20. Stephano

20

STEPHANO

My fingers tremble as rage floods every part of me. If the fucker who'd done this to her were in this room right now, he'd be dead in fucking minutes. I burn to caress the lines on her skin with my fingertips, to by some magic erase them with tenderness and care, but these are here to stay. This woman will never be unmarked again.

I tug the end of the comforter over her body, knowing with boiling fury that nothing I can do is going to take those marks away.

Worst of all is, this could be only the surface-level physical evidence of how he's hurt her. There are layers here, and I need to understand the full extent of what happened to her so I can help her. For Gigi's sake, I don't want to go there, but I have to. She's so fragile, and everything leading to this moment must remind her vividly of what happened on Friday night, but I can't walk out of here without having a complete tally of this man's crimes.

I reach for her hand where her fingers clench and rub at each other, tense. At my touch, she grips me tight, and I soothe my thumb over her knuckles until she stills. Her fingers are cold and trembling now, and I push down my own anger as I look into her eyes.

"Be honest with me, Gigi," I start, bracing myself to dig down into the deepest layer of her hurt. "Did he rape you before he did this to you?"

She swallows hard, trying to keep her emotions in check. "No, but?—"

She stalls, biting down so hard on her bottom lip, I flinch. I wish she wouldn't feel this need to save face in front of me.

"But?" I urge her gently when she still hesitates. It's now or never. We might never have a moment like this again.

"He had his men there, and they all looked on as he—as he—" She chokes on her words and lets go of my hand to push her fist to her mouth. As sobs tear through her, she curls into a ball and onto her side, the ultimate protective position.

Fucking asshole. Another psychopath on the loose. Basically, torturing and degrading her— his future wife —in front of his men. They would never treat her with respect. Sounds like a situation I've been in. Sounds like a man I knew. The Don. Beating up his wife— my mother —in front of me.

I stroke her hair and gather the soft wisps at her temple to open her face. "You're going to be okay, angel."

It's a weak platitude, and I don't feel her physical pain, but inside me, there's a blind rage for the emotional damage that's been done.

Her skin is swollen, red, and inflamed. Thin strips of the top layer were sliced away, revealing the raw flesh underneath. Scarification. Cruel if unwanted. I bet he didn't even numb the skin. Now, it's oozing puss and needs antibiotics. It will heal but will leave a nasty scar.

Gigi will wear his mark until she dies. And I will kill the man who did this to her. I fist my hands and make the silent vow as my heart crashes around in my chest.

"What is it?" she whispers now, desperate.

Even with all the swelling, I could see what the fucker cut out on her skin. Two capital F's: the letters spoon each other, but don't touch, the lower F filling the blank spot under the upper F.

"It's his insignia. A double F for Franco Fiore. He did this to you on Friday night?"

"How do you know?"

I take her sweater and put it within reach. "Carla told us some of what happened. How he came over to choose a wife."

To think a man would do this to the woman he plans to honor, treasure, and protect.

It's in your blood.

I'd hack my ears off if it would mean I'd never hear those words again. In his voice from that night. The tone stating it was a foregone conclusion I'm like him. The voice is in my head, and I will live with it until the day I die.

"Yes. A wife, and Carla's at least half his age. I made him chose me."

"I bet you did."

She sits up with a soft moan and swings her feet to the floor. She pulls her sweater on but sways slightly, and I grip her shoulder to steady her.

I peer into her eyes. "Why were you being forced into marriage with him?"

She looks up at me. "Because Randazzo got killed, and the aftershocks are hitting the old order. Franco is taking over, and Vincenzo—my stepbrother—has to get our family into Franco's good graces. For all I know, they killed my stepdad." She shakes her head. "Not that it matters to you. You won't even know who Randazzo was."

My hand slips from her shoulder as cold, sharp stabs slice me up inside. The reason she got mutilated like this is us . Il Consiglio . And fucking Don Scalera—my own fucking blood— who is dead now, but whose reach still stretches beyond the grave. Don Scalera is responsible for this woman's shredded skin, and I want to fucking murder him. I never got the chance. I still suspect Matteo did all of us that favor. If only Dad could rise from the dead so I can kill him again, I'd make sure he felt every inch of what Franco has done to Gigi.

"Come," I say, forcing myself to be calm and in control of every last emotion. I can go rip loose at the gym later. "I'll help you to the bathroom and then go see if Tasha can lend you some clothes."

"Thank you."

I have her by the hand and guide her there. "Are you feeling faint?"

"No, just exhausted. The meds are helping a lot." Her voice breaks on the last words, and then a violent sob tears from her chest. "I'm so glad we made it."

Acting on instinct, I wrap her in my arms. I hold her close, cupping her head to my chest. "Let it out, angel, let it all out."

I won't let anybody hurt you ever again.

And that's the truth. Gigi might have insulted me and hit the one raw nerve that always triggers me, and I have reciprocated, but the vow I made to my mother is the one I actively live by.

I don't know how long we stand like this, but I let her cry. Eventually, a knock sounds on the bedroom door, and she quiets in my arms. I'm so tempted to press a kiss to her head, but instead, I let go as she shifts.

"Gigi? Stephano?" Tasha calls.

"I don't want her to see—to know?—"

"Nobody's going to know, angel. Just you and me." I squeeze her shoulder. "You'll be fine by yourself?"

"Yes."

"I'll be back with something for you to wear." I leave her there and close the door, feeling crap about her having to wash herself without help, but she needs privacy, and I need to intercept Tasha.

Our gazes lock across the room. Tasha has a stack of clothes in her hands and a medical kit. "Rosalia is with Carla. I think she's in shock."

"I can imagine. Gigi's taking a shower."

"I've brought her some clean clothes. T-shirts and shorts, a dress if she feels like it, some PJs," she says as she puts the pile down on the bed. "She'll manage by herself?"

"Yes. You've called the doctor?"

"She needs meds for that wound. Doc will be here in the next hour."

"Good. When's Matteo back from his meeting?"

"Late this afternoon."

The faucet turns on in the bathroom, and I wish I had the right to walk back in there and help her.

This can't wait. I told Matteo Il Consiglio overstepped the boundary when his contact blew up Randazzo's compound, and now, we have proof of the consequences. But that's not what triggered this mess. Murdering Randazzo triggered it.

"I'll check in on her later, but for now, I'll be in Matteo's office."

I need to start digging. If Matteo could walk into Randazzo's compound and kill him, I don't see why I can't do the same with Franco Fiore. Only one problem: I have no intel on this guy, but I know how to dig.

Half an hour later, I've come up with nothing, and I'm frustrated as fuck. The guy is so deep underground, I'll have to rope Benedict in to get any information.