Page 55 of Savage Union
"Yes, you do." I press, curious despite myself. "Tell me."
She looks away, uncomfortable. "You sounded... in pain. I just reacted."
"Compassion for your enemy?" I can't keep the bitterness from my voice. "That's dangerous, Caterina."
"Is that what you are? My enemy?" The question seems to surprise her as much as me.
"What else would I be?"
She has no answer for that, and I don't expect one. "I don't know," she finally admits. "But right now, you just seem like a man with nightmares, same as anyone else."
Something shifts inside me at her words—a loosening of the rigid control I maintain at all times. "We all have our demons."
"Even you?" She pushes, her curiosity evident.
"Especially me." There's no point denying what she's already witnessed.
We fall into silence, neither retreating completely. I should end this, return to the careful distance I've maintained. But instead, I find myself answering when she asks if the nightmares happen often.
"Often enough."
"What are they about?" Her boldness would be irritating if it weren't so unexpected.
"The past. Things I've done. Things done to me. The usual demons."
"Your father?" she ventures quietly.
The question strikes too close to home. "You heard."
She nods. "You called out to him."
"My father was..." I search for a suitable word, one that doesn't reveal too much, "a complicated man."
"Complicated." The edge in her voice is unmistakable. "Is that what we're calling abusive these days?"
Her perception is uncomfortable, cutting closer to truth than I like. "You know nothing about my father."
"I know the sound of a child begging a parent to stop," she says, her voice dropping. "I've made that sound myself."
The admission shifts something between us—a recognition, an understanding I didn't expect or want. "Your father," I say carefully. "He hurt you too."
"You already know that."
"I know what he did to your mother. I suspected he was equally cruel to you, but you never confirmed it."
She looks away. "Why would I tell you anything about my life?"
"Because I'm asking." I make sure my tone conveys this isn't a command. "Because perhaps we understand each other better than either of us wants to admit."
Her expression suggests the idea disturbs her as much as it does me. Finally, she speaks. "My father was a monster in a designer suit. He treated my mother like property, my sister like an afterthought, and me like a disappointment for being born female. Happy?"
"No." The simple truth slips out. "I'm not happy about any of it."
She blinks rapidly, as if fighting back unexpected emotion. "Was yours the same? A monster in a suit?"
The question dredges up memories I've spent a lifetime burying. "Worse. Mine was a monster who believed he was doingGod's work. Making me stronger. Making me worthy of the Rosso name."
Something shifts in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or unwanted sympathy. "Is that why you're so... controlled? Precise? Everything in its place?"
