Page 61 of Passion and Revenge

I let out a breath. I’m surprised it took him this long to ask about the spine tattoo. The artist did a good job of covering up the scar, but it’s still visible at close inspection.

“I got the scar when I was thirteen.” I swallow as the memories assault me. “After my mother died, I spent the summer with my uncle. Dad was too busy burying his grief under endless work hours, and I was kinda glad to be away from it.”

Alessandro’s hand settles on my hip, and he spins me around to face him, his face a blank mask.

“My uncle was…he used to drink. I don’t know if he still does. I haven’t heard about him in years,” I shrug as if I hadn’t spent years feeling rotten after the incident. As if it hadn’t reshaped me entirely. “I should have seen the signs. A touch here, a hug that was just a little too long there, a kiss to my cheek that lingered too long. I soaked it all up, you know. The stupid kid who just wanted some affection after losing her mum and feeling like she lost her dad too.”

“You were a child.”

“I should have known better,” I choked out, tears filling my eyes and running over. “I was asleep when I felt someone’s hands on me. The room was dark, and I was groggy. I didn’t understand what was happening, why his hands were squeezing my breasts or—” I trail off, ashamed.

I don’t know why I’m telling him these things. I’ve never told anybody else, not even Kat. There’s just something about Alessandro, something that makes me want to fall into him and bare all those long hidden parts to him.

His thumb begins to make circles on my hip encouragingly.

“I fought as hard as I could because it felt wrong. But he was too strong. I managed to get away. I was going to run across the courtyard to the neighbors when he fell and grabbed me by my ankle. The path was rocky and steep. Those country hills and their uneven terrains. I remember falling and thinking I would die. But I didn’t.”

Alessandro’s jaw clenches, and I rush to assure him. “He was sorry afterward. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean for me to get hurt.”

“He hurt you, Sienna. Don’t make excuses for him. He didn’t just hurt you. I can see he broke something inside you.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “It’s been years. I should be over it now.”

But I’m not, and I don’t think I’ll ever be. I still flinch when people brush up against me. Throughout my relationship with Sal, I found excuses to avoid intimacy and then faked it the two times we went all the way.

He broke me.

“Come here,” Alessandro whispers.

Going to him, I bury my face in his chest and weep for thirteen-year-old Sienna, who had to live through that experience, and the Sienna now, who still exists with that stain on her soul.

CHAPTER 20

Alessandro

Someone hurt her.

Someone hurt my Sienna.

I wish I hadn’t made her relive the painful experience, but I had to know. My chest aches with the knowledge of what she went through. I can only imagine teenage Sienna lying at the foot of the hill with the realization that she was still alive, but something inside her had changed.

In my line of work, I associate with many kinds of bastards, but men who touch children in any way are a line I can never cross.

Children are off-limits, and this pathetic uncle crossed that line.

“Kiss me,” she raises her head to whisper. “Make me feel like I’m whole.”

More than anything, I hate the doubt that’s suddenly clouding her eyes, as if she’s not sure if I will still want her. As if anything can make me less than obsessively drawn to her.

“You are perfect to me, Sienna.” I cup her jaw. “And not because what your uncle did to you doesn’t matter, but because you lived through it, you survived, and you found a way to thrive in spite of it. You’re perfect to me because all your broken pieces have come together to create something beautiful and just so uniquely you.”

She makes a choking sound that claws at something in my chest, and then her mouth is on mine, desperate and clumsy.

I tear my mouth away to kiss across her cheeks, kissing the wetness of her tears off her face.

She shouldn’t waste a single tear over that child molester.

“Ale,” she sighs. The name doesn’t feel like a knife flaying me wide open anymore. Instead, there’s a warmth that builds in my chest.

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