I wear his name like a scar.
Alessandro Rossi stole everything from me; my freedom, my future, the lie I told my father to keep him alive. He thinks I'm a tool to be used, a bride to be displayed, a Fraga to be broken. He thinks the ring on my finge...
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A deep, guttural sound ripped me out of sleep.
I sat up fast, my pulse hammering, my eyes straining against the dark. The room was swallowed in shadow, the moonlight outside barely cutting through it.
I fumbled for the lamp, my fingers clumsy until the light finally flooded the room. And then I saw him.
He was on the couch, but he wasn't the man I knew. His body was curled tight, every muscle locked, his fists twisted in the sheets like he was holding on for his life. Sweat soaked through his shirt, plastered his hair to his forehead. His whole frame shook with such violence that for a second I couldn't move.
This wasn't the man who radiated control. This wasn't the cold, untouchable underboss who walked through the world like nothing could break him. This was someone caught in a nightmare so brutal it looked like it was tearing him apart from the inside.
I stood there, frozen, my hand hovering uselessly in the air. I didn't know if I should wake him or let him ride it out. I'd never seen him like this. Never seen him so exposed, so completely stripped of everything he used to keep the world at a distance.
My fingers reached for him before I'd even decided. They brushed his shoulder, feather-light.
He exploded awake.
His eyes flew open, wild and unseeing, his chest heaving like he'd been running for miles. The terror on his face hit me like a physical blow. I flinched back, my heart slamming, but I didn't run. I couldn't.
"Alessandro." His name came out a whisper.
He didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on something that wasn't in this room, his breathing rough and ragged, his body still trembling. The shadows behind his eyes were so dark, so deep, I wasn't sure he could see me at all.
I lowered myself to my knees beside the couch, my hand hovering over his arm. I wanted to ground him, to pull him back, but I was terrified of making it worse.
"Alessandro," I said again, softer this time. "I'm here."
Nothing.
I started to stand, thinking maybe water would help, maybe anything would help, but his hand shot out and clamped around my arm before I could move. His grip was brutal, almost painful, and I gasped.
"Alessandro." I forced my voice steady. "It's me. You're safe."
His fingers dug in harder. I didn't pull away. I let him hold on, let him use me as an anchor, even as his nails bit into my skin.
I eased myself onto the couch beside him, moving slowly, carefully. His eyes finally darted toward mine, and what I saw there hollowed me out.
Pain. So much pain. This man who seemed untouchable, who carried himself like the world was his, was drowning right in front of me. And I hated that I didn't know how to save him. I hated that whatever haunted him had this much power over him.
