Page 49 of Weaponized

“Hmmm.”

She exhales. “And all of the scars these cover?”

The question is asked in the same tone as all the others. Not a trace of the disgust I expected. I focus on my breathing. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. “Whip marks. Knife marks. Burns.”

Her soft hands are still gently tracing lines, going over ink that completely covers the scars, well, at least if you aren’t doing an up-close inspection. The artist did great work, so it was worth the additional pain of having the needle permanently mark through scar tissue. I feel her lips against one of the marks.

“Tell me.”

Gráinne

The designs on his back are so well done. The bright colors. The intricate artwork. The symbolism of the various designs show a survivor, a fighter. They show a way forward while recognizing the past. It would have been impossible to detect the marred skin if I wasn’t running my hands over the raised ridges underneath the tattoos.

As my fingers danced along the complex compass, I noticed. The slight bumps and uneven skin. Then, as I continued my expedition along the planes of his muscular back, I came to understand how pervasive the scarring was. Why he chose to paint every inch of skin. I asked about a few of the tattoos not only because I wanted to know their story, but also because I wanted time to collect myself.

I kiss some of the raised tissue and steady my breathing. “Tell me.”

He understands what I’m asking and he clears his throat.

“It’s not a nice story.”

“Okay,” I say softly and kiss another scar on his back. “Tell me a not nice story.”

He sighs. “Matteo bought this car when we were fifteen. It required all sorts of work, so we’d hang out and fix it up. We spent a ton of time on it, between looking for parts, making it run. By the time we were sixteen and got our drivers’ licenses, it was ready to go. It was a 1970 Chevelle SS. Muscle car. 454 engine. Red with a black racing stripe down the middle.”

He pauses as if remembering the car, lost in his own thoughts. He is quiet for a few long moments. I don’t push. I just continue to nuzzle against him.

“We took it out a couple weeks after our birthday without our dad knowing. Pop didn’t like us to go anywhere he didn’t have eyes. But, we were so excited to have the car done, new licenses…” He stops. Sighs.

“We were about ten miles away from home, headed toward some strip where we knew we’d be able to run at full throttle. Matt was thinking of getting nitrous put into it. Too manyFast & Furiousmovies.” He pauses again. I can hear him taking deep, even breaths. “We were T-boned by a truck. Hard. It wasn’t an accident.”

My stomach drops. I can see where this is going.

“One of our enemies kidnapped us, blindfolded us, took us to some… I don’t know, house or warehouse or something. They held us for three days. My back—” He pauses, voice rough. “My back is a result of those three days.”

“Baby.” I lean down to cover his whole back with my body. As if I can protect him now, even though it was years ago.

He clears his throat once more, and his big hand reaches around his back to awkwardly touch me. “I don’t remember all of it. Just being strapped down in a room with a red floor. The guy wore a mask, so I don’t even know—” He drifts off, but I feel like I may vomit.“They just dropped us off at some point. No ransom. No reasons given.”

“You remember the red floor?” I ask him hoarsely.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Matteo was strapped to this black metal chair the whole time. He wasn’t touched otherwise. His torture was watching what was done to me. He had it worse than me. He doesn’t think so, but he really did. I’m actually the lucky one. I just took my beatings, watched the red floor, the crucifix on the wall, and my brother breaking.” His voice hitches on the last word. “I think I would have gone insane if I were in his place. At the same time, I can’t wish we had traded places, ya know?”

“Mmmm hmmm.” I hold him close. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Angel, scoot back. Let me turn over.”

I obey, and Luca rolls and brings me into his arms.

“Hey, Angel, please don’t cry. It’s all over. I’m here with you now. I’m okay.”

I didn’t realize that I was crying. Tears are streaming down my face and I can’t stop them. I can’t believe, after all he’s been through, that he’s comforting me. Because I know that floor. I could paint you a picture of the crucifix. And I’m familiar with the black metal chair. I’ve been strapped to it. In my father’s basement.

The first time was when I was fourteen. Da caught me making out with one of his younger soldiers. I loved the sound of the guy’s voice, his smile and his beautiful green eyes. His athletic build. He was maybe twenty. Da strapped me to the chair so I could watch him cut off the young man’s fingers. Each one on his left hand. The one that he saw cupping my breast. I will never forget the screams. Da then proceeded to punch me in the stomach,calling me a slut, until I passed out. Ironically, despite beating me for being a whore, he wouldn’t risk damaging my pretty face, because it served his purposes.

I think I may hyperventilate. I’m bawling now. It’s all too much. My father is going to kill Luca. His whole family. I am sure of it. He will take everything away from Victor Larozzi, piece by agonizing piece. Torturing his boys was just the beginning. There is obviously a whole story I don’t know, and my father is preparing for its finale.

My tears have made Luca more anxious than I’ve ever seen him. “Angel, please, honey. You’rekillingme. Tell me how to make it better.Please.” He is rocking me in his arms. I can feel his panic. The issue is, his concern is misplaced. I don’t know if I can save him.

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