Fernando steps into the house. My heart gives a flutter seeing him. He doesn’t meet my gaze. When I glance over at my sister, I see how she looks at him, and that hits me hard. Is that how everyone looks at him? Is he afraid now I will do the same?
“Bianca, maybe–”
“I’m staying.” I cut her off before she can finish, being assertive for once in my life. I might be hurt and mad at Fernando, but I think he is hurting too, and that only makes me hurt even more.
11
BUTCHER
Antonio and Angelica pull down the driveway, leaving Bianca and me alone in the house. She hurries back to our bedroom where the kittens are and plops onto the floor beside them.
I follow. There’s nothing else I can do. I get the feeling I’ll always follow her wherever she goes, even if she doesn’t want me to.
She strokes the mother cat on the top of her head as the kittens snuggle in a little pile of whiskers, feet, and fur.
I watch her for a long time, the silence growing between us. It’s not as if I’ve ever been much for talking. Even so, I find myself searching for something–anything–to say to her to make her feel happy. It’s so odd to want that–happiness for another person. It’s new to me, but it’s real. I don't want her to hurt or worry, and most of all, I don’t want her to be afraid of me. But maybe it’s too late for that. Now that she knows who I really am, how could she not be terrified?
She sighs, her gaze lifting to mine. “I know you won’t hurt me.”
Something deep in my chest relaxes the slightest bit.
“I mean, I know your reputation.” Her gaze drops for only a second before she returns her beautiful eyes to me. “I’ve heard enough to know what sort of work you do, if you can call it that. Work.”
I can’t deny it. There’s nothing for me to say.
“It should bother me more than it does, but I feel like what bothers me most is that you didn’t tell me the truth.” She shrugs slightly. “Then again, if you’d told me you were the Butcher, I probably would’ve tried to escape. I definitely wouldn’t have promised you I’d be a perfect kidnapping victim.” She shakes her head. “But you were never the Butcher to me. You’ve been Fernando. Fernando is the one I wanted to kiss me, to touch me, to hold me.”
The tension inside me eases even more. She’s pouring her heart out to me, showing me every facet of what she’s feeling. It’s a gift, one I want so badly. I’m fucking terrified of saying the wrong thing and messing it all up.
“Antonio trusts you. And Angelica trusts him. It’s the only reason she left without me.” She rises and steps to me.
I hold my breath as she reaches up and touches my cheek with her palm.
“Don’t lie to me again, okay?”
“I swear on my life, Bianca. I’ll never lie to you again.” It’s an oath I give readily, a small price to pay for the forgiveness I see in her eyes and hear in her voice.
“Good.” She lowers her palm to my shoulder. “Then we understand each other.”
“Yes.” I want to kiss her, to fucking maul her with my mouth and my body, to give her more pleasure than she can take. But I can’t. Not when I wounded her. Not when she needs time.
Her stomach grumbles.
A smile tries to twist the corner of my lips. This is something I can do for her, something I’ve never done for anyone else.
“I’ll make you dinner.” I kiss her forehead, unable to stop myself.
“You can cook?”
“Yes.” I take her hand gently and pull her along with me down the hall and into the open living space.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” she asks as I sit her at a stool by the wide island.
“I left home when I was fourteen. Kicked out by my old man.” I’ve never told anyone this, not even Antonio. My past–like most everything about me–is better left in the dark. But for Bianca, I feel like she needs this, this piece of the real me. I want her to believe in me, and I know this is the way to get there. She gave me her vulnerability. Now it’s my turn.
“I’m sorry.” She watches as I get ingredients from the refrigerator and the pantry.
“Don’t be. He wasn’t much for talking either, unless you count fists as communication.” I clear my throat and keep going as I put a pat of butter into my pan and grab a knife to filet some chicken cutlets. “Anyway, I was on the street for a while, but then I got hired on to do some dirty work for one of the families. I’ve always been big, even before I started lifting weights religiously, and I had a particular skill set that made me valuable. I would do anything they needed. The dirtiest, bloodiest work that grown men turned down–I could do it, because I knew I never wanted to live on the streets again.” I can’t look at her, can’t bear to see judgment or condemnation in her eyes, even if I deserve it. So I focus on beating an egg and pouring out some breadcrumbs to coat the chicken. “Once I made enough money to get a decent place of my own, I realized I needed to learn to cook–that or live off takeout. Not my style. At that time, I mostly worked at night. During the day, I would sleep, and if I couldn’t sleep–which was often–I’d watch TV.” I finally take a chance to glance at her when I wash the crumbs from my fingertips.