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"Yes."
"Are you having a good time so far?"
"How could I not? I'm in Italy, with you and your family. I've been fed, spoiled, and pampered. I adore Mama Conte and Gabby. I've shopped in some of the most exclusive shops in the world, ridden on a moped with you through the streets, and kissed you in the moonlight."
"Gen--"
"I love watching you here. You're different. More open. All this time, I thought I was part of that inner circle."
"You were. You are. We've been friends for a long time." The word spat from his tongue and sounded like a curse now. "I care about you."
"Not enough to share your past. Not enough to take me into your bed without lying about what we really are."
He flinched. She was going to kill him. Tear him into bloody pieces and scatter his ashes. Why did she have to demand so much now? He tried to keep things light. "I told you more than I have anyone else. You know about my druggie mother, the years spent on the streets, how Sawyer found me. What more do you want?"
"You know."
He refused to glance back. Kept his gaze trained on the scenery and prayed she wouldn't move close. She didn't. The distance between them yawned like an endless expanse of space growing bigger every moment he remained quiet. Birds screeched. The low hum of chatter and laughter from the kitchen drifted through the window. Finally, he spoke.
"It wouldn't make any difference."
Her sigh hurt his ears. Hurt his heart. So sad, yet here she still stood, fighting for something he could never give her. "How about this question: What do you want, Wolfe?"
Her body, soul, heart. To be enough of a whole man to give her everything. The courage to step forward and try.
Instead, he lied. "This. Us. Friends forever. We decided to include sex as long as it didn't affect our relationship. But let's admit things are getting complicated. Backing off may be a good idea now."
She never answered.
He never turned.
The doors opened and Mama Conte's voice rang out strong and true. "Come in, children. We're ready for the final course."
When Wolfe finally had the guts to turn around, Gen had already disappeared inside.
THE MEN LEFT.
Vincent Soldano lay on the floor in the fetal position, cradling his broken body. The horror of what they had done to him, made him do, flickered over and over in his mind like a broken record. He dug his nails into his temples and tried to rake out the images, the memory, but he was steeped in filth so deep, he knew he'd never climb out.
It was over.
If only he had run. If only he hadn't waited. Yesterday, he would've had a life to live. Today, there was nothing but shame and dirt and a nightmare so vivid he'd never sleep again.
He couldn't live like this. Wouldn't.
The low murmur of voices outside drifted through the thin walls. He turned his head, looking, his blurred gaze barely registering the items and familiarity of the room he'd grown up in. Vomit threatened when he caught the picture of his mother and him from years ago on the chipped mirror.
He didn't have a mother anymore.
He craved silence. Emptiness. Every muscle ached and burned, but he managed to crawl across the floor, looking for something, anything, looking for a sign.
The light glittered on the blade of the knife.
Slow, painful inches until he reached for it. His hand shook as he grasped it between his fingers. His head roared with agony, rage, pain so raw and encompassing that Vincent knew already his sanity had snapped, oozed out of him with the men and their rough hands and fingers and filthy bodies.
He would never be clean again.
He lifted the knife and turned his wrists over.
Began to cut. Over and over.
When the blood ran rich and red, peace finally came.
Vincent Soldano lay back on the floor and waited to die.
He was fourteen years old.
twenty-seven
WOLFE LEAPED OUT of bed, the scream trapped in his lungs. Sweat ran in rivulets down his body, and he quickly grasped his wrists, feeling the leather bands protecting, blocking out the memory. He dragged in a breath, used to the routine, and tried to calm his pounding heart.
Leaning over, he placed his hands on his knees and fought back the nausea. It had been a while since the scene had replayed so vividly in his head. Sure, the nightmares came regularly, but like a longtime enemy, they'd learned to live with each other. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes not. The deal and pact with the devil had been made years ago. When the devil came to visit, he went to the gym and pounded out the rest of the memories.
His head exploded with the images of years past. The knife. The men. The horror. The cowardice.
Out. He had to get out.
Shutting down to survival mode, Wolfe pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed his sneaker
s, and left.
Down the stairs.
Through the hall.
More stairs.
Click on the light. The room lit up, a haven from the night, a place Sawyer had built for both of them when the demons visited.
The workout room had soundproof walls, a kick-ass speaker system, and every piece of equipment imaginable. He donned his gloves and went straight to the punching bag. Free weights were scattered across the concrete floors, and mats hung haphazardly. A chin-up bar, rowing machine, and endless instruments of torture and healing lay before him, offering a glimpse back into the regular world.
He hit the button on the speaker and KISS came pounding out in waves of hard-ass metal.
Yep. Sawyer had been in here recently.
Wolfe got to work.
WHERE WAS HE GOING?
Gen lay awake in the dark and listened as someone walked down the stairs. Came from Wolfe's end of the hallway. She should lie here and try to go back to sleep. He'd been quite vocal in his determination to put her back in the friendship box, even after their incredible night of sex and orgasms and tenderness. He refused to even look at her now, choosing to engage in ridiculous conversation, duck his head, and keep far away from her in case she jumped him.
Which she had wanted to do. Plus beat him. But she kept her dignity and tried to remember Arilyn's advice. Live in the moment. Don't analyze or question. Let the day guide the relationship. Don't pressure.
Arilyn's advice really sucked.
Screw it. She'd follow him. Gen already knew he suffered from regular nightmares. Sometimes she'd wake to use the bathroom and find a tangle of empty sheets on the couch where he slept. She knew he liked to hit the gym or go running, but when she tried questioning him more about the nightmares, he shut back down again.
She padded on bare feet and tried to follow the trail. It took a few times and checking various rooms in the mansion before she finally found another door that led down a staircase. The knob turned easily in her fingers.
She stepped in.
The bold sounds of heavy-metal music, rough and angry, screamed through the speakers. The room was full of gym equipment, but there was only one focal point as she shut the door behind her.
Wolfe.
He stood in the center of the room. A large punching bag swung from a chain. He wore boxing gloves and the leather wristbands. Sneakers on his feet. Bare chested.
