Page 15 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

S team billows around me as I turn off the shower, reluctant to leave the cocoon of warmth. The water pressure is perfect. Strong enough to massage away tension but gentle on my bruises. I stand there for a moment, letting droplets race down my skin, savoring this simple freedom.

I wrap myself in the oversized towel hanging on the rack—fluffy and expensive like everything else in this place. The bathroom is fogged with steam, the mirror completely clouded over. I wipe a circle in the condensation and find my reflection staring back.

My wet hair hangs in dark tendrils around my face.

Did you really just tease Enzo Feretti?

The woman in the mirror looks as confused as I feel. Back there, in the living room, I'd responded to his shower joke without thinking. It felt normal. Natural. The words had tumbled out before my usual filters could catch them.

I press my fingertips to the mirror, tracing the outline of my face. How long has it been since I spoke to a man without calculating every word?

I finish drying myself and step out of the steamy bathroom into what I thought was an empty bedroom. The cool air hits my damp skin, and I let the towel drop to the floor, reaching for the folded t-shirt on the bed.

My heart stops.

Enzo stands by the dresser, frozen, a stack of clothes in his hands. His eyes widen, locked not on my naked body but on the network of scars crossing my torso.

I can't move.

Can't breathe.

Can't even reach for the towel pooled at my feet.

His gaze moves slowly, cataloging each mark—the cigarette burns scattered like constellations across my ribs, the thin white lines from sharp objects.

"I-I thought..." The words stick in my throat.

Enzo doesn't speak. Something flickers across his face. Not disgust or pity, but something darker. His jaw tightens, the muscle there jumping as he clenches his teeth. His eyes travel up to meet mine, and the intensity I find there makes my breath catch.

Without a word, he sets the clothes on the dresser. Then he bends down, picks up my fallen towel, and holds it out to me, his gaze never leaving mine. He's giving me back my dignity while refusing to pretend he didn't see.

My fingers tremble as I reach for the towel, careful not to touch him. The soft fabric feels like armor as I clutch it against my chest .

"Who did this to you?" His voice is dangerously quiet, barely above a whisper.

I shake my head, wrapping the towel tighter around me. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters." Steel underlies his words.

"Why?" I challenge, finding my voice.

Enzo's eyes darken. " To know exactly whose bones to break."

"Please," I whisper, my voice sounding small even to my own ears. "Please just go."

Every inch of my exposed skin burns under his gaze. I want to disappear, to sink through the floorboards and vanish. The weight of his stare is too much—not because it's cruel or hungry like I've known before—but because it's filled with a rage that isn't directed at me.

Enzo stands perfectly still, like a predator assessing his prey. But I'm not what he's hunting. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, the only sign of the storm brewing beneath his controlled exterior.

"Please leave," I say again, stronger this time.

He takes a deep breath, nostrils flaring slightly. When he speaks, his voice is unnervingly calm. "I'll go."

He takes a step back, creating distance between us, but his eyes never leave mine. "But tomorrow, we talk."

I clutch the towel tighter, my knuckles white with tension. "I can't?—"

"You can," he cuts me off. "And you will." There's finality in his tone, not a request but a statement of fact. "Tonight, rest. Tomorrow morning, I'll be waiting downstairs."

Enzo moves toward the door, each step measured and controlled.

The door clicks shut behind him .

I don't move for several long moments, frozen in place. Then my legs give out.

I slide down to the floor, my back against the bed, towel still clutched to my chest. The tears come without warning. Silent at first, then building to shuddering sobs that rack my entire body.

I press my fist against my mouth, trying to muffle the sound. I've spent years teaching myself not to cry, not to make noise, not to show weakness. But here, alone in this room, something inside me cracks open.

He saw. He saw everything.

All the marks I've hidden. All the stories written on my skin in scars and burns. The history of lessons taught through pain, of punishments delivered with methodical cruelty.

My shoulders shake as I draw my knees up to my chest. The tears won't stop. It's like a dam has broken, releasing years of carefully contained emotion.

I haven't cried like this since I learned that my body wasn't my own.

Now I can't stop. The sobs wrench themselves from deep in my chest, tearing through my throat. I rock back and forth, holding myself because no one else ever has.

He saw me. Not just my naked body, but the truth I've been hiding.

And tomorrow, he expects me to talk about it.

I don't know if I can. I don't know if those words exist.

I wake with a jolt at 9:07, my mind already churning before my feet hit the floor. Last night's encounter with Sienna replays like a brutal film I can't shut off.

I grab a t-shirt and pull it over my head, the fabric catching on my knuckles where the skin is still healing. Different wounds, same source. Violence.

My mind drifts back to three months ago. The warehouse. The men who hurt Lucrezia.

Damiano and I didn't speak much that night. Didn't need to. The tools laid out on the metal table spoke for us—pliers, blowtorch, hunting knife, bolt cutters. All meticulously arranged. When you do something right, preparation matters.

The first one pissed himself when we walked in. The second one tried to fight, stupid fuck. Made it more satisfying when we broke him.

I remember how they begged.

They all beg. They all swear they're sorry when the pain starts. We just kept working, methodical. One finger at a time. The blowtorch for the sensitive areas.

Death came slowly, deliberately slow. We made sure of it.

I splash more water on my face, but it doesn't wash away the memory of their blood on my hands, under my nails. The smell of burning flesh and piss and fear .

But what haunts me isn't what we did to those men. It's Lucrezia's face.

The violence didn't fix her. Couldn't undo what happened. She still flinches when doors close too loudly. Still sleeps with the lights on. Still abandoned her art—her fucking soul—for months.

And now there's Sienna. Another broken woman. More fucking animals who deserve slow deaths.

I grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white. My reflection shows a hard face. The face of a man who's taken lives without hesitation. But it didn't heal my sister. It just satisfied my rage.

It won't fix her either.

Those cigarette burns on Sienna's skin weren't made in a moment of anger. They were deliberate, sustained torture. Someone stood there, watching her pain, and then did it again. And again.

I want names. I want locations. I want to feel bones break under my hands.

Revenge is for me. My satisfaction. My rage.

Protection—that's for her.

I pull on jeans and grab my phone, checking security alerts. Nothing triggered overnight. We're still safe here, for now.

I stand at my bedroom door, hand on the knob, and take a deep breath.