HIS: Luca: The Sabatini Family
Page 7
I shouldn’t like his possessiveness. I shouldn’t want to belong to him. “You need to let me go. For your safety.”
The chuckle skims up my spine, causing my nipples to harden and heat to pool low between my legs. “I’m very hard to kill. Don’t worry about me.”
“Why won’t you let me go?” I need to know.
“When I saw you it was like I recognized you. Even though I’ve never laid eyes on you before. Finding you, I discovered something I didn’t realize was missing.” The somber tone instills a deeper richness to the smoke of his voice as it wraps around me. “Something like that is rare. It’s special. It’s not something I’m willing to walk away from or let slip through my fingers. My father told me it was how he knew he’d met his woman. The same words were how my brother described meeting his wife. Both of them had given up on meeting the one they wanted forever.” A sigh comes from deep inside his large chest. “I never sought a forever, but I am not so arrogant I will not recognize and appreciate it for the gift it is.”
My breath catches at his words. It was how I felt, when he touched me. Finding something I didn’t know was missing. Relief fills me—I’m not going crazy. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t make sense. Luca trusts in the feeling, and he isn’t going to let me go. Rolling onto my side and facing him, I long to touch him.
Curiosity and the need to know everything about him has me asking. “You said your last name used to be Toro?”
His chuckle is dark. “My mother used my real father, Tony Sabatini, to kill her abusive husband. He gave her not just her freedom but me. And she paid him back by leaving Chicago without telling him about me. She married Al Toro, who knew I wasn’t his and didn’t care. He loved her and was happy to raise someone else’s kid as long as he got her. I found out I couldn’t be Al’s son when he died, but I didn’t find out who my father was until a few years ago.”
Even in the dark and too far away for me to touch, it’s clear there is anger in him. In the back of my mind, a part of me is surprised the anger doesn’t scare me. Usually even the slightest anger in the people around me triggered apprehension that the animosity would be directed at me. Yet I’m not afraid of Luca. “Your mother, it doesn’t sound like you liked her very much.”
A sigh of regret or maybe even sadness escapes him. “No. I didn’t like her. There were times when she made loving her difficult. She was miserable and someone needed to pay for her being miserable. When I was small she actually seemed to like being a mom. She did all the mom things, baking cookies, making my sandwiches with the crusts cut off, spending hours with me in the pool and at the park. I had all her attention. But even then I saw it was her way of keeping Al out, which made him resent me. Then as I got older and didn’t need her, she grew depressed—sleeping all day, in her room even when she wasn’t asleep. Almost as if to punish me for not needing her, she made me feel as if everything I asked her for like making dinner, having clean clothes was too much for her.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been hard trapped in a home like that.”
His shrugs. “I wasn’t home all that much. I spent a lot of time with my uncle Luca—who I was named for. On weekends I was at his home and during the summer I would spend entire weeks with him. He’d take me everywhere with him, not just on the property but mafia business too. When I was eight I told him about my mom not getting out of bed for a few days because she was depressed about forgetting my birthday. It pissed him off, so he kept me—refusing to give me back until my mom got it together. I was with him for almost a year until he found a nanny he trusted to take care of me.”
“Your mother forgot your eighth birthday? Then she lets your uncle take you and keep you for a year?” I can’t believe she forgot her own child’s birthday then made it worse by letting him go for a year. My mother never let me out of her sight. There were no sleepovers for me growing up. It was hard not to be like other kids, but I understood she feared if she took her eyes off me my father would take me, and she’d never see me again.
“Her days ran together. She could barely take care of herself let alone me. Which is why my uncle hired my nanny, Marissa.”
His voice changes when he mentions his nanny. “It sounds like you liked Marissa.”
“Hmm, she was the wife of one of my uncle’s men. She was basically my mom. Marissa was on me about my grades, she was so proud when I graduated at only sixteen and got into the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. And man was she pissed when I dropped out after only a year.” His smile is clear in every word.
I’m surprised he graduated high school at sixteen the same way I did. For a moment I consider telling him, only I don’t want him to stop talking about himself.
“With her I lived like a civilian. Even though her husband was mafia, she didn’t want it in her home. She tried to get me to think of those that paid the price for the mafia making our money. She was trafficked from Honduras and met her husband in a brothel here in Vegas. He bought her and set her free, but she stayed with him.”
There’s something in his tone, as if he’s speaking in past tense. “She sounds nice. Is she still alive?”
“No, she had diabetes and didn’t take care of herself. Her kidneys gave out on her four years ago.” Sadness is in every word.
I long to comfort him yet feel intrinsically he won’t allow it. “I’m sorry. So she’s why you don’t like trafficking?”
“Actually the Outfit is different from the mafia in they have never trafficked women. We also never force women into sex work. The Outfit runs a brothel and in Chicago they handle sex workers, but women work because they want to only.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m glad you at least had Marissa while you were growing up since your mom had a few problems.”
He laughs. “Yes, my mom had a few problems.”
“I’m sure she didn’t want to be that way. At the same time, working with a therapist or psychiatrist is also a huge no for those in the life. Or even taking medication for depression is looked down on. Isn’t it?”
