Once Burned (Morelli Family, #3)

by Sam Mariano

  Elise’s eyes are wide with horror. Even though she can probably figure out where this is going, it’s like she’s hoping for a different ending. “So… it was retaliation?”

  I nod. “He brought a shoe box over to our house one night. Had the Christmas cards from over the years, pictures of me she’d sent to show me off.” With a slight smile, I tell her, “I was a cute kid.”

  She rolls her eyes lightly, but her eyes wander the left side of my face, taking in every ridge, every welt. “You’ve always been handsome,” she informs me. “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m no Mateo,” I joke.

  “Don’t do that,” she says firmly, shaking her head.

  Her compliment makes me more uncomfortable than anything else she’s ever done, so I get back to the story. “Anyway, he dumped out the Christmas cards, tortured my father in front of her, had my mom… hurt. And then he set me on fire.”

  “Did he…?”

  “Killed them both.”

  She slowly exhales, looking weighed down by this story. “I’m so sorry, Adrian.”

  “My mom begged for mercy. That’s the part I really remember. That’s the worst part. How she begged him, realizing what he was going to do, and…then the bastard made me live.”

  Elise moves closer all of a sudden, wrapping her arms around me and pressing her body against mine. Hugging me. I’m tempted to pull back, not wanting her pity, but the scent of her shampoo hits me, the feeling of her arms secured around me, and I decide maybe sympathy is okay. A tentative hand comes to rest on her back, but she’s still full-on wrapped around me.

  “I’m sorry I made you talk about it,” she says, her voice muffled since her face is pressed against my shoulder.

  Yearning. That’s what I feel. There’s no pain from the memories I just shared with her, just a deep yearning as she holds me, wanting this—more of this. I don’t care about anything outside of this embrace.

  But I don’t even hug her back, so she eventually pulls away.

  Worse, she looks a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” she murmurs, with a slight smile. “It seemed like the time for a hug.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I murmur. “I’m… just not terribly affectionate.”

  She shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it clearly does. “I never had anyone to be affectionate with. Always thought it’d be nice.”

  I never really thought that before, but it’s different with her. I’m not opposed, and I don’t know why my stupid mouth won’t open so I can tell her that.

  I just can’t shake the feeling that I’d be playing on her sympathies. She’s not being affectionate because she wants me, but because she feels bad for me. Not because it’s something she wants, but because it’s something she can offer.

  I don’t know how I can ever not feel like I’m taking advantage of her.

  For literally the first time in five years, I wonder if this is possible. In my head, before it was real, before she was here, this should’ve been easy. But that was assuming we were on the same page. That was assuming we got out and Elise was happy about it, happy to be free again, happy to move on with her life.

  I never considered how hard this would be if she didn’t feel that relief. If she’d been damaged, molded into some kind of Stepford wife.

  “Well, I bet the oven’s heated up by now,” she says lightly, breaking away from my wall of silence to warm up the damn food.

  Chapter Seven

  “You should bring Elise by for dinner tonight.”

  I glance at Mateo in the back seat, messing around on his phone as he tosses out the casual invitation. “Meg coming tonight?”

  He shakes his head. “Not tonight.” Then, with a slight smirk, he said, “Vince and Mia will be there, though.”

  “It’s not Sunday,” I point out.

  “Maria’s understaffed. Someone’s gotta bring me my salad.” He says it lightly, like a joke, but I can already anticipate Vince sulking about it.

  I shake my head. “You’re such a dick.”

  He looks up just long enough to flash me a grin, then he goes back to his phone.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Why am I such a dick?” he asks, pulling a fake pout. “Tragic childhood.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, something real.”

  I have his attention now, and he drops his phone back into his pocket. “Of course.”

  “Did you kill Elise’s dad?”

  “Yes,” he says, without even the slightest hesitation.

  I nod, sighing. I kind of figured, but that’s going to make meeting her desire to see them quite a lot harder. “Her mom still alive?”

  He shakes his head, a wordless no.

  “Great.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “She wanted to see them. See if they were okay.”

  He shakes his head, glancing out the window. “Women have an astounding capacity for forgiveness, I swear to god. Why would you want to see the assholes who literally sold you?”

  I scoff, shaking my head. “I don’t know, Mateo, why would you admire the man who bought you?”

  “I’ve been good to Elise,” he states, like that makes it all right.

  “Because of me,” I point out.

  He smirks. “I would’ve still been good to her—just a different kind of good.”

  “Sometimes it’s so hard to remember why I want to keep you alive,” I tell him.

  He smiles, unconcerned. “How are things going for you two? Is she everything you hoped she’d be?”

  I don’t immediately answer. I don’t even think I’m going to, but then suddenly I say, “She’s still working on deprogramming.”

  Mateo quirks an eyebrow at me. “Deprogramming?”

  “You have her trained. She doesn’t know what to do with herself now that she’s not stuck cleaning your house and cooking your dinner.”

  Mateo sighs heavily, as if disappointed. “You’re trying to fix her, aren’t you?”

