructure,” he replies, picking up the scotch and swirling it, “they meant ‘ambush p>
My stomach twists again.
Lorenzo’s eyes drop to his scar as if he’s seeing it happen all over again.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just talks.
“They picked a dock warehouse,” he continues, voice steady. “Late. Cold. Definitely dangerous p>
I press my fingers into my knee, grounding myself.
“I walked in thinking it was going to be simple.” Lorenzo shrugs. “Some threats. Some broken fingers. The usual p>
I stare. “That’s your version of normal p>
His gaze slides to mine, deadpan. “Don’t pretend you’re surprised p>
I swallow hard. “Go on p>
Lorenzo leans his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.
“There were more of them than there should have been,” he says. “That was my first clue. Second clue was when one of them smiled at me like he was envisioning gutting me… spoiler alert, he was p>
My stomach is in knots.
Lorenzo takes a sip, then sets the glass down again.
“They came at me fast,” he continues. “Not amateurs. Not drunk idiots. These were men trained to hurt someone and keep them alive just long enough so that they could enjoy it p>
My throat tightens. “Lorenzo p>
His gaze snaps to me, eyes bright with something dark. “It gets worse, Little Bird. Don’t interrupt the show p>
Heat flickers under my skin at the nickname, even now, even here.
I hate it.
Oh, who am I kidding… no, I don’t.
Lorenzo’s hand lifts, palm facing up. “I managed to put two of them down,” he says, voice almost bored. “One tried to take my gun. That was… impolite p>
“Did you—” I stop myself because I don’t want details. I don’t want images in my head.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves. “Yes, Victoria. I did. Turns out, I’m a violent man. I know, shocking development p>
I glare at him. “I’m trying not to picture it p>
He leans closer a fraction, eyes narrowing. “Then stop asking questions you don’t want me to answer p>
“Fine. I won’t,” I say before clamping my mouth shut.
“One of them caught my arm,” he says. “Blade p>
My stomach turns.
Lorenzo lifts his scarred forearm slightly, fingers tracing the jagged line. “Went deep,” he mumbles. “I remember thinking… that’s a lot of blood. They stabbed me a few more times before leaving me to bleed out and die p>
My breath catches, and I hate that my eyes sting.
Lorenzo notices immediately. His gaze flicks up, sharp.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice quiet. “Don’t look at me like that p>
“Like what?” I whisper, my voice rough.
“Like I’m human,” he replies, the words bitter.
I swallow hard. “You are p>
Lorenzo’s laugh is low and unpleasant. “That’s generous p>
I lean forward slightly, hands gripping each other tighter. “How did you survive p>
He shrugs. “I didn’t feel like dying p>
“That’s not p>
“That’s exactly it.” He cuts in. “I dragged myself out. Used my belt for a tourniquet. Bad knot. Worse pain. But it did the deed p>
I stare at him, horrified.
“And then,” he adds, lips curling, “since I had fucked up by going without Matteo and backup, I called Rafe p>
My brows lift. “And p>
Lorenzo’s eyes gleam with dark amusement. “He answered like I was interrupting his beauty sleep p>
Despite myself, a laugh escapes. “No way p>
Lorenzo’s mouth lifts, the closest thing to real humor I’ve seen from him since the wedding. “He thought I was joking. Told me to ‘stop being dramatic p>
“That sounds like him p>
“He showed up, but he wasn’t alone. He brought Matteo,” Lorenzo continues, voice rougher now. “Both of them took one look at me and went white, which was satisfying.
“I remember both of them so clearly despite being delusional from blood loss,” Lorenzo says, quieter. “Rafe was trying to hold pressure. Matteo kept telling me not to close my eyes p>
My chest aches. “And then p>
“I lived, obviously. But I told him if I died, he owed me a drink p>
I blink. “That’s what you said p>
He shrugs one shoulder. “I was trying to motivate him p>
“That’s not motivation p>
“It worked,” he replies.
Silence settles between us. I stare at the scar again, then at his bruised knuckles, then at his face. Something shifts in me.
Understanding.
Because monsters aren’t born. They’re made.
I swallow hard. “Does it hurt p>
His gaze flicks up, surprised.
“Still,” I clarify, gesturing helplessly at his scar. “Does it still hurt p>
“Sometimes,” he admits, the word reluctant. “When it rains. When it’s cold. When I’m tired p>
My throat tightens. “So basically always p>
His mouth curves faintly. “Basically p>
I stare at him, and my voice comes out before I can stop it. “Why show me p>
Lorenzo’s eyes sharpen, and he looks at me like I just asked him to confess to a crime he didn’t commit.
Then he shrugs. It’s small, almost careless. “You asked. And you were looking at me like you wanted to know p>
My cheeks heat. “I was looking because I was shocked p>
“Sure,” he replies, gaze dropping to my mouth briefly, then back to my eyes. “Shocked p>
My pulse stutters, furious at my body for responding.
I force my tone back into something safer. “You keep scars like trophies p>
Lorenzo’s lips twitch. “They’re reminders p>
“Of what?” I challenge.
