Chapter 34 Chapter 34: The First Night Home

Chapter 34 Chapter 34: The First Night Home
Marcella's POV

The estate looked different at night.

Or maybe I was the one who'd changed.

Lorenzo helped me out of the car, his hand steady on my good arm. My right side was still strapped tight in the sling, the stitches pulling with every movement.

Rosa waited at the door, her ancient face creased with relief.

"Welcome home, Signora," she said softly.

Home. The word felt strange. I'd only lived here a few months, most of which I'd spent planning Lorenzo's destruction. But standing here now, looking at the warm lights spilling from the windows, I felt something shift in my chest.

This was home. Whether I'd meant for it to be or not.

"Thank you, Rosa," I managed.

She nodded and disappeared into the house, giving us space.

Lorenzo's arm slid around my waist, supporting most of my weight. "Slow. Take your time."

We climbed the stairs together. Each step sent pain shooting through my chest, but I kept moving. I refused to be carried. Refused to be that helpless.

In our room, Lorenzo helped me sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets were fresh, the curtains drawn. Someone had put flowers on the nightstand.

"I'll get your medication," he said.

"I'm fine."

"Marcella."

"I said I'm fine."

He knelt in front of me, his hands resting on my knees. "You were shot six days ago. You're not fine. And you don't have to pretend you are."

I looked away, blinking back sudden tears. "If I admit I'm not fine, then it's real. Then I have to accept that this happened. That I almost died."

"It did happen. You almost did die." His hand cupped my face, turning it back to him. "But you didn't. You're here. You're alive. And I'm going to make sure you stay that way."

The tears came then, hot and fast. He pulled me carefully against his chest, mindful of my injury, and let me cry.

When the tears finally stopped, he helped me change into soft pajamas. The process was slow and painful. My right arm was nearly useless, the shoulder screaming every time I tried to lift it.

"The physical therapist comes tomorrow," Lorenzo said as he helped me into bed. "She'll work on getting your mobility back."

"What if it doesn't come back? What if I'm like this forever?"

"Then we adapt. But you won't be. You're too stubborn to let a bullet beat you."

I wanted to believe him. But lying there, unable to even dress myself, I felt anything but strong.

Lorenzo climbed into bed beside me, pulling me carefully against him. "Sleep. I'm right here."

"Don't leave."

"Never."

I closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling at me. The doctors had said I'd be tired for weeks. My body needed rest to heal.

But sleep wouldn't come.

Every time I started to drift off, I'd see Cesare's face. See the gun pointing at me. Feel the impact of the bullet, the shock of falling, the blood spreading across my chest.

I jerked awake, gasping.

"It's okay," Lorenzo murmured. "You're safe. Just a dream."

"I can't stop seeing it."

"I know. It'll take time."

I tried again. Closed my eyes. Focused on Lorenzo's heartbeat beneath my ear.

But the images came back. Cesare. The gun. The blood.

This time when I jerked awake, my heart was racing. My skin felt too tight. I couldn't breathe.

"Marcella, look at me." Lorenzo's hands framed my face. "Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it. Breathe with me."

I tried to follow his breathing, but panic clawed at my throat. "I can't. I can't breathe."

"Yes, you can. You're safe. You're here with me. Nothing's going to hurt you."

Slowly, painfully, my breathing evened out. The panic faded to a dull roar.

"That's my girl," he said, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "You're okay."

But I wasn't okay. And I didn't know if I ever would be again.

\---

The pattern repeated itself all night.

I'd start to fall asleep, then the nightmares would come. Cesare. Giovanni. The villa in Morocco. Blood and gunfire and death.

Each time, Lorenzo talked me through it. Held me. Reminded me I was safe.

By dawn, I was exhausted and wired at the same time. My body ached for sleep, but my mind refused to shut down.

"I'm calling the doctor," Lorenzo said, reaching for his phone.

"No. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't slept more than twenty minutes all night."

"I just need time."

"Marcella, this isn't something you can push through. You need help."

"I don't need help. I just need..." I trailed off, not knowing how to finish.

What did I need? To go back in time? To not have been shot? To erase the memory of nearly dying?

None of that was possible.

Lorenzo set his phone aside and pulled me close again. "Tell me what you need. Anything. I'll make it happen."

"I need to feel normal again. I need to feel like myself."

"You will. But it's going to take time."

Time. Everyone kept saying that, as if time could heal a gunshot wound and the trauma that came with it.

"What if I can't do this?" I whispered. "What if I can't get past it?"

"You will. Because you're the strongest person I know." His hand stroked through my hair. "You survived your family's murder. You survived marrying me. You survived being shot. You can survive this too."

"I don't feel strong. I feel broken."

"Then let me be strong enough for both of us. Until you're ready to carry yourself again."

I pressed my face into his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. Smoke and leather and safety.

"Okay," I said finally. "Okay."

\---

Rosa brought breakfast at eight. Toast, tea, soft-boiled eggs. Food for an invalid.

I forced it down, knowing I needed to eat to heal. But everything tasted like ash.

After breakfast, Lorenzo helped me to the bathroom. Another humiliating reminder of how helpless I was. I couldn't even shower alone.

He was patient and careful, washing my hair for me, helping me dress in loose clothes that wouldn't hurt my shoulder.

"The physical therapist will be here at ten," he said. "Her name is Dr. Russo. She's the best in Sicily."

"Russo? Like Marco?"

"No relation. It's a common name."

I nodded, trying not to let the name bother me. But everything bothered me now. Every sound made me jump. Every shadow looked like a threat.

When the doorbell rang at ten, I nearly fell off the bed.

"It's just the therapist," Lorenzo said, catching me. "You're safe."

But I didn't feel safe. I felt like prey, waiting for the next predator to find me.

Dr. Russo was a woman in her fifties, with kind eyes and strong hands. She examined my shoulder carefully, asking about pain levels and range of motion.

"It's going to take time," she said, confirming what everyone had been telling me. "But I believe you can regain most of your mobility. Maybe even all of it."

"How long?"

"Months. Maybe six. Maybe a year. It depends on how hard you work and how your body responds."

Months. A year. An eternity of being broken.

She walked me through some gentle exercises. Lifting my arm a few inches. Rolling my shoulder. Each movement was agony.

"That's enough for today," she said after twenty minutes. "We'll do this every day. Slowly build up your strength."

After she left, I collapsed on the bed, exhausted.

Lorenzo sat beside me, his hand resting on my good shoulder. "You did well."

"I could barely lift my arm."

"But you lifted it. That's progress."

Progress. Such a small word for such a painful process.

"Lorenzo?"

"Yes, amore?"

"What if I never get better? What if I'm always like this?"

"Then we adapt. But I don't believe that's going to happen. You're a fighter. And fighters don't stay down."

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to think I'd wake up tomorrow stronger, better, whole.

But right now, lying in bed, unable to even dress myself, I felt like the fight had been beaten out of me.

And I didn't know how to get it back.