  I look at the rearview mirror, glaring at him.

  “Does she want to be fixed?” he asks.

  “Like you care what women want,” I mutter.

  “Adrian, just enjoy her, for fuck’s sake. Jesus Christ. You worked five years for the girl. Have you even fucked her yet?”

  “We don’t need to talk about my sex life,” I inform him.

  “You certainly have enough opinions about mine,” he shoots back, rolling his eyes.

  “She thinks I bought her,” I tell him. I don’t know why I tell him that, it’s not like he’ll be similarly disgusted by the idea.

  “You did,” he says, simply.

  I scowl at him in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t buy her, I worked to free her. Why doesn’t anyone realize those aren’t the same thing?”

  “Is she pissed about it?”

  “No.”

  “Then who cares?” he replies.

  “It’s pointless to argue an ethical stance with you,” I state, shaking my head.

  “It’s not pointless. I understand the ethics, they just don’t matter in this situation. Get out of your own way and let yourself be happy for once.”

  I pull up behind the abandoned warehouse, throwing the car in park and climbing out. Mateo doesn’t usually come along and get his hands dirty with this kind of stuff, but since Meg got shot, he seems to want an outlet for some pent-up aggression. I guess I can understand that.

  “Why’d you wear a white shirt?” I ask, as he removes his jacket and drapes it over his arm.

  “I like them to see their own blood spatter,” he states.

  That surprises me since he has a thing about cleanliness, but I don’t remark upon in. I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t wear hazmat gear to punch a guy in the face, but I guess since he’s got us here, he only has to do as much as he wants to, anyway.

  “Did you ever look into the daughter?” Mateo asks as we head inside.

  “I’m gonna check it out a little more, depending on wha
t we get from this guy.”

  “She’s technically a Castellanos.”

  “She has nothing to do with the old man,” I point out.

  “Fruit of his looms,” Mateo tosses back.

  “I’ve found some pretty disturbing shit there, frankly,” I tell him. “I have to dig a little more, but I’m inclined to think he’s a bigger bastard than we realized.”

  “Still, streets running red with blood and all that,” he says casually.

  “Why don’t we focus on the blood of the people actually involved before we branch out to innocent bystanders,” I suggest.

  “You’re such a Boy Scout, Adrian.”

  I roll my eyes, rolling up my shirt sleeves to go beat some asshole half to death. “Oh yeah, I’m a real angel.”

  ---

  Because it’s just easier and because I’m going to have to do it eventually, I go ahead and take Elise over to Mateo’s for dinner. She’s eager during the car ride over, and I don’t know if it’s to see him, to be back at the place she still thinks of as home, or maybe to see the people she used to live and work with. I don’t ask.

  She pops into the study with me for a few minutes, but neither of us is quite sure how to work that. Mia is sitting on Vince’s lap and Meg’s not down here since Mateo won’t let her out of bed, but Elise and I don’t behave like a couple. It becomes apparent after a few minutes of awkward lingering—I wanna take a seat like I usually do, but I don’t know what to do with her. She’s sure as hell not going to sit on my lap, and I don’t want to make her linger by the chair. Usually she’s the one getting drinks if she’s in here, and I catch her casting a few longing looks toward the drink cart.

  Eventually she bails and heads to the kitchen to help Maria with dinner.

  “She knows she doesn’t have to do that anymore, right?” Mateo remarks, seeming slightly amused as she runs back to her old job.

  Vince stands up, displacing Mia, and goes outside to take a call. Literally as soon as Vince is out of sight, she heads over to the alcohol cart and grabs Mateo’s decanter, heading over to his desk to refill his glass.

  “Thank you,” he says, giving her a warm smile.

  With an indulgent roll of her eyes, she says, “I know you hate getting it yourself.”

  “So much work,” he agrees, lifting his glass to his lips and watching her over the rim.

  Mia suddenly frowns, almost unthinkingly reaching out and running her thumb over his knuckles. “What happened to your hand?”

  I glance down at my own knuckles. They’re in worse shape than his, and Elise certainly didn’t notice mine.

  “Had a slight disagreement with someone’s face,” he remarks.

  She sighs, leaning against his desk, standing beside him and looking over at him. “Don’t you pay people to do stuff like that for you?”

  “Why should they get to have all the fun?” he asks, glancing over at her.

  “As long as it wasn’t Vince this time, I guess I shouldn’t complain,” she remarks.

  Mateo’s eyebrows inch upward. “Does Vince need to be punched again?” He holds up his other hand, free of nicks or bruises. “I’ve still got this one. If he’s acting up, just say the word.”

  Shaking her head disapprovingly, Mia pushes off the desk and goes back to the alcohol cart. Without looking back, she grabs a glass and pours some, then brings it over to me.

  “Oh, thanks, Mia. You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her.

  “Maybe I don’t need a new maid,” Mateo remarks as she walks back that way. His eyes are on her, dancing with amusement and mischief as he says, “Should I order you a costume, Mia? I bet you’d like costumes.”