His eyes go cold. “That I don’t get to be naive p>
The words hit harder than they should. Because I remember him as naive. I remember him laughing in the boathouse like the world hadn’t taught him cruelty yet.
And now here he is, older, sharper, full of violence, carrying wounds that will haunt him for life.
I take a slow breath. “I didn’t know p>
He shakes his head. “Don’t start p>
“I didn’t know anything,” I whisper, the sentence heavy with everything I can’t say.
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “You didn’t know because you didn’t stay p>
Pain flashes in his eyes, too quick to be anything but real.
I flinch, and he sees it. Of course he does.
His hand lifts, fingers reaching toward my face, then stops. For a second, he just hovers there, knuckles inches from my cheek.
Then, slowly, his hand moves and brushes a loose strand of hair back behind my ear.
His touch is careful, like he’s handling something easily breakable.
Lorenzo’s thumb grazes my cheekbone once, a ghost of contact, and his eyes hold mine as my breath catches.
“Stop looking at me like I’m salvageable p>
I swallow hard. “Stop acting like you’re not p>
“You think you can fix me p>
“I think you’re more than this,” I whisper, then immediately want to take it back because it makes me feel vulnerable.
Lorenzo’s gaze drops to my lips again, and the air changes.
It reminds me of the moment right before a storm breaks. My pulse starts racing, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or something worse.
Lorenzo leans in a fraction, and my whole body braces. A weird feeling of electricity rushes through my body, and that terrifies me more than anything.
His breath warms my mouth. “Careful p>
I don’t move. I can’t. I’m frozen in place, and the room feels too small for both of us.
I expect him to cross the space…
Please cross it.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls back, not far, just enough to keep some semblance of control.
I blink, trying to breathe like a normal person. I should leave. I should run upstairs, lock my door, and pretend I didn’t almost melt when I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, I stay.
I’m tired of running.
I clear my throat, voice rough, needing to change the narrative of the moment. “I saw Grant p>
“What p>
“I… didn’t tell him anything p>
His eyes snap to mine, cold and sharp. “Grant was there? Nico didn’t mention that.. p>
I regret telling him instantly. I should have kept it to myself. But it’s out now, hanging between us, making my stomach tighten in fear.
“Yes, he was there.” I lift my chin. “At my parents’ house. Asking questions p>
Lorenzo’s jaw tightens, and the room feels like it drops ten degrees.
“And you told him what p>
I swallow hard. “As I said before, I didn’t tell him anything p>
His gaze searches my face like he’s looking for a lie. I hold still because he won’t find anything.
“Why not?” he asks, voice low.
“Because I didn’t want you to—” I whisper.
“To what p>
“Get hurt p>
He leans back slowly, like he needs distance from that confession, and drags a hand down his face.
“Christ. You really are going to ruin me twice p>
My chest tightens. “I didn’t do anything p>
“You don’t even realize you’re holding the knife p>
My throat bobs. “Then take it away p>
Lorenzo’s mouth curves, dark and bitter. “I can’t.” The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Too honest.
I stare at him, my voice barely a breath. “Why p>
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, and for a second, the cruelty peels back far enough that I can see the raw thing underneath. He shifts closer, not touching, but close enough that I feel him.
“You want the truth p>
My pulse jumps. “No p>
His mouth twitches. “Liar p>
I swallow hard. “Fine. Yes p>
“You were never a phase.” His voice is rough. Filled with emotion. “You were always the end p>
The words hit like a punch. Not because they’re romantic. Because they’re terrifying.
Because an ending isn’t gentle.
An ending is final.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
I don’t know what to do with that kind of confession from a man who turns love into a weapon.
Lorenzo watches me struggle with it, eyes dark, and then his mouth curls.
He walks over to where he placed his glass, lifting it slightly in a mock salute. “Congratulations. You’ve successfully traumatized me, again p>
I blink, breathing again. “That’s… not the reaction I was expecting p>
He takes a slow sip, gaze never leaving mine. “I aim to disappoint p>
My heart races, and I still tingle from where his fingers touched my hair.
I’m frightened.
But I’m not even sure why.
The fear lodges under my ribs like a thorn.
I move toward the door.
I need to leave.
If I stay, I might do something stupid. Like reach for him again. Or forget I’m supposed to hate him.
Lorenzo’s gaze tracks me, slow and heavy. “Running p>
“Breathing,” I snap, turning toward the door. “There’s a difference p>
“Barely p>
I take a step and then stop. “Thank you for telling me.. p>
About the past. About its scars.
“Don’t mistake honesty for softness, Little Bird p>
I glance back, meeting his eyes for one beat. “Don’t mistake my concern for forgiveness,” I retort.
His smile is small. Dangerous. Almost proud.
I leave before either of us can say something worse.
Once I’m upstairs, I feel safe again.
Even though I shouldn’t
Because tonight, for the first time, I saw the wound beneath the surface. Which means I’m in even more danger than I thought. Because the moment you see the truth in the monster…
You start wondering if the monster can see the truth in you, too.