“Names of who?” his son asked, stepping closer and staring down at me with something akin to comradery simmering in his gaze.
“People I want to kill,” I said, and Franco’s grin split even wider in response. “Whoever was connected to those drugs ending up in my sister’s hands will be on it.”
“I guess we better get your scrawny ass into shape then,” the older man said, nodding his head toward the gym equipment on the other side of the building. “What’s your name?”
“Paolo,” I said, watching as he pursed his lips.
“Not exactly intimidating, is it? Shirt off. Let’s see what we’re starting with.” I swallowed back the swell of nausea as I stood, stripping my t-shirt off over my head with one hand, and made my way to the weights.
Franco and Matteo’s eyes felt heavy on me as I moved, taking in each and every scar on my torso and arms. From the cigarette burns on my biceps to the white, mottled skin on my forearms to the slashes across my back.
Franco Bellandi took one good look at the destruction of my body and raised his eyes back to mine.
He smiled. “Your name is Scar.”