I wake up in the guest room the next morning, as if nothing has happened.
And I'd almost believe nothing did, that last night was just a dream, except for the fact that my shirt smells like vanilla. And if my drowsy brain recalls correctly, that's because when we arrived back at the house, Santo scooped me out of the passenger seat to his warm chest, like I weighed as much as a feather, and carried me all the way to bed.
I'm anxious at the thought of leaving the room and running into someone, but my stomach is growling something fierce, and my throat is painfully dry. It's still early, so I bank on nobody being up yet as I tiptoe outside and start descending the stairs, my mind focused solely on the task ahead. I'll figure out what the hell I'm doing back here after...
Voices. In the kitchen. I stop just outside the doorway, pressing myself against the wall.
It's Massimo and Santo. My feet are itching to go back upstairs, but my nosiness wins out.
"She's a risk."
I jump at the sound of glass clattering loudly in the sink. "So you dump her at the train station with nothing but the fucking clothes on her back?"
"I gave her a ticket."
Several beats of silence pass, and I strain to hear the deep, measured breaths that I recognize as Santo's. "If you do something like that again, so help me, I don't care about the fact that you are Capo—"
"What do you suggest I do, Santo?"
"If I hadn't gotten there when I did..." his breaths grow harsher, louder. "She stays. I'll burn Luciano's entire business to the ground if I need to. Don't bullshit me."
"She's a risk to our plans. I don't need to give Luciano another reason to infiltrate my territory. He's been subtly undermining me for months already, and it's time we deal with him."
"Bullshit! You think she's a risk to me. Do me the fucking favor of being honest to my face."
Massimo's voice takes on a note of danger. "She is. She's making you angrier, more impulsive—"
"Do you know what made me angry? Finding her curled up alone on a bench with no money, no clothes, nothing to defend herself with. That made me absolutely fucking livid. That made me want to light the fucking world on fire and take you down with it. And you're my brother, Simo. I'd give my life for you, as I know you would for me."
"What power does she have over you?"
"Whatcha doin'?" I squeak at the voice that speaks loudly into my ear. Tommaso stands behind me, his smirk doing little to hide the serious look on his face. I wonder what went on in this house when Santo found out where I was.
The voices in the kitchen stop, and heavy footsteps approach. I heave a deep breath, squaring my shoulders as Massimo appears before me. Without acknowledging me for half a second, he strides past, and Santo's form fills the doorway.
"Breakfast is out," he informs me in a steady voice. "Eat, then change and meet me at the front for our run."
I open my mouth to tell him that I don't like eating before running, but the look on his face silences me. Without a word, I duck my head and push past him, making myself a small plate of food. I pick at my food, embarrassed of all the drama I seem to be bringing into this house, as Tommaso smirks annoyingly at me from across the room.
"What?" I eventually explode, frowning at him.
"Causing quite the uproar, aren't you?"
Shame makes my shoulders hunch. I don't like feeling like I'm causing trouble, especially between Santo and his brother. Something tells me they have an unbreakable bond, one that's becoming strained because of my presence. Feeling like an inconvenience is something I can't stand; it fills me with a discomfort that has my limbs itching to do something about it.
"Relax," Tommaso dismisses, "they'll be fine. If anything, it's giving me some entertainment. Nothing ever happens around here."
He's got to be joking, because just the other week there was a dead body on this very counter I'm eating at. But nevertheless, I give him a weak smile, finishing up quickly so I don't keep Santo waiting too long.
"Hey," Tommaso stops me with a hand on my arm right at the doorway. "I didn't know. What Simo was planning, I mean. For what it's worth."
I nod, and he lets me go, looking slightly uncomfortable. I'm blinking back tears as I make my way to Santo, simultaneously grateful but unsure how to take that side of Tommaso. His crude humor was stripped back—he was being honest. I could see it on his face.
Santo is radiating some seriously dangerous energy today as we jog our usual route. We don't speak; I'd stab myself with a fork before I tried to speak to him when he looks like it's taking a considerable effort to keep from murdering everybody we pass. I swear that he glares so hard at a baby, it starts crying.
I find myself falling into our usual rhythm, one that I didn't realize filled me with a sense of peace. His presence beside me makes me run faster, as if to escape the warmth that itches under my skin. His heavy and controlled breaths strike something deep in me that makes my body feel weightless.
