But after what Luca and I did in his office, it’s like I can see myself with a fresh perspective.
He sank his hands greedily into these same thighs. He snarled as he moved his hands up them, growled as he pushed his face between them.
Surely that means I’m not completely ugly, right?
Raising my foot, I study the tattoo, the simple bird. We didn’t have time to add detail, but there’s a definite direction to it, as though the bird is heading for the horizon.
That could be me if the plan works, if Conor agrees to let me go.
I wonder how much Luca’s going to offer.
I wonder why he’s offering at all.
Sharing some steaminess with somebody is one thing, but paying to free them from their horrible life is another.
And if I go to live with Luca, what then?
Am I going to be one of many women? Does he do this often?
My fists clench at the thought. I have to let little Jackson go, so I don’t add too much pressure to my touch.
The idea of sharing Luca makes me want to grab big bunches of my hair and tear them out, just so I don’t have to think about it.
It hurts. Physically makes me ache, imagining it.
When Jackson cocks his head, I know that Aunt Giana is coming up the stairs. He always cocks his head like that when she approaches. She’s never hurt him since she knows that would drive me to do something drastic. But she’s not overly kind to him either.
Pulling up the blankets, I quickly cover my ankle.
And then – when she starts to turn the door handle – I think, screw it.
Why should I hide?
Pretty soon, I’m not going to be her concern.
She pushes the door open, striding into the room. As usual, she pauses to look around distastefully, as though my framed portraits and abstract pieces are a personal insult to her.
She turns to me, her sharp features etched in misery. She never looks happy, my aunt, like the whole world is out to get her. She never stops to think she might be the problem.
“I thought you’d be sleeping,” she says. “It’s late.”
“Why are you creeping around in my bedroom if you thought I’d be sleeping?”
She frowns. “You stole my book. Where is it?”
It takes me a second to realize what she means. We live in a three-bedroom home, and one of the only things my aunt and I have in common is our love of reading. We disappear into stories, so we don’t have to think about real life.
The third bedroom is a library of sorts. Aunt Gianna is always accusing me of stealing her books.
I wave a hand at the bedside table. “There you go. Have it. I’m not done, but I guess Conor’s not going to let me read.”
“I’ve done a lot for you,” Gianna says, striding across the room.
“You’ve kept a roof over my head and kept me fed and let me paint and let me have Jackson.” I nod. “And if that was all, my oh-so-sweet aunt, then I’d say, fine, okay, we don’t have the best relationship. But there’s plenty of good to offset the bad. But when you offer to sell me to a criminal, none of that matters.”
My voice is getting heated, rising loudly, but Aunt Gianna stares at me as though I haven’t spoken. She lives mostly in her mind, dreaming of her retirement, rarely responding to my anger.
“Are you done?” she asks, picking up the book.
She strides away, making me feel like I’ve lost, the way it’s been countless times.
“Wait,” I call, causing Jackson to cock his head. “Aren’t you going to compliment my tattoo?”
“Your what?”
I raise my leg, wriggling my toes, offering her a couldn’t-give-a-hoot grin. “Look. It’s just a small piece, but I’m thinking of getting more.”
Her eyes bulge as she stares at it, her lips curling. For the first time in years, I’m sure she’s going to swear.
She shakes her head, staring like she expects it to disappear.
“Why did you do that, you stupid girl?”
“You don’t like it?” I smile, rubbing it in. Screw her. “I love it. It’s supposed to represent freedom…you know, the thing you’re taking away from me. Using an innocent animal to steal it from me. You’re so disgusting.”
“He wanted you clean,” Gianna snaps. “He didn’t want… this, a whore who spontaneously decides to scar her skin. You look like a slut.”
“So he won’t want me anymore then? Oh, how will I ever survive?”
I sit up, glaring at her, my heart pounding.
Part of me wants to tell her that Luca Lucciano was the one who did it, but she’d never believe me.
Even I can hardly believe any of it happened. If it wasn’t for the stinging of the tattoo and the searing of my body, the whelming in my soul, I’d struggle to accept it.