Chapter 51
Victoria
The house feels different when I come back.
I’m not sure why, but it is. Hell, I can’t even put my finger on what’s different about it.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m different.
I step inside, the front door shutting behind me with a soft click. Surprisingly, Nico doesn’t follow me this time. He stops at the threshold, one hand still on the door.
“You made it back,” he tells me, as if that answers why he’s practically stuck in place.
The man is so weird.
Sometimes I think he feels bad for me, and other times, I think he’s just plain annoyed.
I peel off my coat and hang it in the foyer closet. “Try not to sound so disappointed.”
Nico’s mouth twitches. “Rafe texted that your husband is in his study.”
The way he says husband makes me pause. Almost like a reminder to me that he, too, covered for Lorenzo, or maybe it’s something else . . . I’m not sure.
“Did Rafe mention if he’s in a mood?”
“From what I’ve gathered, yes.”
“Charming.” I adjust my sweater, needing something to do with my hands.
Nico lifts a brow. “Don’t wander around.”
I glance at him, letting my smile sharpen. “Wouldn’t dare.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, then takes a step outside.
I nod, but as soon as the door closes, I do the opposite of what he tells me. One place is calling my name, and even though I probably shouldn’t go there, I find myself standing outside the door to the study.
My hand reaches out and rests on the wood. Should I? I pull back, hovering now, deciding whether I dare. What about Lorenzo makes me so damn confused?
I should hate him, and I shouldn’t be seeking him out, yet . . . I push the door open anyway.
Lorenzo is stretched on the couch, one ankle propped on his opposite knee, scotch in hand.
He looks . . . wrecked.
Yet dangerous all at the same time.
It’s scary.
His dark shirt is half unbuttoned, his tan skin peeking out, and his sleeves are shoved up to his forearms.
His hair is slightly out of place, the way it looks when he rakes his fingers through it because he’s pissed. And if I weren’t sure of his attitude, his jaw seals the deal. It looks like it’s been clenched for hours.
I stand in the doorway for a few seconds, and he doesn’t look up. Just continues to swirl the scotch in his glass slowly.
“You’re home.” He finally breaks the silence with a voice deep and rough.
I step farther inside and shut the door. “Don’t sound so thrilled.”
His gaze finally lifts, finding me with that intensity that always makes my skin feel like it’s under a spotlight. He drags it over me, then settles back like he didn’t just make my whole body tingle.
“How was it?” he asks, the words casual.
I blink once, forcing my mouth into something neutral. “Wonderful.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “You don’t look like you believe that.”
I walk deeper into the room, heels silent on the rug. “Doesn’t matter.”
He takes a slow sip, eyes never leaving mine. “Your parents behave?”
I shrug. “They made tea.”
“Enlightening. And you,” he prompts, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Did you behave?”
I scoff, stopping near the coffee table. “Don’t I always?”
His expression shifts, almost amused. “Debatable.”
“Can’t you just stop already?” I shoot back, then stop myself from saying more. I don’t want a fight right now.
Not when I’m still unnerved by Grant.
I exhale and then tilt my chin up. “It was . . . fine.”
His eyes narrow slightly. He knows I’m leaving something out.
I keep my face still.
He stares one beat too long, then leans back into the couch like he’s letting it go. Not because he believes me, but because he doesn’t want to be bothered right now. He really must have had a bad day.
“Good.”
I should turn and leave. The smart thing to do would be to go upstairs and lock myself in my room, but instead, my gaze drops.
To his hands.
I squint.
His knuckles are bruised, and they are not old bruises. These marks are fresh. Purple and red. The skin looks swollen.
He was in a fight. My stomach twists, and before I can stop myself, my body moves until I’m so close I’m able to reach out. My fingers hover over his bruises, hesitating.
“Are you okay?” I whisper, concern evident in my voice.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves. There is something sinister in the way he looks right now. Almost bitter.
He shifts his hand away slightly, not fully withdrawing, just enough to keep control of the situation. “That . . . is nothing.”
I swallow, my hand pulling back like I’ve been burned. “Nothing doesn’t look like that.”
“You should see the wall.”
I blink. “You punched a wall.”
He makes a small, dismissive gesture with his bruised hand. “In my defense, the wall started it.”
“That’s a lie,” I chide.
Lorenzo’s gaze lifts to mine, and a flicker of something is there. If I had to guess, it looks like a mixture of humor and pain. A nostalgic moment, which I know he will shut down as fast as I saw it.
“You’re staring.” He narrows his eyes, and it feels like a curtain is dropping on a show I’ve been watching.
“I’m assessing you, if you want to know the truth.” I smile.
