Chapter Thirty-One Enzo #2
“Finally, when I realized it wasn’t going away, that whatever affected me was here to stay, I went to the doctor. The diagnosis was immediate—psoriasis. It flares up at times of stress. Did you know it’s an autoimmune disease? It’s never gonna go away.”
“Enzo,” Tom croaked, closing his eyes, thumb still trailing, stroking, comforting.
“Then came the steroids, and the ointments, and the creams. The change of diet, the workouts, the clean living. I tried everything. Nothing helps. About every couple weeks, something triggers me that makes me flare into oblivion. It’s not everywhere on my body, and I learned how to conceal it, but the more I hide it, the worse it gets.
On my hands. Arms. Wrists. I stopped scratching—for the most part, anyway—but the scars are still there.
Since I didn’t want to explain them, I replaced them with other scars.
Cutting scars. They look…better.” A wobbly smile found my lips.
“Cleaner, somehow. They make me feel like I’m in control. ”
“Are you still cutting?”
“Rarely.” I chewed my inner cheek. “Only when the internal pain gets too much, and I have to replace it with exterior discomfort.”
“And Vello?” Tom asked. “Were you the mysterious illness that killed him?”
My hand slipped from his. I wrapped my arms around my legs, tucking my chin over my knees, and stared into the distance. The sky was bright orange now. I wasn’t about to admit murder to an FBI agent, no matter how close we’d gotten in recent weeks.
“For this to work,” Tom whispered, “you need to trust me, Butterfly.”
“Do you trust me?”
He said nothing.
Because he didn’t. Nor should he. We were enemies, and if we were to ever meet on a battlefield, fighting for our respective kingdoms, I would shoot to kill.
And I knew he’d do the same.
“He deserved to die.” I turned my head sideways, looking away, at the ground. “He made life hell for everyone, not just me. Mama. Luca. Achilles. Fortunately, Lila managed to escape, with her marriage to Tiernan Callaghan. But the rest of us…” I shook my head.
He put his hand on my back.
I was pleased with myself for not giving him a full-blown confession.
It deluded me into hoping I might have some self-control in this relationship.
Which I clearly fucking didn’t, because if I utilized two working brain cells when it came to the fed, I wouldn’t be so quick to give him my time and attention and other parts I didn’t even want to think about.
My situation was far from ideal, but by no means catastrophic, I convinced myself. I’d never disclosed any incriminating information. If he were recording our conversation, this wouldn’t count as a confession.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Look at me.”
But I didn’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t.
“Know why I call you Butterfly?”
I rested my cheek on my knee, facing him. “Why?”
“Because you’re something beautiful that’s meant to be free,” he said. “And because you’ll be reaching full metamorphosis soon. You won’t stay like this forever, Enzo. You will come out.”
“I can’t—” I started, only to be cut off by him.
“It’s bigger than you. A man like you, a man who loves so hard, so deep, cannot play pretend his whole life.
You’re a butterfly, Enzo. Free. Brave. Endlessly transformative.
” His lips twisted in a half smile, half grimace.
“And you’re so fucking beautiful, I forget how to breathe when you’re around. ”
“I don’t feel so brave.” Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself to feel so openly in front of another human. Let alone a man. I blinked fast. “I’m scared shitless, Tom.”
“To be brave is not to be fearless, kid.” He thumbed my cheek. “To be brave is to hold fear, and do it anyway.”
The definition mattered little, because I wasn’t doing it.
Not any time soon, anyway. But maybe a ray of courage did slide through the self-made cuts on my skin after all, because I let Tom lay me down on the picnic blanket and slowly remove my clothing with fingers that weren’t hungry or ravenous like usual, but tender and careful.
I lay bare in the middle of the woods, in the freezing cold, while he was completely clothed, and I let him, because in that moment, I’d let him do anything to me. My eyes were still filled with tears I didn’t allow myself to shed, and a sob lodged deep inside my throat.
Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry like a little pussy, my dad warned in my head. You’re a Ferrante, and Ferrantes kill, flay, and terrorize. They do not enjoy soft kisses under sunsets from men who wish to harm them.
But for some reason, his voice wasn’t so loud anymore. Barely a whisper. Like he was dimming inside me.
“For what it’s worth, I’ve always thought…” Tom lowered his lips to my throat, kissing a spot where I knew the tattoos did not cover the blemishes of the psoriasis. “You’re perfect here.” He kissed the base of my throat, his lips sealing another scar. “And here.”
I flinched, forcing myself not to stand up and run. His mouth clasped a scab on my inner bicep. A dry one that flaked off between his lips. “And also here.” He kissed a particularly gnarly psoriasis scar inside my forearm. “And especially, especially here.”
The tears began falling. I could no longer hold them back.
“And let’s not forget this spot right here.” He palmed my wrist, bringing it to his mouth, skimming his lips over the most hideous parts of me. “That’s my favorite part of you, Enzo.”
“I’m—I’m not crying,” I choked out, a coward, still. For lying, deflecting, projecting. For running from a truth that burrowed deeper into my skin than any tattoo ever could. “It’s just the sun in my eyes.”
“I know,” Tom whispered, continuing his relentless pursuit to kiss every corner of my flesh, to love every spot in my body I was insecure about. “I know all about the sun. It can be…overwhelming, sometimes.”
But he wasn’t talking about the sun, and we both knew it.
I cried, naked, exposed, and broken. The sunset our only witness.
It would keep the secrets we shared in this forest. He kissed every single inch of me, every nook and cranny of my body, until every cell of mine felt touched by the winter sun.
And the more he kissed me, the more he told me how perfect my blemishes were, how lovely the scars made me, the harder I cried.
“It hurts to breathe, Tom,” I hiccuped, dangerously close to sobbing territory.
“I know.” He kissed the heel of my foot, brushing his thumb over my ankle. “It’s growing pains, baby.”
I wanted to snort. To crack a joke. I did neither.
“Remember when you were little, and your bones hurt, because you were growing?” Tom kissed each toe individually.
“Y-yes.”
“Well, it’s the same now, but instead of pain in your bones, it’s pain in your soul. You’re coming out of your shell, baby. Embracing who you are. That takes courage.”