Page 30 of Fatal Sloth

As much as I want to tell him, it won't do anyone any good. What's done is done. It almost feels like he's being protective over me, but he’s so hot and cold. Can I really trust him? I’m not so sure.

His gaze holds so much tenderness, something I wasn’t expecting. But all I can feel is shame as I look down at my glaring imperfections.

"Do you think they make me ugly?" I murmur, unable to meet his eyes any longer.

"Not at all," he says as he runs his hand down his face. "You're beautiful."

He hesitates for a second, seemingly more shocked by his response. “Everyone has darkness in their past. Tell me yours.”

My eyes fill with tears that I refuse to let fall. I am not weak, and I will not cry over this. At least, that's what I keep telling myself as I take a few calming breaths.

“Here, do you want to see what an ugly scar looks like?” My head bolts up in surprise as he begins to unbutton his shirt. “I'll show you an ugly scar.” He removes his shirt, revealing a canvas of tattoos that cover his muscular torso, arms, and chest. I've seen bits and pieces here and there, but I can't help but stare at the man before me.

My husband is hot!

He drops his shirt to lift his arm, revealing a large tattoo of a lion across one tricep. There is so much intricate detail and shading creating such dimension to the mane. It almost looks as if the artist made it come to life. The entire design is mostly in black and monochromatic tones, except the eyes- piercing blue eyes stare right at me. In the body of the lion sits a scar about two inches long. Although it looks like it's been healed for some time, the scar is raised and rough on the edges. At first, I'm not sure if this is the tattoo artist's work or an actual scar. That is until Sebastiano takes my small hand in his large one, running my finger over the edges of his wound.

“An old knife wound,” he provides nonchalantly.

The ridges of the healed wound look so rough, but they feel soft under my fingertips. I look to see him staring at me, my fingers still thrumming across his skin as he holds our stare.

“I was working with the Gualtiero family to set some things up back in Philly when the deal went sideways.”

It seems like a serious wound, but I know most men in his line of work don't go to the hospital. They either have a family doctor to make house calls or know someone who does.

“Now it’s your turn, piccola ballerina.”

I stare, still mesmerized at the sight before me. My hands are nervously playing with the hem of my shirt before I take a deep breath, pulling it over my head on an exhale, standing in front of him in just a bra and panties.

"T-this was from a belt when I was twelve. I- I ate a slice of cake at a birthday party," I admit quietly as I lift my arm, pointing to the reminiscence of a faint scar on my side, just above my ribs.

Sebastiano stands before me, with a stoic yet emotionless face as he listens to me, his eyes not leaving mine until I finish speaking. Then, he points to another scar on his lower abdomen.

“This was from saving Enzo––we got into some shit when we were teens and pissed off the wrong people. They caught him, and when I went back to get him, I got hit with a chair so hard that it splintered, and a piece got stuck in me. It hurt like a bitch getting it out, because I didn't notice a piece was stuck until a few days later.”

My turn now- pointing to another faint scar, close to the other one, near my ribs. “I got this when I was fifteen. I brought home a B in English.” Sighing, before I continue. “It was a bad week for me, and I was too weak to stand long enough to give my oral presentation. The teacher had no choice but to give me a bad grade, which brought down my final average.”

“Why were you too weak to stand?” he asks, his tone void of all emotion. But I don’t answer him because I can’t tell him the truth. The truth is so much worse.

Realizing I'm not going to answer, Sebastiano moves on to another topic. "And the bruises? They look more recent," he observes, his tone gentle but firm.

The hairs on my neck start to tingle at the thought of my bruises. "Someone told on me about being at a Diavolo, before our engagement was announced," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady despite the memories that surface.

"The night you kissed me?" Sebastiano asks, his voice laced with amusement.

I can't help but roll my eyes at his remark. "You mean the night you kissed me, and yes," I deadpan, unable to resist a slight smirk.

"I was saving you, and you kissed me to thank me," he provides, a playful spark in his eyes.

Yes, he did save me from some creep who was trying to grope me, but he definitely kissed me. Shaking my head at his insistence, I say, "If that’s what you tell yourself," I tease back.

"It’s the truth," he says with a smirk, and I can't help but chuckle at his cockiness.

We continue to stand in the bathroom, me still in my bra and panties, but I feel a sense of liberation wash over me. I've never shared these stories with anyone before; even Cameron only knows the G-rated version of what a monster my father truly is. In a way, it's cathartic to let someone else see the scars I've kept hidden for so long. The feeling almost makes me forget how we ended up here in the first place.

Sebastiano takes a deep breath, his expression now serious with remorse as he speaks. "I didn't mean what I said earlier to Enzo," he admits, his voice filled with sincerity. "It was a dick thing to say about you, and I didn't mean it."

"It's okay," I reply softly with a smile of understanding. "We all say things we don’t mean, sometimes," I assure, and find myself meaning it.

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