I slow as we pass a café, the appetizing scent of fresh baked goods making my stomach rumble despite the fact that I've recently eaten. Santo comes to an abrupt halt when he realizes I'm not beside him, returning to my side with a scowl. Absentmindedly, I wonder if this man knows how to smile.
And not one of his twisted, cruel smiles with the darkness that loves to play in those sinful eyes. A real, happy smile.
"I'm hungry," I shrug, averting my eyes as my face blooms hot at the look he's giving me. A sweaty, mid-workout Santo is a frightening sight. He looks dreadfully powerful, his muscles coiled and ready, those eyes glinting beneath dark, sweat-soaked hair.
I try not to let the surprise show on my face when Santo opens the door and gestures for me to go in.
Waiting in line, I stumble as the man in front of us backs into me without realizing I'm there. Santo steadies me, stepping forward, and whatever look he has on his face makes the man turn pale and leave the line. I watch in shock as he scrambles to leave the café altogether and the door slams after him.
"What the hell was that?"
"Hm?"
I scoff at him acting like nothing just happened. "All he did was step on my toes. He didn't hold a knife to my neck or anything."
It's petty, and I know that. Something dark and ugly is pushing up my throat, and it tastes a lot like self-sabotage.
Santo growls, right as we both happen to step forward to order. The poor barista's eyes widen in fright. She looks like a mere teenager, and she's definitely not getting paid enough to have a six foot too many inches Made Man growling in her face before nine in the morning. So I give her my best smile, wondering if we can get our food without Santo terrifying half the people here.
We sit in an isolated corner, and I frown down at my sandwich. Santo takes a sip of the health juice he got—because of course—and I can't swallow back my questions for another second.
"Why did you bring me back?"
He freezes, setting down his cup so gently it doesn't make a sound. "Eat your food."
I steel myself. "Not until you answer me. I deserve to know why the hell I'm back here. Just twelve hours ago I was planning on spending the night in a homeless shelter, and now I'm back here, and we're back to..." I wave my hands around as if that explains everything, and Santo's nostrils flare.
"You don't have anywhere else to go," he finally says, and I roll my eyes.
"I have my aunt and uncle's place."
"And why didn't you want to go back? Your train had already left." He regards me with a disturbing amount of scrutiny, and indignation fills me.
"Answer my question first. Honestly."
We engage in a stare-off, and I refuse to be the first one to break. What I'm asking for is the bare minimum, and we both know that. I'm at the point of imploding from the heat in his stare when he finally opens his mouth, throat bobbing distractingly.
"You drive me fucking insane. You make me want to..." he pauses, running a hand through his hair, forearm flexing. "You are the most frustrating person I've ever met," he continues gruffly. "Your presence alone feels like a thousand tiny knives poking into my skin. Repeatedly. But I sleep better knowing where you are."
I close my mouth before my jaw hits the table we're sitting at. Yet again faced with the fact that this man is a storm of contradictions. He wants to strangle me, but he sleeps better when I'm safe? I'm about to ask a clarifying question, probably just a solid 'what the fuck,' but he's not done. "And knowing that where you are is not a dirty train station with creepy men who try to fucking touch you."
He doesn't give me a second to process anything he's said, gritting out a "now answer my question" and glaring at me expectantly.
"I don't want to go back because I don't like my aunt and uncle. They didn't give me a home worth wanting to go back to." The truth slips past my lips obscured by generalizations and the understatement of the damn century.
Santo white knuckles his cup. "What did they do to you?"
I laugh, but without humor. "How long do you have?"
The plastic cup splinters with a loud snap.
"All they did was... isolate me, I guess," I start, rushing to quell that look in his eyes. "Luciano made sure I was homeschooled and didn't have friends. He'd send Carlo or another guy to mess with me if I started to step out of line, or just because. I can't tell you the number of times I thought I was beginning to make a friend, only for them to disappear because their family was threatened, or the family pet was murdered."
"What else happened?" Santo grits out.
"What do you mean, what else?"
"You're very careful of keeping your distance when we sleep in the same room. Dressing in fifteen layers like that would make a difference. And," his face shutters, "that day in the cell. The way you reacted when I had you up against the bars."
