“I’m flattered.”
“He may be stupid,” she says. “But his anger is real. And he’s desperate now. When Drago gets desperate…” She trails off and her expression falls. She looks so incredibly vulnerable for a moment that I feel the need to reach out and touch her. I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from doing exactly that.
It’s not my place to comfort her. Especially since I’m the one who put her in the very position of suffering she’s talking about.
She shakes off her thoughts and looks back at me, her expression focusing again. “Let’s just say that when Drago gets desperate, he gets violent,” she says softly.
“Did he get violent with you?” I probe.
“I was used to being his punching bag,” she tells me. “He hurt when he was angry. Sometimes, it was physical. Other times, it was emotional. Mind games and the like. I was used to it. But when my brother is pushed into a corner… well, he becomes someone else entirely.”
If it’s possible, she pales a little more. As though fighting back a memory that’s so abhorrent that her body doesn’t quite know how to react to it.
“Renata…” I rasp. “What did he do to you?”
She pointedly ignores my gaze. “Nothing.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Her eyes flash to mine and just like that, the fire is back, forcing the sallowness of her skin to recede. She looks fucking magnificent.
“Why do you even care?” she demands. “You’re the exact fucking same.”
“The same?” I echo. “I am nothing like your fucking brother.”
“No?” she asks spitefully. “I don’t see a difference.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough. The O’Sullivans have morals. The Lombardis have cruelty.”
“I am a Lombardi, too, in case you forgot,” she storms at me.
“Not like him.”
She shakes her head weakly. “You’re not making sense.”
“The lack of food is beginning to mess with your head,” I tell her harshly. “You need to eat.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “No.”
“Jesus, why be so fucking stubborn?”
“You think only men have that right?” she demands. “I got news for you, buddy: I have suffered more than you ever will. I was sold out by the people closest to me and I’m still standing. I’ve earned the right to be stubborn. Your big brother didn’t want you to have to play second fiddle, so he sent you to a place where you could call the shots. And that’s your big tragedy in life? Please. Spare me.”
Her words snap like breaking branches. She’s so hopped up on her own emotion that she no longer looks weak.
She’s not done yet, either.
“Men prick their finger and cry about it endlessly. Women take fucking gunshots and they pick themselves up and keep going. So yeah, I’m fucking stubborn. Get used to it.”
I stare at her, watching as her mouth slams shut with finality.
So much for our decent conversation. It had derailed fast. But I can’t help thinking that I’ve come away with more than she intended to give me. I get to my feet and walk around her bed towards the door. I don’t look behind me, but I can feel her eyes watching me go.
“You can’t keep doing this forever,” I tell her without glancing backward. “At some point, you will yield.”
“Watch me,” she hisses.
I almost smile. But I stop myself at the last moment.
She doesn’t need my condescension. She needs my respect.
And I’m starting to believe she deserves it.