Chapter 38 Chapter 38: The First Panic Attack

Chapter 38 Chapter 38: The First Panic Attack
Lorenzo's POV

The sound came from the garden.

Sharp, explosive, echoing off the stone walls. A car backfiring somewhere down the coast road.

I barely registered it. Just another sound in a city full of noise.

But then I heard Marcella scream.

I was out of my office and running before my mind fully processed what was happening. Through the house, down the terrace steps, into the garden where she'd been reading.

She wasn't on the bench anymore.

She was on the ground, curled into a ball, her hands over her head. Shaking violently.

"Marcella!" I dropped to my knees beside her.

She didn't respond. Just kept shaking, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Amore, look at me." I tried to pull her hands away from her head, but she fought me.

"No, no, no," she chanted. "Not again. Please not again."

"Marcella, you're safe. It was just a car. You're in the garden. You're safe."

But she wasn't hearing me. Her eyes were wide and unfocused, staring at nothing. Or maybe seeing something I couldn't. Something from Morocco.

I'd seen panic attacks before. Dealt with them in men who'd been through combat. But seeing Marcella like this, seeing her broken and terrified, was different.

It was worse.

"Breathe with me," I said, keeping my voice steady even though my heart was racing. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."

I demonstrated, exaggerating the movements so she could see.

She tried to follow but couldn't. Her breathing was too fast, too shallow. She was hyperventilating.

"You're in Sicily," I said firmly. "On the estate. In our garden. That sound was a car on the road. Not a gun. A car."

"I felt it," she gasped. "The bullet. I felt it hit me again."

"No. You're safe. You're whole. Feel my hands." I pressed my palms against her upper arms, grounding her. "You're here. With me."

She focused on my face finally, her eyes clearing slightly. "Lorenzo?"

"I'm here. I've got you."

"I thought... I was back there. In Morocco. With Cesare." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I could see his face. See the gun. Feel the impact."

"I know. But it was just a memory. You're safe now."

Her breathing was still too fast. I needed to slow it down before she passed out.

"Count with me," I said. "In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. Can you do that?"

She nodded weakly.

"In. One, two, three, four."

She inhaled shakily.

"Hold. One, two, three, four."

I watched her chest, making sure she was following.

"Out. One, two, three, four."

We repeated the pattern ten times. Slowly, painfully, her breathing normalized.

But the shaking didn't stop.

I pulled her into my arms, holding her tight against my chest. She clung to me like I was the only solid thing in a collapsing world.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I'm broken. I can't even handle a car backfiring without falling apart."

"You're not broken. You're traumatized. There's a difference."

We sat there on the garden stones for twenty minutes. Her shaking gradually subsided, but she wouldn't let go of me.

Finally, I stood and lifted her in my arms. She didn't protest.

I carried her inside and up to our room. Set her on the bed and knelt in front of her.

"Look at me, amore."

She did, her eyes red and swollen.

"What happened today isn't weakness. It's your brain trying to protect you from a threat it thinks is still there."

"But the threat isn't there. It was just a car."

"Your mind doesn't know that yet. The trauma is still fresh. Your body is still remembering."

"How do I make it stop?"

"I don't know. But we're going to find someone who does."

\---

I made the call that afternoon while Marcella slept, exhausted from the panic attack.

Dr. Fontana was the best trauma therapist in Sicily. She'd worked with soldiers, abuse survivors, people who'd seen the worst humanity had to offer.

If anyone could help Marcella, it was her.

"She needs to be seen as soon as possible," I told her on the phone.

"I can make room tomorrow afternoon. But Signore De Luca, you need to understand something. Trauma therapy isn't quick. It takes months, sometimes years. And it's painful. She'll have to relive what happened to heal from it."

"I don't care how long it takes or how hard it is. She needs help."

"Then bring her tomorrow. Two o'clock."

After I hung up, I went back upstairs. Marcella was awake, staring at the ceiling.

"I called a therapist," I said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Someone who specializes in trauma. You have an appointment tomorrow."

"I don't need therapy. I just need to get over it."

"Getting over it is therapy. No one just wakes up one day and stops having panic attacks."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she said, "What if it doesn't work? What if I'm always like this?"

"Then we adapt. But I think it will work. If you're willing to do the work."

"I don't know if I am."

"Why not?"

"Because therapy means talking about it. Reliving it. And I can barely survive remembering it in nightmares. How am I supposed to talk about it while I'm awake?"

I took her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Because keeping it locked inside is killing you. Slowly. Every panic attack, every nightmare, every moment you spend afraid of sounds and shadows. That's the trauma eating you alive."

"So what? I just talk about Morocco and magically feel better?"

"No. You talk about Morocco and learn tools to manage when your brain tries to convince you you're back there. You learn how to ground yourself. How to separate then from now."

She closed her eyes. "I'm so tired, Lorenzo. I'm tired of being scared. Tired of being broken."

"I know. That's why we're getting you help."

She opened her eyes and looked at me. Really looked at me. "Thank you. For not giving up on me."

"Never. You're mine. And I protect what's mine."

\---

That night, I held her while she slept. Or tried to sleep.

Every time she started to drift off, she'd jerk awake, her body tensing.

"It's okay," I'd murmur. "I'm here. You're safe."

Around three in the morning, she finally fell into a deeper sleep. But even then, she whimpered. Small, broken sounds that made my chest ache.

I thought about Cesare. About how I'd killed him quickly, efficiently. Two bullets to the chest, two to the head.

It hadn't been enough.

He'd still managed to hurt her. Still managed to leave scars that went deeper than the bullet wound.

If I could bring him back just to kill him again, slower this time, I would.

But that wouldn't help Marcella. Nothing I did to him would undo the damage.

All I could do was be here. Hold her. Get her the help she needed.

And make damn sure no one ever hurt her again.

The next afternoon, we drove to Dr. Fontana's office in the city. Marcella was quiet the whole way, her good hand clutching mine.

"What if she thinks I'm crazy?" she asked as we pulled up.

"She won't. She's seen worse than panic attacks."

"How do you know?"

"Because I sent men to her. Men who came back from jobs that broke them. She helped every single one."

That seemed to calm her slightly.

Dr. Fontana's office was in a quiet building near the water. Warm, comfortable, nothing clinical about it.

The doctor herself was in her fifties, with kind eyes and a calm presence that immediately put me at ease.

"Marcella," she said, shaking her hand. "I'm Dr. Fontana. Why don't you come in and we'll talk."

Marcella looked at me, uncertain.

"I'll be right here," I promised.

She nodded and followed Dr. Fontana into the office.

I sat in the waiting room, staring at nothing, and hoped this would help.

Hoped she'd find a way through the darkness.

Because I couldn't lose her to it.

I wouldn't.