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I take in his chiseled chest and the words,Non Dimenticare Mai,tattooed onto his forearm.
"You never did tell me what that means," I point out.
"Never forget," he retorts.
"Never forget… what?" I tilt my head.
He hesitates. "Never forget how my father abused my mother until she dropped dead from a heart attack. Never forget how he abused me and my brothers. Never forget how he broke the trust of those he supposedly loved."
He shucks off his boots and socks, then unbuckles his belt and shoves down his pants along with his boxers and adds them to his growing pile of clothes. When he straightens, the breath rushes out of me. I take in the heavily muscled shoulders, the sculpted biceps, the hewn planes of his chest, which narrow down to his trim waist. Those corded thighs, and his monster cock, which stands up against his lower belly and has a vein running up the bottom.
My mouth waters. My nipples throb. The flesh between my legs contracts. A piercing ache flares to life deep inside. Moisture squeezes out from between my pussy lips, and a shiver slinks under my skin. Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Is this what sin looks like? Is this how the devil appeared to Eve? Is that why she ate the apple when he coaxed her to? As I’m going to do?
As if he’s aware of the direction my thoughts have taken, his nostrils flare. His eyes flash, and a nerve throbs at his temple. His gaze grows heated. The heat in the bathroom seems to shoot up. A bead of sweat slides down my throat and his gaze darts there. His blue eyes deepen in color until they seem almost black. He glances past me, then in one smooth move, swoops around me. He bends over, shuts off the water, and straightens.
But not before I notice the tattoos on his back. Of course, I saw when we were imprisoned together, but now that he’s my husband, it elicits something poignant, something painful and strident, deep inside of me. The combination of the ink with the puckered slivers of skin looks both heathen and holy. Both barbaric and sacred. It’s as if his back was torn to pieces and put back together in a form meant to give expression to whatever pain he’s carrying deep inside. The colors are brilliant, almost too bright for my eyes, but that’s not the only reason my vision wavers. I blink away my tears, then reach out to trace the curved lines.
The muscles under his skin jump. It’s like having a writhing beast under my fingertips, one that’s standing still only for my perusal. A thrill squeezes my chest. I drag my fingertips across the shape of the face, the soulful, yet piercing eyes, the serpents that spring from the head and entwine with three sheafs of wheat painted the most brilliant yellow, and the three legs bent at the knee, which radiate out from the head. The design is haunting, macabre, primal and somehow, very Luca.
"It’s atrinacria,also known astriskelion. Meaning three-legged. It recalls the shape of Sicily, which resembles a triangle.Trinacriais actually the earliest known name of the island of Sicily," he rumbles.
"Is that Medusa?" I touch the cheek below the haunted eyes of the woman’s face in the center of the tattoo.
He nods. "It’s for protection. In the past, it was customary to place atrinacriabehind the main door as a symbol of protection for the house."
"And the three legs?"
42
“They symbolize the three ends of the island. The wheat sheafs represent the history of Sicily as a major wheat provider of the Roman empire; they also symbolize the fertility and prosperity of the region."
"Now I recall where I’ve seen the symbol. On the flag of Sicily."
One side of his lips kicks up.
"You decided to carve it into your skin? Why?"
"Why do you think?" He turns to face me.
"Because… the land is in your blood? Because you are a proud Sicilian? Because..." I search his features. "Because theCosa Nostra is your religion?"
"And you are my salvation."
43
Luca
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Where did that come from? Am I comparing what I feel for her to the love I have for my calling? Which I’ve always thought was to take theCosa Nostra forward... So far, I’ve committed my life to it, have never questioned my search for power, have never thought what I reached for was wrong. Not until she came into my life. She shook my focus. Distracted my singular intention. Displaced my attention, until I’m not sure what’s important to me anymore. That is, aside from her.
"When I thought you’d been shot, everything changed." I cup her cheek. "When I thought I’d lost you, I knew my life would never be the same again. I believe in God, but it’s the first time I prayed to him from my heart, on the way to you. I told him if you were unhurt, if by some miracle, you were alive and not wounded, then I’d never take what we have for granted. I promised him that I’d do anything to keep you safe. Even if it means leaving you."
"Luca," her voice emerges shaken. "I’m not sure what you’re saying."
"You made it clear to me that as long as I am part of theCosa Nostra,our future together is apart. I wish I could leave what I am behind… but it’s a part of me. I wish I could walk away from theCosa Nostra, that I could fall in line with Michael’s plans to legitimize our businesses. But I’m not as optimistic as he is. You can’t just leave this life of crime behind."
"You can try."
"You don’t get to separate yourself from the past."
