I clamp my lips shut, knowing better than to disobey him. He moves over to the bed, sitting down on the edge, facing the window. He leans forward slightly, placing his elbows on his knees, giving me the perfect view of his back.
If I thought the front looked beat up, the back is worse.
The fresh cuts are even redder than the cut on his abs and there's quite a number. Long, red slashes going in different directions. They're swollen and I expect them to be infected with how raised and angry they appear.
"What..." I don't even know what to ask as revulsion moves through my stomach.
I hate Maximo, hate him with every fiber of my being... but who would do such a thing to him?
He hasn't left the house from what I've picked up, he's been in the basement ever since Giovanni told him to go there. So, the only person who could have done this to him... "Is... Did Giovanni do that to you?" I ask hesitantly, moving my eyes over the marks before looking at the side of his face.
He turns his head, his eyes burning into mine. There's a hollowness to him, the usual cruelness gone and replaced by absolutely nothing.
"Most of it, yes, but he let Enzo take a couple hits as well. He figured it'd be a good way to make him suffer as well for my actions." He turns back around to face the window, his body absolutely still. "I can't say it isn't a good idea as far as torture goes. I'd even admire it, if he wasn't just copying our old man's methods. I keep waiting for the day he attempts to get a little creative. That’s when I’ll really get excited."
I don't know if the words are supposed to be a joke, and I’m not sure if I want them to be.
"Why?" I ask, a lump in my throat.
How could his brother do this to him?
No matter what Richard has done, and the anger I’ve felt toward him, I could never harm him. Hence, how I ended up here.
Even when Maximo laughs, it's completely empty. The usual twisted mirth is nowhere to be found. "You know why, little mouse," he says, continuing to stare straight ahead. "I went and got golden boy Bianchi shot, so I had to pay."
I don't offer a response to that, thinking about the way Vito looked when Enzo threw him in the car. Maybe Maximo is the reason he got shot, but he didn't do the actual shooting, so was all of this necessary?
And why do you even care? He deserves the worst just for the things he’s done to you.
"Are... are you okay?" The question sounds stupid, even to my own ears. All that Maximo has done to me, and like a fucking idiot, I'm checking on his wellbeing.
I’m not developing Stockholm Syndrome, I tell myself for the thousandth time. I just can’t stand the sight of someone being hurt this badly, and by their own flesh and blood…
Thinks the girl who recently killed someone.
Maximo stands up, moving to the window. His steps are short and steady, thumping across the floorboards softly. He pushes the curtains to the side, placing his forearms against the glass as he peers outside.
The air in the room suddenly feels colder and when a shiver runs down my spine, I pull the covers closer.
"When I was younger, I looked up to Bianchi and my brother," Maximo’s words cut through the room. "Other than Lucia, they were the only people who cared about me, who tried to protect me. My mother was too soft a bitch to challenge my father, to make him stop his abuse."
I blink. I don't know where he's headed with this story, and I can't help but to hang onto his words as if they'll offer more insight into Maximo Costa, my number one torturer.
More insight into the head of a monster.
"My father would shred my flesh into pieces and then he'd let me rest, let me recover, just so he could come back and start the process all over again when my body had forgotten the feel of his weapon of choice across my back. Sometimes it'd be a whip, or a chain. Other times his belt, the imprint of the buckle tattooing my back."
"After I pissed on his grave, I never thought I'd go back to that basement again. I'd have it filled with cement so no one could see the inside of it again. But then my brother realized daddy dearest wasn't completely off with his idea. He needed some kind of way to keep me in control after all, and yelling wouldn't be good enough. That's when Vito reminded him of the basement."
Vito has a hand in this wretched treatment as well?
My stomach turns.
My eyes burn and a pang moves through my chest. This isn't what I want to know. I don't want to feel any sympathy for him, but it's too late, it started the moment I saw the marks on his back.
And for his own family to do that to him?
My own father... the things he did to me, allowed others to do to me, imprinted a permanent stain on my heart and I can only imagine it's the same for Maximo.