Page 45 of Brutal Union
Before I can respond, his phone buzzes. He checks it, frowns. "Speaking of trouble brewing, Marco's interrogating someone right now. Irish informant, from what I hear. Probably why his knuckles will be bloody when you see him later."
My stomach drops. "Is Marco…"
"Always handling something." Alex starts walking toward the stairs. "Tommy's waiting in the garage. Oh, and Valentina?"
I pause. "Yeah?"
"That vulnerable thing? It goes both ways. You're just as exposed as he is. Difference is, you don't have an army to protect you. Just him." His smile is sharp. "Better hope love's enough, because war's coming whether you're ready or not. And in war, the people we love become weapons our enemies use against us."
The warmth from seeing Alice dissipates, replaced by cold dread. Alessandro is right. We're balanced on a knife's edge, and any wrong move could bleed us both.
"Also," Alex calls back, already halfway down the stairs, "you might want to ice those knees. The bruises are getting darker. Very telling story they're writing on your skin."
Heat floods my face as I glance down, seeing the marks from the penthouse floor, purple and obvious against my skin. "Ass," I mutter, but he's already gone, laughter echoing behind him.
The penthouse is too quiet when I enter, that particular silence that means violence has visited. I can smell it. Blood and bleach, fear-sweat and gunpowder. I find Marco in his study,standing at the window with his back to me, knuckles bloody and raw. His white shirt has arterial spray across the cuff. Definitely not his.
"How's Alice?" He doesn't turn, but I hear genuine concern in the question. The first time he's asked about someone outside his family with actual care.
"Scared. Hurt. But safe." I cross to him, taking in the damage. His shoulders are rigid with barely contained violence. "What happened?"
"Business." He finally faces me, and I see the cold fury in his eyes, the kind that means someone died badly. "Your father's making moves. Had to have a conversation with someone who thought they could gather information on my wife."
"Alex mentioned you were handling something." I take his damaged hands in mine, examining the split skin across his knuckles. The blood isn't all his. "Whose face did these meet?"
"Someone who won't make that mistake again." His voice is casual, but violence bleeds through every word. "No one will."
I guide him to his desk, pushing him into the leather chair before heading to the bathroom for supplies. This is becoming routine now: him coming back bloody, me cleaning him up. The domesticity of it doesn't disturb me anymore.
"You don't have to do this," he says as I return with antiseptic and bandages.
"Yes, I do." I settle beside him, taking his right hand first. The knuckles are worst here. He leads with this hand. "This is what we do now, isn't it? You bleed, I patch you up. You kill, I accept it."
"That's not what I want us to be."
"No?" I clean the wounds carefully, watching him control his reaction to the sting. His skin is fever-hot under my fingers, alive with violence. "Then what do you want us to be?"
His free hand catches my chin, tilting my face up. "Real."
The word hangs between us as I work on his knuckles. Such a simple concept, such an impossible ask in our world of lies and violence. But maybe that's what we are. Real in our dysfunction, real in our violence, real in this sick need for each other.
"Alessandro says I make you vulnerable," I say, focusing on wrapping his hand rather than meeting his eyes.
"Alex talks too much."
"Is it true?" I finish with his right hand, move to his left. These knuckles are less damaged but still split. "Do I make you vulnerable?"
"Yes."
The simple admission stops my hands. I look up to find him watching me with those dark eyes that see everything, that saw me on my knees last night and loved it.
"You make me vulnerable," he continues, voice steady despite the weight of the confession. "You make me hesitate when I should strike, reconsider when I should destroy. I'm planning moves differently now. Wondering what you'd think if you saw the aftermath."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is." His bandaged hand cups my face. "Your father knows it. The Irish know it. Soon everyone will know that Marco Rosetti has a weakness."
"I'm sorry."
