Chapter 35 Chapter 35: Breaking Point

Chapter 35 Chapter 35: Breaking Point
Marcella's POV

By the third day, I wanted to scream.

Dr. Russo came every morning at ten, put me through twenty minutes of torture disguised as therapy, then left me sweating and shaking on the bed.

"Excellent progress," she'd say, even though I could barely lift my arm above my shoulder.

Progress. The word was starting to make me angry.

This morning's session was worse than usual. She'd added a new exercise, one that required me to hold a light weight while rotating my shoulder.

The weight was only two pounds, but it felt like twenty.

"Five more," Dr. Russo encouraged. "You can do this."

I gritted my teeth and tried. Pain shot through my shoulder, sharp and burning. My arm shook violently.

"I can't," I gasped.

"Yes, you can. Just five more."

"I said I can't!"

I dropped the weight. It hit the floor with a dull thud.

Dr. Russo's expression didn't change. "All right. That's enough for today. We'll try again tomorrow."

After she left, I sat on the bed, my good hand clenched into a fist. I was furious. At her. At my useless arm. At the bullet that had done this to me.

At myself for being so weak.

Lorenzo appeared in the doorway, his face concerned. "I heard you yelling."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're frustrated."

"Of course I'm frustrated! I can't even lift a two-pound weight without my arm giving out. I can't dress myself. I can't shower alone. I can't do anything!"

"You will. It just takes time."

"Stop saying that!" I stood up too fast and pain exploded through my chest. I gasped and sat back down hard.

Lorenzo crossed the room in two strides, kneeling in front of me. "Breathe. Slow breaths."

"I hate this. I hate being helpless. I hate needing you for everything."

"I don't mind helping you."

"Well, I mind! I mind that I can't even button my own shirt. I mind that I wake up screaming every night. I mind that every loud noise makes me want to hide." Tears burned my eyes. "I mind that Cesare took away my life and left me with this broken version."

Lorenzo's hands framed my face. "You're not broken. You're healing. There's a difference."

"It doesn't feel different."

"I know. But you're stronger than you think. Every day you get a little better. Every day you fight a little harder."

"What if fighting isn't enough? What if I never get back to who I was?"

"Then you become someone new. Someone who survived being shot and came back stronger."

I wanted to believe him. But sitting here, crying over a two-pound weight, I felt anything but strong.

\---

That afternoon, I tried to read. But my right hand was too weak to hold the book, and holding it with my left felt awkward.

I gave up after ten minutes and stared out the window instead.

The sea was calm today, blue and endless. It looked peaceful. I felt anything but.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"It's just me," Lorenzo called.

"Come in."

He entered carrying a tray. Lunch. Soup and bread again. Invalid food.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat. Keep your strength up."

"What strength? I can barely lift my arm."

He set the tray on the nightstand and sat beside me on the bed. "Marcella, I know this is hard. But giving up isn't going to make it easier."

"I'm not giving up. I'm just tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of being useless."

"You're not useless."

"Then what am I? What good am I like this?"

"You're my wife. The woman I love. That's enough."

"It's not enough for me." I stood and walked to the window, my good arm wrapped around my middle. "I used to be someone. I had plans. A future. Now I'm just this broken thing that needs constant care."

"You're not a thing. You're a person. A person who's been through hell and is still standing."

"Barely standing."

He came up behind me, his hands settling on my shoulders. Carefully, always careful of my injury.

"You stood yesterday. Walked to the bathroom and back without help. That's progress."

"Walking ten feet isn't progress. It's pathetic."

"It's more than you could do three days ago."

I closed my eyes, fighting back fresh tears. "Why are you being so patient with me? I'm awful to you. I yell and complain and push you away."

"Because I love you. And because I know this isn't really about me. You're angry at the situation. At what happened. I'm just the closest target."

He was right. I knew he was right. But I couldn't seem to stop myself.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I don't mean to take it out on you."

"I know. And I can handle it. I've been shot before. I know what it's like to feel helpless while your body heals."

I turned to face him. "When?"

"Three years ago. Rival family. Bullet went through my side, cracked a rib. I was in bed for a month." His mouth twisted. "I was a terrible patient. Vito almost quit."

Despite everything, I smiled slightly. "I can't imagine you being a good patient."

"I wasn't. I threw things. Yelled at everyone. Refused to do the exercises." He brushed a strand of hair from my face. "So I understand what you're going through. The frustration. The rage. The feeling that your body betrayed you."

"How did you get through it?"

"Honestly? Vito threatened to tie me to the bed if I didn't cooperate. And eventually, I got so bored of being helpless that I started doing the work." He smiled. "Spite is a powerful motivator."

I laughed, and it felt good. The first real laugh since Morocco.

"So what you're saying is I should get angry enough to heal?"

"I'm saying use whatever works. Anger, spite, stubbornness. All of it."

I leaned against him, careful of my shoulder. "Thank you. For putting up with me."

"Always." He kissed the top of my head. "Now eat your lunch before it gets cold."

\---

That night, the nightmares came back.

I woke up screaming, tangled in the sheets, my heart racing.

Lorenzo was already awake, his arms around me. "It's okay. You're safe. Just a dream."

"It felt so real." I was shaking, my skin cold with sweat. "I was back in that room. Cesare was there. And this time, the bullet hit my heart."

"But it didn't. You're here. You're alive."

"What if next time I'm not lucky? What if there is a next time?"

"There won't be. I won't let anyone hurt you again."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can. Because I will die before I let someone take you from me."

The intensity in his voice made me look up at him. In the dim light, his eyes were fierce, burning with the same possessive need I'd seen the night we first made love.

"Lorenzo..."

"I mean it, Marcella. You're mine. And I protect what's mine."

He kissed me then, hard and desperate. I felt his fear in that kiss, his terror at how close he'd come to losing me.

When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

"I want you," I whispered. "I want to feel something other than broken."

"Not yet. You're still healing."

"I don't care. Please. I need this. I need to feel alive."

He searched my face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

His hand slid into my hair, gentle despite the heat in his eyes. "If it hurts, if it's too much, you tell me. Promise me."

"I promise."

He kissed me again, slower this time. His hands moved carefully, avoiding my injured shoulder, mapping the rest of my body like he was relearning me.

When his fingers slipped beneath my pajama top, I gasped. Not from pain, but from need.

It had been so long since he'd touched me like this. Since I'd felt anything other than fear and frustration.

"Lorenzo," I breathed.

"I've got you," he murmured against my throat. "Let me take care of you."

But when he tried to remove my top, I had to use my right arm. Pain shot through my shoulder, sharp and immediate.

I cried out, and he stopped instantly.

"That's enough," he said, pulling back.

"No, wait. We can work around it. Just... be careful."

"Marcella, you're not ready."

"Yes, I am. Please. I need this."

But my body disagreed. The pain in my shoulder was intense now, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

Tears of frustration burned my eyes. "I can't even do this. I can't even make love to my own husband."

"Hey." He cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. "This isn't failure. Your body needs time. That's all."

"But I wanted..."

"I know. I want it too. But not like this. Not when you're in pain."

He held me while I cried, stroking my hair, murmuring soft words in Italian.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled me under. This time, the nightmares stayed away.

And when I woke the next morning, Lorenzo was still holding me.

Still keeping the monsters at bay.