His sigh is heavy. “I don’t know. She didn’t have access to a therapist, but she didn’t have to escape into a bottle. For a few months after I went home with her, things were good, but they progressively got bad again until she tried to commit suicide when I was ten. My uncle took me again, and I lived with him and visited my mom when she asked for me—which wasn’t often. He died when I was twelve, so I went to live with her and Al again.”
There is clear pain in his voice. Guilt fills me for pushing him to speak about his painful past. Yet I can’t help but want to know everything about him. He runs his hand through his hair, then it’s down on the bed. I’m not sure how or even why, but I inch closer to him until I can take his hand in mine. That electricity is back again, a low hum that curls my toes. His hand is so strong, so large yet so gentle. I want more of his touch. His thumb slides back and forth over the skin of my wrist.
“If it weren’t for Marissa, I’m not sure what would have happened to me. Even though my mom was angry at my uncle, he was basically the only person in her life she cared about and trusted. Without him she went full-on drunk. There weren’t many times after that that I ever saw her sober.”
“That must have been hard to watch her self-destruct like that.” His grip loosens on my hand, but I clutch him tighter. For a moment there is no response, then his thumb moves again, back and forth.
“It wasn’t easy. I didn’t see her much. I’d have lunch with her once a month, it was the most I could take and I only did it because Marissa made me. She died when I twenty-nine. Her liver couldn’t take anymore.” He doesn’t sound nearly as sad as he did when he spoke of Marissa dying.
“Was she forced to marry Al too? I don’t understand. You said he loved her enough to accept someone else’s child.”
He turns onto his side to face me. “Al loved her. Too much, if you ask me. And she, I don’t know why but she refused to let him close. I don’t think she ever loved anyone but herself�
��not even me. I found out later from Al’s brother she used to torture him by saying she was still in love with my father. It’s why he resented me so much, I look just like my father. My father is adamant she didn’t love him. She did what she could to reel him in but she clearly was keeping him at a distance.”
“Because she was afraid to give someone else power over her after so many years being trapped in an abusive marriage.” The words were a thought. I didn’t even realize I spoke them.
“Is that what you’re going through? Were you forced into another marriage after the first shitty one? Are you married? Is your husband after you?”
I try to tug my hand from his, but just like in the car, he doesn’t let me go. And just like in the car, I’m relieved he doesn’t. “Your real father, do you have a good relationship with him now?”
His thumb stops moving. “No, Bella, I don’t do all the talking. Fine, you mentioned your mother. Tell me about her.”
Because he’s right, it’s not fair for him to do all the talking, I do. I tell him about her teaching me how to swim. “Despite growing up poor, I never knew it—she made every day special. She told me every scribble I made was amazing and one day I would be an artist. She must have taken me to the art museum a thousand times for hours on end and never complained. Whenever she had even a few extra dollars, she spent them on art supplies for me.”
“An artist?” he murmurs. “If you have any self-portraits, I’d pay for those.”
Shaking my head, I laugh. “No, I don’t do self-portraits. I did dozens of her growing up. When I tried to do the smart thing and figure out what to go to school for, like to become a teacher or something, she wouldn’t let me. According to her, I was going to become an artist and that’s what I needed to focus on. With her help I graduated at sixteen and got a scholarship to study at the school of my dreams. But then...”
His grip tightens on my hand. “How old were you when were forced into marriage?”
“The day after I turned seventeen,” I whisper.
He exhales the word “fuck.”
“If it weren’t for her, I would never have made it through those first few years of hell. The one thing I had was being able to talk to her every day. She kept me going and sane, reassuring me that I could get through the day and then the next. One day my husband would let me go, and it would all be like a bad dream.”
“Don’t use that word. Any word you want to use but that word—rapist, torturer, whatever, but not that word.” For the first time, fears shimmers through me at the ice in his words and the violence emanating from him in waves. He sighs as he tries to let me go. “I’m sorry.”
I squeeze his hand tight, not able to let him go.
Gently, he squeezes my hand back. “Where is she?”
“Dead.” I blink back tears. “One day I went to call her and she didn’t answer. I begged Ignacio to check on her, but he wouldn’t. After he died and I was free, I went back to where we used to live in America to find her. I found information on her car accident but nothing on her death. I’m not even sure where she’s buried.”
“If you tell me her name I can find her. I can find anyone, dead or alive,” he promises.
“If I got away from you, you’d find me?” I ask.
“You’ll never get away from me.” Deep, rich, smoky the words are a solemn vow.
Why do I have a feeling he’s right? And why am I relieved by his words?
5
Isa
I come awake slowly, in confusion. My head is on Luca’s wide, silky, muscled chest. Air leaves me in a whoosh as I take in how very naked he feels. Until I move ever so slightly and confirm he’s wearing boxers.
Holy crap, he’s as gorgeous naked as he is in a silk suit. A light layer of soft black hair covers his chest, thicker in the center, then growing lighter as it runs over his stomach before disappearing below the covers at his waist. Tattoos, there are so many. I try to pull back in order to see them clearly, but even in sleep Luca doesn’t let me get far from him as his arm tightens around me.