I frown, but that's all he offers as way of explanation. Santo's face is like stone, eyes blazing, like one word from me could make him go feral. My heart stills.
"Oh. That," I mumble, looking back down at my food. Trying to cover up my shock that he's noticed so much about me.
Santo draws in a sharp breath, coming to his own conclusions.
"I think any woman would be uncomfortable in that position, Santo," I rush to explain.
His eyes sharpen. "You were more than uncomfortable."
My toes curl. How can he read me so well? I observe the man in front of me, the way his hair is drying in partial waves and how it makes him look younger. The perfect stubble on his cheeks, accentuating his jawline and those sinful lips. His eyes are glinting in that way that tells me I have a few seconds until he explodes. And I realize I can read him too.
"My uncle," I rush, for reasons I think will always remain unknown to me. "When I was eight and eleven. Nobody knows. I don't think Luciano even does. If he did, it would be yet another reason to cast me aside."
Women in this world are expected to be virgins for their husbands. It's part of the reason I haven't ever vocalized what my uncle did to me, despite knowing that Luciano wouldn't be arranging a marriage for me anytime soon. And it wasn't like I ever had prospects, anyway. Any potential boyfriend I had ended up never speaking to me again after the first date, for the same reason I didn't have friends.
Santo's cup splinters into several pieces of broken plastic, liquid splashing over the table and his trembling fists that descend on the surface with a barely controlled amount of force. Our plates clatter. The entire café goes silent, and I know everybody is staring at us but I'm just looking at him.
"We're going back to the house," he says hoarsely. "Get a to-go bag for your food and meet me outside."
Then he leaves.
I avoid the stares as I comply with his words, all the while aware of the enraged figure stalking back and forth across the sidewalk outside.
+
The next day, we go to the gym instead of on our typical run.
Santo is waiting for me in our usual spot, but he wordlessly shakes his head as I move towards the door. He looks strung out, like he hasn't slept too well. I have no choice but to follow him as we head to the Romano's home gym, which I've never actually entered before.
Tommaso and Nico are sparring in a roped off boxing ring, so they don't spare us a glance. I wince as Tommaso, clearly bigger and stronger, knocks Nico flat on his back and gives him a few sound hits before stepping off.
"It's the best way to learn how to fight," Santo informs me as I follow him to another ring.
"Is that what we'll be doing?" I can't hide the small tremor in my voice.
"You need to learn how to defend yourself. I'm assuming you were never taught?" Santo removes his jacket, and my mouth dries up at the sight of his arms flexing with the movement. His bicep is as big as one of my thighs.
"The Genovese men don't teach their women to fight. I've never even held a gun."
Massimo's words from before echo in my mind. She's small, weak.
He's more than right about that.
Santo freezes, shock playing briefly on his face before he schools it into a more neutral expression, one that's still characterized by the anger that has been there since my revelation in the café yesterday. "Jesus. We'll do that next."
He approaches me, the breath sucked out of my lungs the closer he gets. "We teach women to fight. You are perfectly capable of learning. You shouldn't have to get to the point where you need to use those skills. If you do, that means the men in your life have failed you. But you should know, and you will learn. Hit me."
I'm definitely not breathing as he comes to a stop several inches from me, rasping out those last two words in a grating order.
"Hit you? Where?"
He shrugs. "Anywhere."
My eyes flit down to his crotch. He catches my knee in a rough palm, holding it there and steadying me with his other hand on my waist. His eyes glint in amusement.
"Next time, don't let me know your plan of attack."
I frown.
"Your eyes gave you away."
He releases me, and I'm suddenly hot so I take off my top, revealing my sports bra. It covers me well enough, especially with these high waisted leggings, but you'd think I just stripped naked with the way Santo regards me, and then the room around us. His brothers are taking a break, and Nico sends me a gleeful wave before he's squirted by Tommaso's water bottle.
"Hit me." His eyes are dark now.
I don't think about it, bringing my fist to his face as hard as I can. He grabs it, and his fist closes around mine.
"Better. Do it again," he orders.
I don't get a hit in, of course. But we go on like that, Santo teaching me how to throw a punch, about the most vulnerable spots on an attacker, and how to gain the upper hand in a fight where I'm the weaker opponent. It feels exhilarating learning how to defend myself for the first time in my life, but I'm not sure if that feeling is because of the closeness of Santo's body, seeing him in motion and feeling his touch.
