Page 89 of Forgotten Vows

"Let's get you cleaned up, buddy," Lachlan says quietly, his voice so gentle it makes my chest ache. He carries Matteo toward the bathroom, and I trail behind them, unable to let either of them out of my sight.

Lachlan sets Matteo down on the edge of the bathtub, and our son just sits there, staring at nothing, his small hands curled into fists on his lap. There's dirt on his face. Smudges of it across his cheek, streaked through his hair. His clothes are filthy, torn at the knee, and when I kneel down in front of him, I can see the bruises forming on his arms where Gio's men grabbed him too roughly.

"Matteo." My voice cracks on his name, and I reach out to touchhis face, but he flinches away from me. The rejection is a knife to the chest, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from crying.

"It's okay," Lachlan says, kneeling beside me, his hand on Matteo's shoulder. "You're safe now. We're going to get you cleaned up, and then you can sleep. Everything's going to be okay."

Matteo doesn't respond. He just stares at the floor, his breathing shallow and uneven, and I can see the way his whole body is shaking. Lachlan turns on the water, testing the temperature with his hand before plugging the drain. The sound of the water filling the tub is too loud in the silence, and I watch as steam begins to rise, curling in the air between us.

"Can you stand up for me, buddy?" Lachlan asks, his voice still so gentle, so patient. "We need to get these dirty clothes off."

Matteo stands mechanically, and I help Lachlan peel off his shirt, his jeans, his socks. Every piece of clothing is filthy, and I ball them up in my hands, throwing them as far as I can to the other side of the bathroom.

Lachlan lifts him into the tub, and our son sinks into the water without a word. He doesn't splash or play the way he used to when he was younger. He just sits there, staring at the tiles on the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees. I grab a washcloth and soap, kneeling beside the tub, and I start to clean him up carefully, like he's made of glass. The water turns gray as I rinse the dirt from his hair, his face, his arms, and I can feel the tears building in my throat, threatening to choke me.

"Matteo," I whisper, my voice breaking. "Please talk to me. Please."

He doesn't answer. Doesn't even look at me. Lachlan reaches out, his hand cupping the back of Matteo's head. "You didn't do anything wrong," he says quietly. "You know that, right? What happened tonight—none of that was your fault."

Matteo's eyes flicker toward him, just for a second, and then away again. "I wanted to," he whispers, and his voice is so small, so broken, that it makes my heart crack open. "I wanted to kill him."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and terrible, and I can see the way Lachlan's jaw tightens.

"I know," Lachlan says, and there's no judgment in his voice. Just understanding. "I know you did. But you didn't. That's what matters."

"But I wanted to." Matteo's voice is rising now, his hands clenching into fists in the water. "I wanted to hurt him for what he did to Mama. I wanted to make him stop. I wanted?—"

His voice breaks, and he starts to cry, his whole body shaking with the force of it. I reach for him, pulling him against my chest, and he clings to me, his wet hands fisting in my shirt, his sobs muffled against my shoulder. "It's okay," I whisper, rocking him gently. "It's okay. You're okay."

But I don't know if that's true. I don't know if any of us are okay after tonight.

Lachlan's hand is on Matteo's back now, rubbing slow circles, and when I look up at him, I can see the pain in his eyes, the guilt and the grief for what our son almost became.

"You're not like him," Lachlan says, his voice rough.

"But I wanted to be." Matteo pulls back, looking up at Lachlan with red-rimmed eyes. "I wanted to be strong like him, or like you. I wanted to be able to protect Mama. I wanted?—"

"You don't have to be like him to be strong," Lachlan interrupts, his voice firm. "You don't have to hurt people to protect the people you love. That's not strength, Matteo. That's just... that's just what broken people do when they don't know any other way."

Matteo stares at him, his lower lip trembling.

"You're not broken," I whisper, cupping his face in my hands. "You're not, baby. You're scared, and you're hurt, and you've seen things no child should ever see. But you're not broken. You're still you."

"How do you know?" His voice is so small, and it breaks my heart all over again.

"Because I know you." I blink back tears. "I know your heart, Matteo. I know how kind you are, how gentle. I know that you cry when you see animals hurt, and that you always shared your toys with other kids when they came to the house, and that you tell me you love me every single night before you go to sleep. That's who youare. Not what happened tonight. Not what you wanted to do. Who youare."

He stares at me for a long moment, and then he nods, just a little, and leans back against me. The water is cooling now, and I can feel him shivering, so I reach for a towel, wrapping it around him as Lachlan lifts him out of the tub.

We dry him off together, and then Lachlan carries him to his bedroom while I follow behind. The room is exactly as Matteo left it before we were taken—toys scattered on the floor, books stacked on the nightstand, the bed still unmade.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Lachlan sets him down on the bed, and I find clean pajamas in the dresser, helping him into them. His movements are exhausted, and by the time we get him under the covers, his eyes are already drooping.

"Stay," he whispers, his hand reaching for mine. "Please, Mama. Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere," I promise, sitting on the edge of the bed. Lachlan sits on the other side, and we stay there until Matteo's breathing evens out and his hand goes slack in mine.