Afraid of waking him, I go still. I’m in awe that I’m in his arms and not freaking out. And from the looks of it, I’m the one who moved. A sleep-hazed memory surfaces of me reaching for his hand I’d somehow lost in sleep, had me getting closer to him until I brushed against the hard, heat of him. Once I encountered his heat and strength I wrapped myself around him. Blushing, I know I should move before he wakes up, only I’m not sure how to do it without waking him.
And honestly, I don’t want to move. I feel safe with him. I believe him when he says no one will hurt me, not even him. In the last six months I mouthed the words to my therapist, I’m safe; my husband was dead and couldn’t hurt me anymore, what happened to me didn’t define me. Yet a part of me didn’t really believe it. Not when I couldn’t allow a man close to me, let alone allow a man to touch me. Not when I couldn’t even bring myself to use the vibrator my therapist urged me to purchase inside me. I was beginning to doubt I’d ever be whole again, until this moment.
Luca didn’t get angry when I freaked out last night. There was no yelling or demands for me to shut up or calm down. He simply held me, telling me the whole time it was going to be okay. And for the first time in a long time, I almost believed him. If Augusto wasn’t out there somewhere, I would believe in Luca. I shiver in fear; he could be looking for me right now.
“No dark thoughts when the sun is shining and you’re where you belong, in my arms.” Luca runs his lips over my forehead. “Beautiful, first thing in the morning. Are you going to tell me what I need to know?”
How could he say no dark thoughts, then ask me that?
He sighs. “Bella it is.”
The alarm goes off on his bedside table. He frowns as he moves to turn it off. He’d kept his arm around me as he moved, leaving me sprawled over his chest. I blink at how wide his chest is. I’m fascinated by his tattoos. Over the right side of his chest is an angel with black wings holding a sword. On the left side of his chest is the image of two hands in prayer with a rosary over the hands. There are words in Latin across his heart.
“It will be done.” He answers the question I want to ask. “The Sabatini motto.”
“What’s this scar from?” I ask as I graze the scar on his chin with my fingertip. The stubble of hair along his cheeks and chin is incredibly sexy . Touching him is thrilling in a way I cannot define all I know is bubbles are fizzing through my blood as I work to slow my breathing and pretend I’m not as nervous as I really am.
He shrugs. “Al gave it to me when I was ten.”
“What happened?”
“He backhanded me. I landed on the glass coffee table in the living room.”
“Oh god.” I gasp.
“It’s fine. It happened a long time ago. What about you? Any scars you want to show me?” An eyebrow goes up as he smiles wickedly.
The fizzing bubbles become a shaken bottle of champagne ready to explode. Still I work to hide my response, unwilling to call a halt to touching him. I shake my head. On his right arm is a large raven with “Nevermore” across the bottom. I run my hand over his left arm; it’s a woman with the Dia de los Muertos makeup and roses in her hair. Huh, I look up at him. “Why this?”
“When I was seventeen I fell in lust with a cute little Latina who was really into it.” Why am I jealous of her? “This isn’t her, don’t worry, I wasn’t that stupid. She broke my heart. I decided white women were safer than Latinas with tempers and the ability to throw shit with remarkably good aim. Until I laid eyes on you and I was fucked seven ways to Sunday.”
He chuckles and the sound skims up my tummy, shaking the bubbles until I can barely breathe. “That’s a stereotype. I’ve never thrown anything at anyone before.”
“Ah, so you have a white parent. I’m going to go with mother, and you were raised by her only. I had wondered about your English. You have the idioms of English down but the accent of more Spanish than English.” He raises an eyebrow.
He studies me. “I think your accent is cute. You don’t like it?”
I shake my head. “A part of me wishes I weren’t Mexican, that I could wipe it all away. I don’t want anything to do with—” I pull away from Luca and sit up. Too close, I came too close to telling him.
Luca doesn’t push me. He gets off the bed. “Come on, we have things to do today.”
Holy freaking crap, he’s stunning—muscle and sinew rippling beneath silk olive-toned skin. Wait, there’s a healed gunshot across his back. I blink and he disappears into the bathroom. I go into the massive walk-in closet. Last night I’d been overwhelmed by how large it is and the sheer number of clothes he has.
The clothing he bought for me is beautiful; the only problem is it’s too tight and shows too much skin. When I was married Ignacio kept me in short skirts and tight tops, much like the dresses Augusto had for me. Ignacio shopped for me, not allowing me to buy my own clothes. I hated feeling like I was on show only to please him.
Last night, I’d stolen Luca’s shirt as a way of covering up, but I love how it feels and am not in a rush to give it up. Especially as I go through the clothes and can’t find anything I can imagine wearing.
“I like the pink sundress,” Luca says from behind me.
How did he get so close? He’s only inches away from me. I’m still stunned as he pulls out the dress. I shake my head, not taking it from him.
Frowning down at me, “Why not?”
“It’s too...” I don’t know how to explain it to him, so I lie. “I think it’s too tight. It doesn’t fit right.”
His frown deepens. “Are you sure? It doesn’t look like it will be too tight. Give it a try.”
I shake my head. “I tried it and it’s too tight.”
He sighs. “Fine. How about this one?”