8. 8 – Caterina
8 – Caterina
G io.
He moves with such fluid motion that it takes me by surprise as his arms wrap around me. Tight and secure as I sink into him, into the strength he offers, soaking in the warmth of his chest as I bury my face against it and breathe in the clean, citrus scent of the shower gel he must have used earlier.
I breathe him in as if I might absorb some of his strength at this moment, when I don’t feel very strong at all. “I missed you too. Every day. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I left like that.”
He shudders against me, and I wonder how much he has held back for my sake. How much it took to keep away in the hours since we found each other again, to organise everything we needed to get here as soon as possible, to step back and let the others fill the space he offered me while he made sure I was taken care of. “I should never have let you go back in there, Cat.”
My hands, gripping the back of his shirt, twist. “Nobody lets me do anything, Gio Fusco. Haven’t you learned that by now?”
He half-laughs, half-groans. “How did I come to love the most infuriating woman in the Cosa Nostra?”
My heart twists, squeezing inside my chest. And the words slip out, a hoarse whisper. “How did I get so lucky?”
He pulls back at that, pulls back so he can look into my face. His dark brows drop down into a true frown. “We will have to disagree on who is the lucky one.”
Smiling, I bury my face back into him. And exhaustion tugs again, enough that the thought of the shower I desperately need becomes less appealing. “I need to… I have to shower. Stay with me?”
He tenses against me. “Are you sure?”
A black canopy.
A bare back.
“Yes,” I force out. “But… keep your shirt on.”
His tension doesn’t abate at that. It grows, grows until he almost shakes against me. Gio’s throat bobs, and then he steps back. “Of course.”
Neither of us reference his clenched fists. And it doesn’t help when I take a breath, backing up. Gio’s eyes skate over me, and it’s not desire that fills his face as he focuses on my upper right breastbone.
“I’ve seen it before,” he says roughly when I open my mouth to explain. Rage darkens his eyes to near black, the blue almost invisible. “At the Cosa Nostra meeting.”
My mouth closes with a snap. The meeting I was desperate to attend – to catch even a glimpse of them to keep me going, until Salvatore pulled out the vials he was so fond of and ripped even that small moment away from me. “I don’t remember that.”
“I know,” he says, softer this time, although the line of his mouth remains tight. “Do you want to know what happened?”
I shake my head. “Stefan told me - after.”
Gio pauses at that. “He gave me the information we needed to go in there and get you, you know.”
My throat bobs. “He did?”
A nod. “He cares for you. And you… you went back in there for him, Cat.”
“For Alessia,” I correct. “But… yes. For him, too. I didn’t want him to face the punishment Salvatore would have given for letting me go. I couldn’t leave him there, Gio.”
“I know,” he says again. This time, he half-smiles. “I also know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a Caterina Corvo rescue mission, remember. Asante never stood a chance against you.”
“You don’t mind, then?” I say the words lightly enough, but he considers them.
“No,” he says finally. Those indigo blue eyes lock onto mine. “I find that I like this family you’re building, Corvo. And I would very much like to be part of it. If you’ll still have me.”
“You already are,” I breathe, stepping toward him. “I chose you, Gio Fusco.”
I claimed him. Gio Fusco is mine.
And this time, I am the one who grips him. His hand runs over the back of my hair. “You should shower. Get some rest before lunch.”
I release him only long enough to shuck off my underwear before taking his hand. And any fear I might have felt is wiped away as he keeps his eyes on my face, even as I lead him toward the bathroom. Gio leans against the doorway as I step into the shower, a watchful presence as the piping hot water cascades down my back.
Dark swirls of blood and soot wash away from me, swirling down the drain as I grab the shower gel without looking and wash.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
“Cat.”
I scrub at the crook of my elbows as if I might be able to wash away the small needle marks that still dot my skin like purple freckles – that might always remain, if they haven’t disappeared already. Yet another reminder.
My body is riddled with them.
Large hands close over mine, and I flinch away before I can stop it, my back hitting the white tiles.
Gio backs away, his hands raised even as he closes his eyes, his apology hoarse. “I’m sorry. God, Cat—,”
I reach out for him. “Wash my hair. Please.”
And I force myself to turn, to close my eyes, not to flinch as he moves up behind me.
Not the same.
This is not the same.
“I’m fine,” I say abruptly when I feel him hesitate. “ Please .”
I cannot let myself fall apart.
Gio is careful not to touch my skin, his hands gentle as he massages in shampoo and uses the shower head to rinse it. Neither of us say anything as he shampoos it a second time. Then as he works in the conditioner, slowly combing through the tangled strands with his fingers.
It takes far, far longer than it needs to.
And neither of us mention my shuddering breaths. Or the tears that mix with the water that Gio brushes away with tender fingers.
He doesn’t turn off the water until the shuddering stops. I lean against the wall, spent, as he collects a towel and wraps it around me. As he carefully dries my hair. We don’t talk until I walk out of the bedroom and climb into the bed still wearing my towel, curling up. “Stay.”
He sits facing the door, his back against the metal frame, and I use his legs as a pillow. Gio trails his fingers through my damp strands, teasing them out as my eyes start to close.
And finally, I sleep.