Page 17 of Promise Never

Giving up, I climb out of bed, dress in my lastchange of clothes, and step outside into the cool night air.

No guards are at the door.

It seems Alessandro listened to his mother andordered the men not to trail me. The ones I glimpse in the shadowy corners ofthe property don’t move an inch when I wander into the courtyard.

I bet they’d stop me if I started in the directionof the gates, though.

Going up the steps, I enter the main house andmosey around, staring at the family pictures on the walls—none of Luca,understandably—and all the décor.

My exploring comes to a halt at the end of apassage. I hear growls and rumbles in the distance and follow the sounds towardstairs in the back that lead down.

Curious, I descend and turn through the openeddoors to what appears to be a gym. The lights are low.

An uncontrollable gasp leaves my lips when I findthe source of those grunts.

Alessandro is beating a punching bag. Shirtless.

My stomach clenches as I discern the rippedmuscles and a few tattoos on his back.

His animal-like rumbles and the way he’s throwingthose punches have me suddenly parched.

A warm sensation forms between my thighs, and mytongue darts out to wet my lips.

I’m feasting my eyes on his lean upper body when Ispot something that makes me gulp.

Therearecigarette burnmarks on his shoulder.

Jesus.

Alessandro stops abruptly and pivots, sweatglistening on his forehead and delectably firm chest.

“What are you doing?” he rasps, heaving deeply.

I clear my throat and compose myself to speak.“Those marks on your shoulder...”

He strides to the workout bench and snatches uphis shirt, quickly pulling it over his head.“Why are you walking aroundin my house late at night? What are you plotting?”

I roll my eyes and grumble, “Whatever. I’llleave.”

“Wait,” he calls out when I start back to thedoor. After a few seconds, he says, “You asked about the marks.”

I stare at him sideways.

Alessandro sweeps over his sweaty strands andblows sharply. “Luca did it when we were kids.”

“What?” I turn fully. “Where were your parents?Why did your brother—”

“He was always vicious,” he grates, hanging his head.“Father was doing business in Palermo that day. Mother was in the hospitalagain with Enrique.” I wonder what had happened to his little brother. “Lucalocked me in a room upstairs and gave me a terrible beating. He hated me forbeing Mother’s favorite. She didn’t pay him much attention because he was bad.”He pauses a moment, rubbing his neck. “Luca tied my hands, lit a cigarette, andpressed it hard into my skin until our nanny heard my screams from outside.”

“Shit,” I gasp.

“I was ten. The bastard was thirteen.” He sniffs.“Mother sent him to a boarding school after that, but he was back home within amonth. Father said he’d missed him.”

I shake my head in wonder. “Your family...”

“Brutal, I know.” He snorts as if that’s nothingabnormal.

His experience reminds me of the abuse I enduredin foster homes. It wasn’t as bad as being burned but still messes with my mindto this day.

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