“What changed?”
“I couldn’t be that person. I had to escape and evolve or I was going to die.”
Benito let out a short, dark laugh. “Been there, done that.”
“That how you got shanked?” Mickey pictured the scar on Benito’s inked torso and shuddered again. It was a vicious mark on glorious skin. He couldn’t imagine Benito without it, though he wanted to. Mickey had scars of his own, and he knew how deeply they hurt.
Benito rubbed his arms. “I got stabbed in a fight I started.”
“Are you trying to tell me you deserved it?”
“Maybe. That’s how it goes, though, isn’t it? Where we come from. I had a tool in my hand. I’d have cut him if he hadn’t cut me first.”
Mickey shivered again. He’d pressed Benito for brutal honesty, but he wasn’t ready to hear it. Or to picture Benito with a blade, ready to hurt someone as badly as they’d hurt him. “Where’s your dad?” he asked, abruptly switching subjects. “His name was on your mum’s tenancy for a while. Roberto De Luca, right?”
Benito’s gaze turned to stone. He leaned back in his chair and threaded his arms across his chest. “He’s not my dad.”
Mickey frowned. “Who is he then?”
“Gianna’s dad. He shacked up with my mum when I was eight.”
“And you hate him?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Your face.”
“You don’t know my face.”
I want to. Mickey took a sip of cold coffee. Regretted it but clung to the mug anyway to keep his shaky hands occupied. “I didn’t know you and Gianna had different fathers.”
“You’re not going to ask what happened to mine?”
No. Because he’s dead.Mickey could tell by the deep sadness glassing Benito’s soulful eyes. And he regretted bringing it up more than anything he had in a long while.
Benito blinked hard and scrubbed a hand down his face. All of a sudden, he seemed more exhausted than Mickey. “Roberto’s a nasty prick. He used to come around my mum’s place to see Gianna, but he hasn’t for a long time now. And he only sends money to stop the social taking it out of his wages. What’s it called when they do that?”
“Attachment of earnings.”
“Yeah. That. He does just enough to stop that happening, then fucks off again until next time.”
“Nice guy.”
Benito looked like he wanted to throw up. His usually warm skin turned an ashen shade of grey, and he reached in his pocket for his phone.
One of them, at least.
Silence reigned as he tapped the screen. Mickey absorbed his abrupt need for mental space but couldn’t stop staring.
Benito sighed. “Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Dissecting my soul.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know what it means.”