Page 220 of The One
Is this when he pulls out his gun and ends it? But surely not in his own bed?
“I’m sorry for running out. For disappearing for hours, leaving you to expect the worst.”
What?
He pauses, and I’m tempted to open my eyes.
“I told you I loved you, and at the first sign of trouble, I ran. But you… you were so brave, telling me what your father did, knowing exactly what the consequences would be. I’m in awe of you. And I’m truly sorry for the way I reacted.”
A lump rises in my throat. Slowly, my eyes flutter open.
He’s close, but not close enough.
I sit up, pulling the blanket up against my chest as I eye him.
A towel is slung low on his hips, water droplets gliding down the ridges of his torso. The sight would normally make my mouth water, but nothing is normal at the moment.
And then I see it.
A tattoo.
My mouth drops open as my gaze locks onto the ink covering his chest, a laurel wreath around a roaring lion, the De Marco crest. But there’s more. Roman numerals at the bottom.
“But,” I swallow. “But the blood, you don’t—”
“I don’t cope well?” A faint smirk curves up his lips. “It was time to confront that phobia.”
I look up at him, checking his face for any sign of distress, but he appears calm, peaceful, even. My gaze drops to the tattoo again, amazed he sat through hours of pain for this. The agony he must have endured.
My fingers lift and softly graze the etched numbers. I barely touch it, just a whisper of contact, careful not to hurt his tender skin.
“It’s today’s date,” I whisper, my brows drawing together.
“Yes.” His voice is steady. “I wanted to commemorate today.”
My eyes lift to his, asking the question without uttering the words.
He holds my gaze. “It’s the day I make my own family.”
I stare at him.
I don’t understand.
“The laurel wreath is an ancient Roman symbol for victory and honor. My great-great-grandfather adapted it as a symbol for the De Marco family, honor and unity. Nothing breaks the ring. Trust, loyalty. They’re what sustain it.”
His jaw tightens, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. “Your father betrayed my family.”
I shudder. I don’t need the reminder.
“But you are not your father, Mari. You are loyal to me, tola famiglia.You told me about his betrayal, fully knowing how I ought to deal with it. And I have.”
A chill races down my spine. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can’t find the air to breathe.
‘And I have.’He’s dealt with it.
My blood runs cold. The ground seems unsteady beneath me, the world blurring at the edges.
“My sisters.Mamma.” The words slip out, barely a whisper. I dare not speak louder, not wanting to hear confirmation of what I fear.
