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Lorenzo puts his hands up. "The only blood I have to worry about is still inside me. Besides, I like these pants. She's right about you, though, Less. I'll take care of it."
Alessandro doesn't have a shy bone in his body, stripping down to his boxers before heading upstairs. The barely audible gasp from Jenkins only makes it to my ear, forcing me to turn and see what draws his shock. A long, jagged scar in the shape of an aloe leaf runs from the top of his spine down and to the left side of his ribs. It's a deep pink color, but it doesn't have the ugliness of built-up scar tissue around it. My heart stills when I see it.
Lorenzo gathers the pile of clothes. He doesn't say anything to us as he walks through the kitchen. A door lets him into the small back yard, already equipped with an oil drum that he tosses the items into before setting them ablaze. The sun is setting, and my mind is all over the place.
"Um, maybe you should head home, Jenkins. I think I'm safe for now. Go check on Dad and the kids. I know Ma is probably losing her shit."
Jenkins chuckles to himself. "In another life, Zena Rossi would have joined the fight. Now, she's Nan and Ma. I can do that and be right back here in the morning. Would you like me to bring anything else to you from the house?"
"No. I have enough. More than enough."
"Very well, see you tomorrow, Evelyn." Jenkins heads out just as Lorenzo comes back inside. The scent of fire trails behind him, with soot and remnants of smoke covering his hands.
Before I can say anything to Lorenzo, he holds a hand up to stop me. "Don't ask me about his scars, Evelyn. Yes, I know where they came from, and no, I can't tell you anything more than that. He's the only one who can tell you that story. Make sure you eat."
Lorenzo opens the fridge to see remnants of my Sunday dinner that didn't make it into the delivery truck. He makes quick work of the food and leaves me alone with my thoughts. I pull out my phone to call Anita. She assures me that she's fine and no one's bothering her. After another round of apologies, I end the call to make another one.
"Evelyn, I'm happy you're okay," my father says, picking up the phone on the first ring.
"I thought you or Ma would have called to check on me, at least." My tone is laced with sarcasm, but I do want them to appear to care about me.
"Where's Jenkins?" my father asks.
"He's on his way back to you guys."
"And you're home safe?"
"Yes, Dad."
"Well, there you go, Evelyn. I sent Jenkins with you."
My face scrunches as if he doesn't remember the details of what happened. "No, you grabbed Ma and the kids and took off. Alessandro rehired Jenkins to my detail to get me out of the middle of a gunfight."
"Evelyn!" he snarls. "The phones, dammit."
"Fuck," I sigh. "I'm sorry. Look, I just called to make sure you guys were okay. How are Roman and Courtney taking it?"
"They're fine, spoke to their mother and are eating an entire pie by themselves. I was really looking forward to your cooking."
"Next Sunday, Dad. Is there anything I can do for you guys, for the family?" I ask him.
"Nothing I'd like to talk about over the phone. If something specific comes up that you can handle, I'll get word to Alessandro. I've gotta go, Evelyn. Get some rest."
The call ends abruptly. I don't know why I'm expecting a level of care and concern that my family refuses to give. I follow Lorenzo's lead, distracting myself from feeling out of place in my family by focusing on feeding the man who actively works to protect me.
When I bring food upstairs to Alessandro, sounds of him grunting and hitting something emerge from the other side of the door. Hesitation consumes me, but I fight through my apprehension to knock, and to my surprise, he answers. A loose pair of shorts cover some of my favorite parts of him, but remnants of the day are still evident on his hands.
The red stains soak into the lines of his hands, his fingers. He takes a step back to let me inside the room. The black walls and dark oak furniture make it more cave-like than bedroom-like. Soft yellow lighting in the corners of the room eliminates shadows, but more importantly, the space isn't crowded by a bunch of pieces.
A large king-sized bed sits against the wall, facing the hallway that leads into the bathroom. There's a nightstand holding his phone and other items, a chair in one corner, similar to the one in the basement playroom that faces the bed. I wonder how much he likes to watch. The rest of the space is empty outside of a punching bag that's hanging by a chain in the corner.
Alessandro takes the warm plate of food, devouring it in minutes as I absorb the energy of his room. He can't help but exude power with every movement. It draws me to the corner where the punching bag hangs, running my hand over the worn leather. It's especially bare in two spots. The first is just above my eye level and the second is right in the middle along the side.
"The bridge of the nose and the liver." His voice sounds so much louder in here, especially when there's nothing to fill the silence.
"What?" I ask, turning around to see him putting the plate down on the nightstand. He stands beside me, shoulders round, muscles bulging, pulsating veins like he's been juiced up to attack.
He takes my hand and rubs the first spot. "If you're going to hit somebody in the face, it's best to go to the center of the nose. It's an immediate blinding sensation. Some people can take punches better than others."
