Page 60 of Sinner's Vows

“They didn’t know, sweetheart. And when he tells you that he’ll cut your tongue in half if I told anybody…well, at that age, I was impressionable enough to believe him. He took care of my wounds, so…” Dad and son bonding time. The Don and Dominic version.

By the time Alex had caught on, a lot had happened. The Don did pace himself, but six years is a long time for abuse. And my brothers weren’t spared, so I wasn’t exactly standing in line to complain. By the time Alex cornered me, telling me I had the height and I needed to build the muscle, he’d been put through his own paces.

And not taking any of it anymore. Alex didn’t toe the line.

Alex was becoming the man who planned to cut the Don down to his knees. Kill him, even. I can see it now, looking back. Alex was the Don’s weakest link. His son who wouldn’t take his bullshit for much longer. Because of this, Alex was the strongest of all of us.

I bet the Don saw him plotting. Took stock of his influence over us. Matteo was the first in line, the heir apparent toIl Consiglio, but Alex was becoming our bedrock foundation, rising up slowly, planning to shipwreck all the Don’s plans.

To this day, I don’t know if the shootout in that warehouse, on the night when Matteo came back with Alex’s body locked in his arms, the night Peter Armstrong rattedIl Consiglioout, was a real police shootout or the Don’s way of getting rid of his son who was becoming his biggest threat.

Clean, neat, perfectly executed to the point nobody could ever point a finger to the Don, killing his own son.

I force myself not to speculate anymore, to focus instead on Ariana and the effect opening up like this would have on her. She’s been through all of this so recently, and I bet those cuts on her lower belly pulse in time with mine. Her hand still heats up my skin, her fingertips resting, with the most quiet and subtle movements tracing parts of me no woman has ever explored. Not at this pace. Usually, if a woman got this far, it came to a swift end. I don’t talk to anybody, not like I talk to Ariana now.

I close my eyes, my breathing stalling as her caress lingers over thicker scars of a whip lashing that almost cut to the bone.

“Does is still hurt?” she whispers.

“Like an echo.”

When I open my eyes, she’s right there, cheeks wet, lips plump and red with having been shredded with her teeth as she tried to keep quiet. Lips I’d love to kiss. Lips I’d love to open slowly, languidly with mine, so I can sweep my tongue over hers, and prove to her she’s still alive. That she can still feel. That we aren’t dead inside.

Lips I want to have on my skin, as much as I want to have mine on hers.

I shift so I can reach for her robe and tug at the whimsical belt keeping it closed. It opens easily, revealing the matching pajama set underneath. A thin-strapped camisole and a pair of satin shorts, riding high up to her sex. I ghost my hand over her thighs, needing to touch her where she’s touching me. Her fingertip is tracing the pattern made by the Don’s scarification,and she doesn’t stop me when I sneak my finger between the waistband and her skin and inch lower to where I can feel the tips of the first set of tally marks.

For a long moment, it’s quiet between us as we succumb to each other’s touch, to this moment of intimacy I’ve never had with someone before. When she cracks a sob, I lean in and press my forehead to hers.

“Sweetheart.” Fuck, it’s one thing to have suffered this, but knowing she’s been through it in her own way, it kills me.

“How broken are we, Dominic?” she whimpers, pressing into me with her whole body.

I pull her close, wrapping my arm around her.

“Pretty broken, sweetheart,” I whisper. “But if you let me, I can try... I can try to help you and show you how to live as if you’re whole again.”

As whole as we’ll ever be.

32

ARIANA

This man.

This broken man.

He has me in such a gentle hold, his fingertips resting right where I feel the subtle pressure deep between my thighs. His hand needs to slide just a few inches lower, and he’d be able to feel how wet I am. Press his finger to my clit, circle it with that slow and gentle touch of his.

My thighs tense with the need to open wider, and it hits me hard that I want him to. Need him to. That I’m starving for him to do more.

After Franco, I’ve never wanted a man to touch me there. Now I’m sitting on a hungry yearning I’ve hardly allowed myself to feed in the past. I’ve tuned my body out to these feelings, these needs, but it’s as if Dominic walked into my personal space and tossed a can of glitter over me, sparking every nerve ending back to life. I’m glowing, despite having all my broken pieces scattered in front of him like shards of glass. He’s just offered to put me together again. To show me how to live as if I’m whole once more.

It isn’t a magic fix. He’s only suggesting there’s a way to live life to the fullest around what happened to me. To him… To us.

His breathing is calm, his nose nuzzling mine as he pulls away slightly from where I’m clinging to him. He’s indirectly asked me a question: if I’d let him in. I’m not ready to answer. All of this has been too much, his truth a punch to the gut and heart that has me reeling.

But my body already whispers its own answer, separate from my mind’s desperate workings.

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