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“And what did you hear?” he asks.
“I heard you send him with one of your men,” I say quietly. “Thank you for not hurting him.”
He doesn’t deny that he wanted to, or that he isn’t the kind of man who would. “That was for you.”
“I think he’s just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I say softly. “I really do. It seemed accidental.” I don’t realize my hands are outstretched pleadingly, or that I’ve taken a step toward him until he reaches for my wrists and yanks me to him. I stumble straight into his chest, but don’t let that stop me from saying everything I stifled when the boy was in here. “I don’t think he was sent here by our enemies or anything.”
“Me neither,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.
He doesn’t?
“And I think people who hurt children are cruel,” I say, pushing my luck. I watch his expression.
A shrug of his shoulders, but his words take me by surprise. “If you mean abuse, then yes, but there’s a time and a place to discipline a child and not all discipline is abuse.”
Of coursehe’d say that.
I take one more stab at reason. “You don’t need to hurt a child to discipline them.Andhe isn’tyourchild.”
He grunts. “And he isn’t yours to protect, either.”
Oh, boy. I’m not sure if I’m too excited about raising kids with this man. We’ve got time to work on this, though.
I sigh. I won’t convince him of anything, not now, so maybe that’s another argument for another day, but I know for a fact Iwill notraise my children the way my parents raised me and my brothers and sister. We can and will break the cycle of abuse and neglect, just like my siblings have.
But I let it go. For now, our little stowaway has remained unscathed.
Maybe not. I don’t let go of principles easily. “Discipline is one thing,hurting a childis another. Of all the people in the world, Salvatore, you and I should know that.” He hasn’t told me much about his upbringing, but I know he was hardly gently disciplined into mafia life.
He nods. “True.” I watch his eyes grow distant, and I don’t like the storm I see brewing in them. He’s remembering things. Likely awful things. Painful things. I don’t care if you’re twenty or eighty, the pain of an abusive or dysfunctional childhood doesn’t fade with time.
“You argue with me like I’m not a monster, Marialena,” he says warily, eying me. “You act as if I’m a regular human, capable of reason and complacency.”
“You’re not?” I ask.
His thumb traces the side of my face. It makes me shiver.
“I’m a man used to getting his way. I’ve been crowned king and I’ve paid a steep, steep price for this crown.” Bending his lips to my cheek, he gives me a brief kiss. “You’re my only reward for what I’ve done. But make no mistake about who I am. What I do. If you’re appealing to my conscience, you’ll find yourself sorely disappointed.”
Who hurt you?I want to ask. But I don’t need to ask him. I already know the answer.
They all did.
I ask him the next logical question.
“What can I do to make it better?”
I watch those eyes of his grow hungry and predatory as he grips my ass. With one quick tug, he unfastens my robe. It falls to the floor. My nearly naked body leans against his clothed one.
“You were going to help me undress,” he reminds me. “You asked my permission.” He traces the line of my jaw with his index finger. “Why don’t you start there?”
* * *
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Marialena
I wonder if my inexperience will show.