"Stay there," he says, retreating to the other end of the ring. "We're going to act out a scenario. I'm going to come at you like I'm about to attack you, and you'll try and get out of it."
I open my mouth to protest, but he's already coming towards me. Quickly and lethally. He reminds me of a panther. Dark and dangerous with eyes that glint in amusement, almost—like he's laughing at the prospect of me even trying to escape him. My body fills with genuine fright.
I'm pinned against the ropes, my hands held captive in his as his body presses into me and his knee wedges between my thighs. I try and move, but I can't even go an inch. My chest is heaving, and he's frowning down at me.
"That's not fair. I didn't even have a chance," I breathe.
His eyes flit down to my mouth and stay there. "You won't get a chance if someone is genuinely trying to hurt you. This is the way you learn, Nina."
I try and slow my breathing, but I can't. I realize it's not fear that's gripping me, and I try again to escape his grip. The only part of me I can move is my lower half, and I strain to wiggle out of his grip, but his thigh just wedges up higher than I think he realizes. A rush of heat travels through me, originating from where his muscled thigh presses into the most sensitive part of me. My skin prickles in awareness.
His eyes are alight as they travel over my face, then down my body. My chest is heaving too quickly, and I realize in a haze that his is too, because of the way that we press closer together with each breath. I'm locked in his grip and I want him to touch me more than I've ever wanted anything. I have to physically swallow the pleas threatening to surface; I've forgotten where we are.
And who he is.
"Don't waste your energy trying to squirm, darling," he rumbles softly, and I'm floored at the velvety, tender quality of his voice. "The best chance you have in this position is to headbutt your attacker. Since you're probably going to be shorter than them, go for the nose."
I can only nod and he presses closer to me for a millisecond, his breath fanning out across my lips. Then he releases me, and I feel empty, glad I'm still against the ropes because otherwise, I don't know if I could stand.
"We'll go again," Santo announces, and I wonder if he knows that his eyes look like burnt umber when he's not glowering or glaring.
I try and prepare myself for the press of his body again but as long as it's Santo sparring with me, I don't think I'll ever stand anything even close to a chance.
That night as I curl up in bed, I feel a small ball of warmth take root in my stomach, and I have to stifle a tiny grin against my pillow. Despite everything, the fact that Santo took it upon himself to teach me self-defense after I told him the secret that I'd never told anyone else makes me feel hopeful. And like maybe I was wrong. Maybe there is a little bit of compassion hidden beneath his layers of abrasiveness, indifference, and anger.
Because today, I feel strong. And I never thought I'd feel that way, especially not after telling somebody about my assault.
I sleep better knowing where you are.
Maybe he just has different ways of showing it than one would initially expect. And I try not to hold onto that hope, I really do, but I can already feel it taking ahold of me, budding into a small flower that's going to keep growing at the slightest ray of sunshine, the smallest drop of water.
The man who has only promised my demise—with his words, his eyes, his body—is now teaching me how to defend myself. The irony is not lost on me. And there's still that mistrustful voice in my head, one enforced by over two decades of being bulldozed by whatever the men around me want for my life, saying that Santo could just be giving me the illusion of capability before breaking me.
I don't know which part of Santo's contradictions are true and which are donned as a costume to deceive me. His darkness—like maybe the midnight black of his tattoos has seeped through his inky locks of hair and his gleaming irises and gone straight to his soul. Or those pockets of realness that seep through—the way he somehow listens to me like no one else has. It counteracts the darkness, barely there but I still see it. He exists as a dichotomy. Like the moon versus the sun—different but the same. Counterparts who can't exist on stage at the same time, who prepare the audience for the presence of the other in the absence of themselves.
Much like me, I realize. Split between the woman I've always been told I am, and the woman I want to be.
I wonder if I'm crazy for feeling like we hold some fundamental, real thing in similarity.
I wonder if I'm stupid for letting that feed my hope.
It's a dangerous place to be, hoping for the good to overpower the bad. More often than not, that's how you realize there's no good left.
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Hi! Please let me know what you think - do you like Nina? Santo? His brothers? Feedback is more than welcome.
- G