Page 5 of His to Ruin

Hopefully that will refresh his memory, because I don’t want to go into any more detail about that horrific night.

“What else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” It’s surely worse than most people will see in a lifetime.

Piotr shrugs. “It was a regrettable incident, but hardly a massacre.” Does he really believe that it’s no big deal? I guess to a man like him, the death of a single person isn’t worth worrying about. “What other violence have you witnessed?”

Oh, my god! Does he want a laundry list of every time I saw one of my brothers hit someone?

“Why do you want to know?”

“Call it curiosity.”

I don’t understand why he’s pursuing this line of conversation, but I decide to indulge him and share one of my worst memories.

“When I was eight, some men tried to kidnap me outside my dance class. One of them threw acid in my bodyguard’s face. He was badly injured, but he still fought them off. He saved me.”

Poor Jimmy was horrifically scarred. It would have been worse if my dance instructor hadn’t acted quickly, pouring water on his face to flush the acid. After Jimmy endured several surgeries, my father offered to set him up with a comfortable retirement, but he insisted on coming back to work. He’s protected me for most of my life, and talking about what happened makes me realize how much I miss him.

“He’s still your bodyguard, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” At least, I think he is. My asshole brother probably persuaded him to retire while I’m stuck here.

“Why didn’t he come to Italy with you?”

I can’t prevent an unladylike snort from escaping me. “Antonio wasn’t going to allow me to have the one person who makes me feel safe around.”

“Matteo and your cousins don’t make you feel safe?”

“They do.” I mean, if someone tried to hurt me, they’d do everything in their power to protect me. “It’s just that Jimmy is, well, he’s…”

“A father figure?” Piotr is more perceptive than I imagined. “Your hero?”

“Yeah. If I’d listened to him, I wouldn’t…”

Piotr tilts his head to one side as I bite my tongue. “Wouldn’t what?”

“Be in this mess,” I admit.

If I’d listened to Jimmy, I’d never have dated Dario Maroni behind my brothers’ backs. Jimmy warned me he was trouble, but I thought the sun shone out of his perfectly toned ass. I mean, who wouldn’t fall for the tall, dark, handsome star of their high school football team if he flashed his killer smile at them?

I shouldn’t have guilted Jimmy into keeping the relationship secret. If my brothers had known I had a boyfriend, they’d have kept a closer eye on me. I’d never have been able to slip out of the house to go meet him. I wouldn’t have ended up at a seedy hotel, letting the man I thought I loved take photos of me in increasingly degrading poses.

Trusting Jimmy’s instincts about Dario would have saved me a lot of trouble. My supposed boyfriend was working for Joey Gallo, a longtime enemy of my family. Dario passed the photos to him and he threatened to post them online if I didn’t spy on my brothers for him. If I’d been thinking clearly, I’d have gone to Jimmy and told him what happened. I didn’t. Instead, I went to Antonio’s wife, Isabella, and asked her to help me.

That’s when the situation became even messier. She let Joey Gallo and his cousin Vito into their home, thinking they just wanted to talk to Antonio in exchange for the photos. There was an altercation that ended with my brother being shot and the Gallos disappearing. Thinking she betrayed him, Antonio exiled Isabella.

When I finally gathered the courage to tell Antonio his wife was only trying to help me when she let his enemies into their home,he was furious. He sent me here to Italy to reflect on what he considers my many flaws. I know he’s searching for the photos, but I pray he never finds them. If he sees how low I sank that night, he’ll wash his hands of me once and for all.

“What mess?” Piotr’s question pulls me from my thoughts. “Why did your brother send you here, Olivia?”

“Oh, you know, family issues.” Before he can ask me anything else, I return to the coffee machine and grab my cup of freshly brewed espresso. As I turn back to face Piotr, I remember my manners and gesture toward the cup with my free hand. “Would you like one?”

“No, I never touch the stuff.”

My eyes widen. “What sort of psycho doesn’t drink coffee?”

If he’s offended by the question, he doesn’t show it. He doesn’t display much emotion. “This one.”

---