“Assess this,” he replies.
Slowly, he turns his forearm outward, and I’m met with a long scar running up the length.
It’s not a thin white line. No, this one looks like it cut to the bone.
It’s jagged, thick, and pale against his skin. It disappears beneath his sleeve, but I can tell it goes higher. Farther.
My breath catches hard enough that my chest aches, then my eyes snap up to his face. “What is—”
Lorenzo watches me, expression unreadable. “That’s a scar.”
“I know it’s a scar.” My throat tightens. “But how are you—”
“Alive?” he supplies, leaning back like the story is entertaining. “Stubbornness. Spite. Excellent medical care. Take your pick.”
I stare at the scar like it might start bleeding in front of me.
Because all I can see is Lorenzo. This new Lorenzo. The violent one, with scars and wounds I can’t even see.
What happened to this man?
“Tell me,” I whisper, then immediately want to slap myself for wanting to know so badly.
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, catching on my eyes. “No.”
My stomach drops. Then he exhales slowly, like he’s tired of being like this to me. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part.
His fingers tap the rim of his scotch glass once. Twice. “Sit.” He nods to the couch beside him. It isn’t a request, and it certainly isn’t gentle. But it also isn’t a command, either. It’s . . . something else. And I’m not sure what that something else is.
I hesitate, then lower myself onto the couch, keeping space between us because I don’t know what will happen if I don’t. My hands clasp in my lap, fingers twisting tight.
Lorenzo shifts, angling toward me just enough that I feel his heat without him touching me.
“A few years back,” he says, voice low. “I was running a collection.”
My brows lift. “You make that sound like you were selling coupons and not collecting money from bad people.”
His mouth twitches. “Don’t be impressed. I was a glorified errand boy.”
I stare at him. “You?”
He rolls his eyes, letting out a short breath that might be a laugh if he didn’t look so exhausted. “Yes, me. Believe it or not, I didn’t wake up one day with a god complex.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “Debatable.”
His gaze flicks to mine, sharp, then the corner of his mouth lifts like he likes that I still fight. “Anyway. I was sent to collect from a crew who thought they could . . . restructure their payments.”
I tilt my head, watching him. “By restructure, you mean refuse?”
“By restructure,” he replies, picking up the scotch and swirling it, “they meant ‘ambush.’”
My stomach twists again.
Lorenzo’s eyes drop to his scar as if he’s seeing it happen all over again.
He doesn’t flinch.
He just talks.
“They picked a dock warehouse,” he continues, voice steady. “Late. Cold. Definitely dangerous.”
I press my fingers into my knee, grounding myself.
“I walked in thinking it was going to be simple.” Lorenzo shrugs. “Some threats. Some broken fingers. The usual.”
I stare. “That’s your version of normal.”
His gaze slides to mine, deadpan. “Don’t pretend you’re surprised.”
I swallow hard. “Go on.”
Lorenzo leans his head back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling.
“There were more of them than there should have been,” he says. “That was my first clue. Second clue was when one of them smiled at me like he was envisioning gutting me . . . spoiler alert, he was.”
My stomach is in knots.
Lorenzo takes a sip, then sets the glass down again.
“They came at me fast,” he continues. “Not amateurs. Not drunk idiots. These were men trained to hurt someone and keep them alive just long enough so that they could enjoy it.”
My throat tightens. “Lorenzo—”
His gaze snaps to me, eyes bright with something dark. “It gets worse, Little Bird. Don’t interrupt the show.”
Heat flickers under my skin at the nickname, even now, even here.
I hate it.
Oh, who am I kidding . . . no, I don’t.
Lorenzo’s hand lifts, palm facing up. “I managed to put two of them down,” he says, voice almost bored. “One tried to take my gun. That was . . . impolite.”
“Did you—” I stop myself because I don’t want details. I don’t want images in my head.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves. “Yes, Victoria. I did. Turns out, I’m a violent man. I know, shocking development.”
I glare at him. “I’m trying not to picture it.”
He leans closer a fraction, eyes narrowing. “Then stop asking questions you don’t want me to answer.”
“Fine. I won’t,” I say before clamping my mouth shut.
“One of them caught my arm,” he says. “Blade.”
My stomach turns.
Lorenzo lifts his scarred forearm slightly, fingers tracing the jagged line. “Went deep,” he mumbles. “I remember thinking . . . that’s a lot of blood. They stabbed me a few more times before leaving me to bleed out and die.”
My breath catches, and I hate that my eyes sting.
Lorenzo notices immediately. His gaze flicks up, sharp.
“Don’t,” he warns, voice quiet. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I whisper, my voice rough.