Chapter 29 29

Chapter 29 29

Isabella stared at him, wanting to drink in every detail of his face at the same time. The scar that should have made him less appealing or more frightening had the opposite effect. He was more real now. More human. All of his emotions openly played on his features, and she could see it now. His pain in the lines beside his eyes, his weariness in his jaw, the tangible look of vulnerability in his eyes, and fear when his hands trembled slightly.

“Giovanni…”

“This is what your father did.” It was the only explanation the father’s son would get. Giovanni’s voice was raw. He pointed to the scar on his neck with his finger.

“This is what I carry every day. I cannot forget. I cannot forgive. I cannot move past it.” Isabella nodded, and her hand crept up to his face.

“Can I…?” she could not finish the statement. His hand moved, but she quickly realised that he was not shrinking from her touch.

“You can.” Her fingers hesitated before they took in the scar on his forehead. It rose above his skin slightly. It was rough to the touch. A constant sign of violence. He flinched, but that was his only reaction.

“Does it hurt?” she asked thinly. He closed his eyes.

“No… not as it once did. But… yes. I sometimes still feel it. Remember the cold knife… the pain… I remember laying on the floor and bleeding while my brother…” he could not say it. She carefully took in his scar as if she could soothe what had happened fourteen years ago. She moved her fingers to the one on his cheekbone. It was more significant. More brutal.

“I’m so sorry…”

Geovanni’s eyes closed. Isabella saw a tear escape, tracking down his scarred cheek. The sight broke something in her chest. This man cried. This frigid, harsh, controlled man. Without thinking, without intending, she rose on her toes. She pressed her lips to the scar on his eyebrow. Very softly. Almost not at all. More breath than touch. Geovanni’s eyes flew open. His face was filled with horror.

“What are you—” he started. .

“I cannot fix what my father has done,” Isabella said. Now tears were running down her cheeks. “I cannot bring them back. Cannot erase your scars. Cannot take your pain away. But I can—” She kissed the scar on his cheekbone. Her lips quivered against his skin. “I can recognize it. Respect it. Mourn for what you lost.”

She found the scar that vanished into his collar. Also, that one. On his throat. The one that should have killed him. “May I?” she said.

Geovanni nodded. He seemed incapable of talking. His amber eyes were very wide. Pliable in a manner she had not seen on him before. Her fingers lightly tugged at his collar. To reveal more of the scar. It was savage. A cruel line through his throat, where somebody of his own fortunate used her father’s knife to try to kill him. Where a sixteen-year-old boy bled to death as his family was murdered around him.

She leaned in. Very lightly kissed the scar tissue. Geovanni made a noise. Half gasp, half-sob. His hands lifted to her shoulders. Isabella didn’t know whether he was going to throw her away from or drag her close. She remained completely still, her lips to his throat, feeling his pulse pump beneath the damaged skin.

“I hate your father,” Giovanni said. His voice was shaking. “I hate him for what he did. For what he took from me. For the boy I was who died that night alongside my family. I hate him with everything I am. Every breath I take. Every moment I exist. I hate him.”

“I know,” Isabella said. She was crying openly now. She pulled back enough to look at his face. “And I hate him too. For what he did to you. For making me live with this guilt. For being a monster I never knew existed. For lying to me my entire life.”

“But I do not hate you,” The confession sounded torn from him. Painful. “I should. You are his daughter. His blood. His legacy. I should look at you and see only him. But I do not. I see you. Just you. And I—” He stopped. Seemed to struggle with the words. “I do not know what to do with that. Do not know how to reconcile hating your father and not hating you. Do not know how to want revenge and want to protect you at the same time.”

Isabella framed his face with her hands. Careful of his scars. Gentle. “You don’t have to reconcile it. You don’t have to make sense of it. We can just—” She didn’t know how to finish. Can just what? Exist in this impossible space between hatred and something else? They were frozen there. Inches apart. Her hands on his scarred face. His hands on her arms. Both of them crying for different reasons that were somehow the same. The air between them felt charged. Heavy with grief and understanding and something neither of them could name.

When they pulled apart slightly, Isabella noticed Chiara for the first time. She was standing at the edge of the hallway, her face pale with shock and something else. Something she couldn’t rightly identify from ten feet away. Isabella watched as the color drained from her face, and she turned back toward the door. Chiara backed away silently. Her hands were shaking. The words raced through her brain. She made it back to her room. She grabbed the first vase she saw and threw it at her wall. Watched it shatter. Wished it was Isabella’s skull. Who was Isabella Vinci to see Giovanni like this? This was no longer the man Chiara loved. He was something strange and unrecognizable.

Not for the first time, Chiara thought furiously about her father. Lorenzo Vinci and his daughter. Everyone in Maletesta loved Isabella. They kept her picture up to remember when the Vinci family had been the town’s benefactor. They spoke of war and cruelty with solemn voices before returning to their inner lives. Chiara was one.

The old bitterness took some of the violent fury out of her and steadied her hand. She was Giovanni’s first soldier. The one who helped him when his family died. The one who saw that he lived because she knew him. She watched him when he couldn’t love himself. She put him back together when he wanted to die. She gave him a purpose when he had none. And he was crying for her? The daughter of his family’s worst enemy. She was in his house, touching his scars like she had a right to. She had forgiven her for his existence. After all, she had done for him. After all the years she had given him. BDHe had let her touch him and kiss him. And why? Because of his dead little sister’s friend? She hissed low to herself.

“I won’t allow it.” She pulled at her phone, found her contacts, found the number she needed, and hit call.

“Signor Moretti? I need to talk to you. It’s important. It’s about Giovanni and the Vinci girl. The world has to know. She listened to Moretti on the other end. His voice was soft. She flowed with confidence.

“Yes. I’ll talk to you about everything. And then we’ll decide just what has to be done about Isabella Vinci.”