Page 63 of Capo
I reach out and pull some hair away from Chloe’s face. “How are you?” I ask softly, as if I would scare her if I was louder.
She huddles in her towel, looking eerily like how she looked that first day in my basement, though she wasn’t covered in blood then, but bruises.
“How the fuck do you think I feel?” she snarls.
I sit and pull her stiff body into my arms. “I’ll take care of you.”
Chloe
The shudders are bone deep. My teeth chatter. I can’t control my body. Salvatore holds me tight, so tight that I can barely get air, but I feel oddly safe in his embrace, as if nothing bad can ever happen again now that he is here.
“Did they…” He hesitates. “Did they rape you?”
“What difference does it make?” I sneer. “Am I used up for you now? Time to find a new girl?”
Salvatore pushes me away, holds me at arm’s length. “What the fuck are you on about? I just wanted to know. I figure it makes a difference to a woman if they put their cocks in you and fucking tore up your innards.”
I slump, he catches me. “No,” I mumble. “Not their cocks. Just… hands.”
“Did they use any of my… tools?”
“They tried. They couldn’t get past the locks. They talked about the cross, but the fuckers never got there.”
Nausea rises in me again, thinking about it. They tried to break open the cabinet. I screamed. I screamed for help. I screamed for Salvatore, for Ivan, for anyone to save me. One of them held me down while the other two cursed and kicked at it. They would have broken me, beaten me to a pulp if they’d gotten hold of his cruel canes.
Salvatore lets out a growl that makes my chest clench. “Good. Where are you hurt?”
I stop and feel, reach inside. “My face. Throat. Breasts. Between my legs.” His breath hitches and he draws in air as if to speak. “Can I please shower? We’re not going to the cops anyway, are we? Can I get this shit off me now?”
“Definitely,” he says and stands, taking my hand. Reaching into the shower, he turns the faucet and then holds his hand in the water, the bathroom steaming up. “Come.” He pulls me to him, and I stumble into the warm stream.
I look him over. He’s naked from the waist up but… “Your pants? They’ll get wet.”
Salvatore scoffs and opens his belt and zipper, pulling the soiled and already soaked suit pants off him. “That’s the least of anyone’s worry.” He pulls off his boxers as well and we’re naked. There’s nothing threatening about it. Nothing sexual. It just is. Stepping under the stream, he reaches for the soap. “I’ll get rid of this shit for you. I’m sorry for shooting them up all over you, but I reacted on instinct. I couldn’t give them time to reach for their guns, hurt you. You understand?”
“I understand.” I close my eyes. His hands caress along my shoulders, rubbing my neck, down along my back. “I’m glad they’re dead.”
He continues along my front, past my breasts and belly, my back lightly touches his chest. “If you hadn’t been locked up here, none of this would have happened,” he mumbles. There’s something akin to regret in his voice.
“If you hadn’t locked me up, I’d have been dead. By your hands.”
His hands stop on my hips. “That was a long time ago.”
I lean into him and he puts his arms around me, holding me tight. “But it’s still true,” I say.
Salvatore doesn’t answer, just keeps holding me. His chest heaves with every breath, his heart thuds a steady rhythm. It feels bizarrely safe, familiar.
“That’s history,” he finally says, his voice tainted with emotion. He reaches for the soap and continues to lather me. The red rivulets by my feet have turned into mere streaks of red and it decreases by the second. “Spread your legs.”
I’m conditioned to do as he says without thinking, and with not even a second of hesitation, I put my feet wider apart and let him slide his hand in between my legs, carefully rubbing along my pussy. He doesn’t intrude. He doesn’t take. In this moment, Salvatore isn’t the man I’ve come to know. He’s tender, caring, and I don’t know who he is anymore. Crouching, he continues along my legs. I hold my head in the hot stream, turning my face up to let the pouring water hammer on my skin. I need every last remnant of the would-be rapists gone. Nausea rises in me again, thinking about them, but I force it down. They’re dead. Really, really fucking dead. Every assaulted girl should have a mob boss on their side, shooting their rapists to pieces. Instant karma. I surprise myself with my own blood thirst.
I’m pulled out of my reverie when he takes my hand and pours soap in my palm. “Face.”
I nod, and rub. “Do you have something I can scrub with. I want to scrub myself raw. I want to remove my skin.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening. Just get yourself clean. It’ll wear off. You’re a tough cookie.” Pouring shampoo in my hair, he begins to rub my scalp and I close my eyes, relaxing into his touch despite everything that has happened, everything he is.
“Why are you good to me?” I say slurry.