Page 97 of The Devil's Den

I kiss her like I want to remember every second, the feel of her, the taste. I kiss her slow, like it’s the very first time I’ve ever gotten to do it, my palms slowly climbing up from her back, up to the thick, soft strands of her hair.

She moans as she kisses me deeper, her fingers reaching under my white t-shirt, and I flinch away from her touch, not realizing I did it until I completely pull away.

“What’s wrong?” She wraps her hands around herself, uncertainty riddled on her face.

“It’s not you. It’s just—” How do I tell her that the scars on my back from the beating I took while I hung on that beam may repulse her?

“Matteo, it’s me.” Her gaze cuts through my self-doubt and she places a hand to the center of my chest. “You can tell me anything too.”

“I know I can.” I peer down at her touch, my heart beating with renewed passion. “There are ugly scars on my back. I don’t want you to have to see them.” I’ve never actually looked, but I can feel them when I run my hands there.

“Oh, Matteo…” She reaches a palm to my cheek, holding me in its warmth. “I don’t care about scars. We all have them.” Her hand returns to my back once more, her palm running up the ugliness seeped into my flesh. “They’d never scare me away, no matter where they are.”

I release a long, shaky huff, then I turn around, yanking the shirt up my back so she can finally see them for herself. Her hands touch me there, running down my marred skin.

“I love you,” she says, her cheek falling to the scars, her arms surrounding me.

I shut my eyes, reveling in the feel of her—just being this close, no chains, no walls keeping us apart. It’s something I’ll never take for granted.

“I can’t believe they’re all dead.” She sighs, her hands coming to rest at my chest.

“You can stop looking over your shoulder now. There’s no one there anymore.”

“Yeah…” Her voice drifts. “We can have a life now, Matteo. It’s ours.” She burrows her face further into my back, her lips landing over my mutilated skin.

Fuck, I love her so damn much, but am I capable of giving her the kind of life she’s always deserved? Knowing all the things I’ve done in the past, do I even deserve it?

“Where do we go from here?” I ask her.

“I don’t know…” She holds me tighter. “But wherever we go, we do it together.”

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

AIDA

The following day,one of Dom’s drivers takes Matteo and me to Ms. Greco’s mother’s home. I had wanted to visit them to pay my respects, and to meet them, to know where she came from. If anything, I knew they had to be wonderful from the way she’d spoken about them. The sisters spent their time taking care of their mother, while also trying to live their lives. She has two nieces, and her sister is divorced from what I remember.

Matteo sits beside me, both of us staring out the window, embracing the world and each other. It’s different when you’ve been locked away. Everything seems brighter, flashier, the colors practically glowing. We take it all in. Every little detail everyone else probably takes for granted.

We were both Agnelo’s hostages. One a prisoner in the basement, the other a prisoner in the house. If I had no yard, I wouldn’t even know what it felt like to breathe in fresh air. It’s something Matteo never had and something I’m grateful for. I could imagine how many others like us are out there, locked away, nothing but darkness. But at least I had Matteo and Ms. Greco. How many don’t even have that?

“You okay?” he asks, his lips lowering to my temple with a warm kiss.

“Yeah.” My heart swells with a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am that I have you.”

“I think I’m the lucky one, Aida,” he whispers. “You kept me sane. All the shit I did…”

He told me about it all last night as we lay down in bed together, and I reassured him, it made no difference to me. He was still the man I love. “It doesn’t matter,” I remind him. “I’m sorry those people died, but you had no choice.”

He nods, his gaze falling downcast, and I can tell he doesn’t agree. He blames himself for it all—the murders, the beatings. But he was just a child, learning to kill.

“It’s hard,” he admits, gazing up at me. “To see myself the way you do.”

With my eyes boring into his, I cup his face. “For all the days you forget who you truly are, I’ll be there to remind you.”

He quickly curls an arm around me, holding me against his chest, his breathing hitching as the car sways.

A few minutes later, we pull up to a two-story pale blue house, a cheerful garden gnome with a green hat in front of the freshly cut grass. You can smell it from the whiff of air rising through the slit in the window.

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