  She looks back toward the door, checking for Vince, then gives him a completely insincere glare.

  He winks.

  I sigh. Working for him has to be taking years off my life in more ways than one.

  By the time Vince comes back, Mia’s ready to climb onto his lap and make believe she wasn’t flirting with Mateo while he was gone. Which suits the rest of us, because Meg’s on bed rest after taking a bullet for him, and we have to try to like the son of a bitch.

  We’re all a bunch of liars.

  I shouldn’t have brought Elise here. I don’t want her to get swept up in Mateo’s shit.

  Throughout the rest of drinks I think about that, solidifying the thought in my mind. Then we head to the dining room for dinner, and Elise comes out with my salad, beaming like she’s doing something she actually enjoys.

  “Thank you,” I say, as she puts mine down in front of me and takes a seat to my left.

  Smiling, she nods. “Of course.”

  I glance down at the opposite side of the table where Mateo sits. Mia is just placing his salad in front of him, then putting down Vince’s. Vince looks quite unimpressed, glaring at Mateo’s salad plate while Mia takes her seat between them.

  “This is nice, isn’t it?” Elise murmurs, oblivious to any mounting tension down by Mateo.

  I watch Vince stab a grape tomato, probably envisioning Mateo’s head. “Yeah. Nice,” I mutter.

  ---

  I tell Elise her mom and dad moved.

  I hate lying to her, and I shouldn’t lie for Mateo, but I really don’t want to tell her. Since she agreed to go with him for their safety in the first place, I can imagine how it would make her feel to know it had all been for nothing.

  So, they live in Florida. I looked up her father’s business, put together enough of a story about them relocating and opening up shop in Destin, and just like that, Elise’s parents are doing okay. It seems to please her, the idea that they’re doing all right. I hate agreeing with Mateo, but I can’t figure out why she would wish them well, either. When she left her father’s house that night, he had to have assumed she was heading for a life of constant rape and abuse. What kind of man would let his daughter go through a thing like that to save his own skin? You’d have to kill me twice to put my daughter through that kind of shit—and even then, my ghost would probably come for you.

  I decide Elise’s homework for the next day will be that—asking if she wants kids. What kind of life she’d like to have, whether or not she wants a family. She seems to have accepted that she’s mine, and even though I’m not positive she’ll end up staying (I can’t even make myself kiss the girl) I guess I should consider it. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about seriously, since kids weren’t exactly in the cards, given my lifestyle. But Elise may want kids, and if I do end up with Elise… well, that’s worth knowing.

  I guess it might be kind of nice. An image of a little girl with blond pigtails rockets to the forefront of my mind, standing at a kitchen counter with Elise, learning how to make muffins.

  Ouch. Goddammit. I rub my chest, feeling an actual stab of some fucked up emotion. Don’t have the time or inclination to deal with that right now.

  “I’m so tired,” Elise tells me, turning and pulling her hair over her shoulder. “Will you unzip me?”

  “Do you want kids?”

  I don’t mean to ask, but I can’t get that little girl out of my head.

  Spinning around and meeting my gaze, she says unflinchingly, “Yes.”

  I nod, but I’m not even sure why I’m nodding. It feels presumptuous, and I suddenly want to tell her I didn’t mean with me, but didn’t I? I keep my mouth shut, because nothing good can come from opening it. I just keep nodding, like a busted bobble-head doll.

  “Do you?” she finally asks, after what feels like an hour.

  I stop nodding. My palms sweat. Jesus, why is this apartment always so hot?

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I never really thought about it before.”

  She nods, turning back around, since I didn’t unzip her. My fingers awkwardly find the zipper as she continues, “I want a little girl. Candace.”

  “You already have a name picked out,” I murmur, tugging the zipper down, the temperature in the room climbing with every inch of exposed, perfect ski
n.

  Glancing back at me with amusement, she says, “Don’t worry, I haven’t named the boy yet.”

  “Two kids,” I murmur, suddenly wanting to rip off my clothes and jump in an ice cold shower.

  “I’ve never seen you scared before,” she says, laughing at me. “It’s kind of fun.” Then, grasping the damaged hands I didn’t think she’d even noticed, she says, “You probably did this without flinching, but I mention procreation and you look at me like I’m the clown from It.”

  Then she drops my hands and peels the dress from her arms, tugging it off until she’s only wearing a bra and panties. Right there, in front of me.

  I turn to give her privacy, but that brief glimpse of her perfect, barely-covered body is now emblazoned in my mind. My eyes dart to the door, wondering if I should leave, but she’s talking again, and I don’t want to be rude.

  “I should read some more tonight,” she says casually, like it’s normal to be undressing in front of me. “We haven’t read in a few nights. I miss it.”

  “What do you want to read?” I ask, since at least this is something I’m comfortable with.

  “Jane Eyre. I know how much you love Rochester,” she teases.

  “And listening to you butcher French,” I add.