Page 16 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

I wake up slowly, eyes heavy from crying myself to sleep. Sunlight filters through unfamiliar curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. My body aches, not only from physical wounds this time but from the emotional exhaustion of last night.

Last night.

When he saw everything.

I push back the covers and sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers clutching the soft sheets. The memory of standing exposed before him hits me.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

I force myself to stand and walk to the dresser where he left clothes. My hands shake as I pull out a soft gray sweater and black leggings.

In the mirror, my reflection stares back with red-rimmed eyes. I look away quickly. I can't bear to see the damage, to remember how Enzo's eyes traced each scar, each burn mark.

I pull on the sweater, letting it fall over my body like armor. The leggings follow, and I find myself grateful for the coverage, for the barrier between my marked skin and the world.

A tear escapes, sliding down my cheek before I can stop it. I wipe it away furiously. No more crying . I command myself.

It doesn't help. It never has.

But another tear follows, then another. I press my palms against my eyes, willing the moisture to stop. Seven years of practice hiding tears from my father, and now they betray me when I need composure most.

I force deep breaths into my lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A technique I taught myself at fourteen, when crying became dangerous.

Sleep had finally claimed me somewhere in the early morning hours, after I'd run out of tears. Now they're back. I have to pull myself together before facing Enzo. Before the conversation he insisted we have.

What will I tell him? How much is safe to reveal? Every instinct screams at me to run, but there's nowhere to go. And part of me— a small, traitorous part —doesn't want to run from him.

I splash cold water on my face, erasing the tear tracks. My eyes still look red, but maybe he won't notice. Maybe he won't look at me with that intensity that seems to see everything I try to hide .

I run a brush through my hair, one more defensive layer. I used to hide behind it as a child, creating a curtain between myself and my father's anger. Old habits.

You survived worse. I tell my reflection.

You can survive this conversation.

But that's the thing about survival. It doesn't mean you emerge unscathed. Sometimes survival leaves marks. Scars. Evidence that you endured, but at a cost.

I take one final deep breath and straighten my spine. Shoulders back. Chin up. Face neutral. The mask I've perfected since childhood slides into place. A little cracked now, but still functional.

He wants answers. He's sheltering me, protecting me. I owe him something in return, even if giving it feels like peeling off my own skin.

I reach for the door handle, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. Before I can change my mind, I open it and step into the hallway.

Time to face Enzo Feretti.

The hallway stretches before me, quiet except for my shallow breathing and the soft padding of my feet against hardwood.

Morning light fills the cabin, illuminating dust motes that dance in golden shafts between windows.

April sunshine has a different quality than winter light—warmer, more hopeful. Not that hope has ever served me well.

When I reach the living room, Enzo is already there. He leans against the kitchen counter, dark hair still damp from a shower, wearing a black t-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. His eyes lock onto mine immediately.

"I made coffee," he says, his voice deliberately gentle as he extends a steaming mug toward me.

I hesitate before crossing the invisible barrier between us to accept it. The warmth seeps into my palms, and I inhale the familiar aroma. One sip confirms what catches me off guard—he's made it exactly how I prefer. Cream, no sugar. He must have noticed during breakfast at the mansion.

"Thank you," I murmur, cradling the mug like a shield.

He gestures toward the couch, and I perch on the edge, as far from him as possible. He takes the armchair, giving me space. The consideration in this small act makes my throat tighten.

Silence settles between us, not entirely uncomfortable but heavy with expectation. Outside, birds call to each other in the trees. Inside, the clock on the mantel ticks steadily, counting seconds.

Enzo doesn't push. Doesn't demand. Just watches me with his dark, patient eyes.

I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth fortify me. "You wanted to talk." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"About what I saw last night," he confirms. "About who hurt you."

I stare down at my coffee, watching ripples form as my hands tremble slightly. Trust comes at a cost I've never been willing to pay. But here, in this moment, with this man who has shown me nothing but kindness, I find myself considering it.

"The first scar came when I was fourteen," I say, the words scraping my throat raw. I don't look up, can't bear to see his expression. "It was a cigarette burn."

The memory flashes vivid and sharp—my father's associate, his meaty hand gripping my arm, the glowing ember pressing into my skin while my father watched, expressionless. My first lesson in what happened to girls who said no .

The silence that follows is absolute. Even the birds seem to have gone quiet. I can hear Enzo's measured breathing, too controlled to be natural. Can feel the tension radiating from him like heat from a flame.

I risk a glance at his face and immediately wish I hadn't. His expression is carved from stone, but his eyes burn with something that makes me shiver.

I've given him one small piece of my story, and already I feel flayed open, vulnerable in ways that terrify me.

T he words stick in my throat as I try to explain what happened. My hands shake, wrapping around the coffee mug like it's an anchor keeping me from drifting away completely.

"After that first cigarette burn," I whisper, "there was a man. One of my father's associates."

Enzo sits unnaturally still across from me, like a predator waiting. His eyes never leave my face.

"He said I was..." I swallow hard, tasting bile. "Beautiful. That he wanted to see more of me."

The cabin feels too small suddenly, the walls pressing in. I focus on the wood grain of the coffee table, tracing the lines with my eyes.

"He started with my skin. Said he wanted to mark me." My voice sounds distant, like it belongs to someone else. "Little burns at first. Then cuts. He liked to watch me try not to cry."

Enzo's knuckles turn white around his coffee mug. I can feel the rage radiating from him in waves, but he doesn't interrupt, doesn't move.

"Before he..." I can't say the word, can't push it past my lips. "Before he took what he wanted."

My breath comes faster now, shallow and quick. The room tilts slightly, memories threatening to drag me under. I set down my mug before I drop it, coffee sloshing over the rim.

"I was fourteen," I manage, heart hammering against my ribs. "I didn't understand what was happening. Not really."

There's more—so much more. The other men who came after. The years of being trotted out like a prize horse. The words my father used when he explained my purpose to me. But the memories swarm like angry hornets, stinging and overwhelming until I can barely breathe.

"I'm sorry." I press my hands against my eyes. "I can't. I need some time."

"Sienna." Enzo's voice is gentle in a way I didn't know he could be. "Look at me."

I force myself to meet his gaze, expecting pity or disgust. Instead, I find something that looks almost like understanding.

"This isn't easy," I say. "Talking about it makes it real again."

"You don't have to tell me everything now." His voice is low, controlled, but I can hear the anger simmering beneath his calm. "But I need to know who to kill."

The bluntness of his statement should frighten me. Instead, it steadies me somehow.

"One day," I promise. "I will tell you everything. Just... not today."

Enzo leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Your father was there? When this man hurt you?"

My silence is answer enough .

"He knew." It's not a question. Enzo's jaw tightens. "Henry Sterling knew what was happening to his daughter and did nothing."

I stare down at my hands, unable to speak the truth: that my father didn't just know.

But I can't form the words. Not yet.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything I'm not saying. I wrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the borrowed sweater as if I could somehow hold myself together through sheer force of will.

"When you're ready," Enzo finally says, his voice a quiet promise in the stillness of the cabin, "I'll listen."

And somehow, I believe him.