Page 54

Ruby's fingers loosened slightly on the bench edge.

"Six days." I pulled my mouth into something resembling a smile. "No light. No water. Thrown in an abandoned olive oil cellar. They demanded three million lire from my father. Every time negotiations broke down, they'd snap one of my fingers. Or press a lit cigar into my calf and burn a hole through."

I wasn't lying. That memory was real. So was the smell of blood.

But I left out the second half—like how on the seventh morning, my father Domenico brought two truckloads of armed Sicilians and surrounded that cellar. Like how nine-year-old me, under my father's watchful eye, personally dragged a bloodstained skinning knife across that gardener's carotid artery. My first trial as the Moretti heir. Like how the black snake inked across my body was there to cover the scorch marks that branding iron left behind.

"What happened then?" Ruby finally whispered, those big amber eyes losing their guard to something raw and shaken.

"Then I was rescued." I turned my head, pinning my gaze precisely into hers. "Lying in that hospital bed at home, I swore I'd never again let myself—or anyone I cared about—end up at someone else's mercy."

I raised my right hand, pointing at the scraped knuckles and bruised forearm.

"After that, combat training became part of my daily curriculum. Only strength protects. Protects yourself. Protects the people you care about." My voice dropped lower, more intent. "I have zero sympathy for street criminals, Ruby. Not a shred. When I saw that motorcycle coming at you, saw your bag ripped away, saw you hit the ground... Ruby, you don't want to know what was going through my head."

I leaned closer, studying her frozen expression.

"That bastard didn't just steal your bag. He yanked you away from me and threw you on the ground." My voice came out rough as sandpaper on wood. "If you think I went too far, I apologize. But I can't promise that if it happens again, I'll act like some civilized gentleman who just stands there and calls the cops."

The park fell into long silence.

Only pigeons fluttering across the gravel path.

Ruby stared down at the little leather scissors bracelet I'd just clasped around her wrist. Her breathing gradually steadied. The shocked pallor faded from her cheeks, replaced by something complicated. Conflicted.

After a long moment, she finally looked up, eyes tentative. Searching. "Did you... did you maybe hit him too hard? He might've just been some desperate guy who made a bad choice..."

"Guys like that aren't just desperate. Before today, he probably bounced in and out of jail three times already." I cut her off without mercy. "If I hadn't taken out his knee, he'd have rounded that corner and gutted anyone who tried to chase him with a switchblade. On the street, mercy gets you killed fastest."

I watched her still-pale lips, softened my tone. "But scaring you—I'm sorry for that."

Ruby shook her head quickly, a loose strand of dark brown hair swaying by her temple.

"I don't think you did anything wrong." She bit her lower lip, voice quiet but stubborn. Insistent. "I just... I didn't expect you to be that intense. Honestly, back in that alley, you looked like you wanted to kill someone."

"If he'd taken you instead of your bag, I probably would have." I curved my mouth, half-joking, half-serious.

Ruby froze at that. Her ears flushed pink. She shifted uncomfortably, crossed her hands over her knees, rubbed hard at the calluses on her palms.

"Actually... I get it," she said suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. "Get what?"

"That feeling of needing to toughen yourself up. So nobody can crush you." She gave a bitter little laugh, gaze drifting toward the fountain. "My mother Mary—soft as water. After my father left, those New Jersey landlords, scumbag neighbors, even the plumber—everyone tried to walk all over us. Mary just cried. Just apologized to everyone. Even when someone dumped dirty water on our doorstep, she'd get out the mop and clean it up."

Ruby turned to look at me, a protective fire flickering in her eyes.

"When I was fourteen, a drunk truck driver from next door tried to kick our door in. Mary hid in the bedroom closet, shaking. I grabbed the biggest kitchen shears we had and tucked them up my sleeve." She held up her right hand, forefinger and middle finger miming scissors. "Later I signed up for free self-defense classes at the community center. Trained in boxing for two years. If anyone tried to bully my mom, or cheat me out of work hours at my jobs, I'd go after them with those shears without thinking twice."

She looked at me, eyes glistening. "So you don't need to apologize for protecting me, Marcelo. Even though your method was... pretty terrifying, honestly. But if it weren't for you, everything I've worked for these past few days would be gone."

The taut string inside my chest quietly loosened in that instant.

She accepted it.

This flimsy lie riddled with holes, hiding every filthy mafia truth—it somehow achieved near-perfect chemistry because of her own clumsy childhood rebellion.

She thought we were the same. Two souls who'd witnessed the price of weakness young and chose to armor themselves with thorns.