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He turned around with a sharp exhale and stalked a few steps away before he slanted me a cautious look. “You don’t have to be scared. I won’t force myself on you. Last night was necessary, but I won’t seek you out again until you want me to.”
He sounded tired again and as if he were certain I’d never want him to. What had happened between his wife and him? I pushed the thought of her to the back of my mind, and with it the accompanying uneasiness.
I should have said something, but I was overwhelmed—by the situation, by the kiss that still echoed in my lips, by the look in Cassio’s eyes. I felt like I was caught up in a current, which spun faster and faster, leaving me disoriented. Yesterday morning I’d been me, an eighteen-year-old girl who loved art and Pilates. Now I was a wife, a stepmother, the society lady at an Underboss’s side. With all my new roles, was there still room for me?
Cassio looked at me, nodding slowly, as if my expression gave him an answer to a question he hadn’t even uttered. He walked over to the bed and sank down. His broad shoulders and back were covered by long, thin vertical scars that I hadn’t noticed before. Many of them.
I approached him to get a better look. Cassio didn’t say anything, only looked at me. I pointed at one of the scars then lightly touched it but pulled my hand away after a moment.
“You can touch them,” Cassio said calmly, but his voice had an edgier note to it. I brushed my fingertips over the scars on his shoulder blades and back. Some fathers tortured their sons to make them strong. Cassio was strong and brutal. Was his father the reason for it? “Who did this? Your father?”
Cassio shook his head. The way he was watching me made me blush. I wasn’t even sure why. “When I was around your age, a few of my men and I got captured by the Bratva. They whipped me before they moved on to other torture methods.”
My mouth ran dry at his clinical tone. “My God, that’s horrible.” I sank down beside him on the edge of the bed. His musky scent made me want to lean closer, to run my nose along his skin and taste it. What a ridiculous thought.
“Why did you think my father did it?”
“Because that’s how many Made Man make their sons strong. You know my uncles… abusing their children is their favorite sport.”
Cassio’s eyes lingered on the small scar on my knee then moved up to the one on my outer thigh and one on my upper arm. They weren’t prominent, but sitting as close as we did, they couldn’t be missed.
“I have one on my shoulder too,” I said, twisting to show him the scar there. “Four scars. Not much in comparison to yours.”
Something in his gaze made my pulse pick up, something dark lurking in its depth. “Those scars,” he murmured. “Did your father create them?”
Oh. Now I understood the look. “No,” I said quickly and without thinking put my hand on his. His eyes cut down to our hands then back up to me. “He never hit me. He wouldn’t. He adores me.” That sounded vain, but it was the truth. My father was certainly a violent man, but not at home, not to my mother and me.
Cassio chuckled. “I can see why he does.”
I bit my lip, surprised by his words.
“Who gave you those scars then?”
“When I was young, I loved to climb trees. We had a few old tall trees in our garden. I loved to climb them. I wasn’t supposed to, but I snuck out all the time. One time I didn’t pay enough attention and fell down. I broke a few bones and got cut up by a thorn bush beneath the tree. That’s it. Dad cut down all the trees after that.”
“You make it sound as if Felix is a good father, which contradicts the opinion I’ve gathered on him as a human being in general.”
I wasn’t offended by his words. Dad didn’t have the respect of his fellow Underbosses. Christian had complained about it more than once. “He doesn’t like you very much either.”
Cassio laughed, a deep belly laugh, which made me grin. “He gave me you. What a strange way to show me his disdain.”
Our arms brushed lightly. He was so warm, so tall, so strong. With his stubble and the square jaw and sharp cheekbones, he was the epitome of manliness. I’d always considered myself a girl who’d go for the ballet dancer type, the nerd with glasses, the sophisticated chess player. I had been so very wrong because Cassio’s body hit all the right buttons. My eyes lingered on the Famiglia tattoo on his chest, right over his heart.
