Chapter 40 Marco #3
“Perfect.” Neli stands. Turns to me. “When we do dressing changes or any procedures that aren’t appropriate for little eyes, Ben will be my assistant. She’ll organize supplies outside the room. Count stickers and so forth. Very important work.”
Brilliant. Keeps Ben involved without traumatizing her.
I glance at Jess. She’s watching Neli with something like relief on her face.
“Thank you.” I tell Neli.
She just nods. Gets to work checking my vitals. Reviewing my medication schedule. Explaining what the next few weeks will look like.
It’s a lot. Trauma stabilization. Infection management. More reconstructive surgery scheduled for next week.
I half listen. The morphine is making everything fuzzy around the edges.
When she’s done Jess and Ben walk her out, then returns a few minutes later alone. Ben must have gone with Neli to organize stickers or whatever the hell Chief of Stickers does.
“She seems good.” I say when Jess settles into the chair beside me.
“She does.” Jess’s voice is quiet. Careful. “Marco. I need to tell you something.”
Here it comes. She’s quitting. Can’t handle this. Can’t handle me. Can’t handle any of it.
I brace for impact.
“I don’t remember whole hours from that day.” She’s not looking at me. She’s staring at her hands instead. “The attack. After. It’s just. Blank. Trauma fog the therapist called it.”
Oh.
Not quitting then.
“You’re seeing a therapist?” I ask.
“We both are.” She glances toward the door. “Me and Ben. Twice a week. Processing everything.”
Good. That’s good.
I should probably see one too. But the thought of sitting in some office talking about my feelings while my face is held together with surgical wire makes me want to punch something.
“I’m glad.” I manage. “That you’re getting help.”
“We need it.” Her voice cracks slightly. “What we saw. What happened. It’s not something you just shake off.”
No. It’s not.
“If it’s any consolation, I barely remember anything either,” I tell her. “I recall shooting the bear, and then waking up here. That’s it.”
We sit in silence for a while. Her hand finds my good one again. I hold on tighter than I should.
The days blur together after that.
Pain.
Morphine.
Brief windows of clarity between doses.
Ben doing her homeschool work in the room down the hall.
Jess always nearby.
Jag standing guard.
My team visits in rotation. Gianna brings reports I can barely focus on. Matteo sends food I can’t eat. Everything has to be liquid or soft. Chewing is still impossible.
The in-laws show up once. Livia’s face goes pale when she sees the bandages. Enzo just pats my good shoulder and tells me I’m strong. I’ll heal.
I want to believe him.
My own parents are long dead. Can’t visit. Can’t judge my stupid decisions from beyond the grave.
Small mercies.
By the end of the first week, a few days after my second reconstructive surgery, I’m doing remote meetings. Propped up in bed with my laptop balanced on a tray table. Running the business from my hospital room because sitting still makes me think too much.
Thinking is dangerous.
Leads to guilt spirals I can’t afford right now.
Speaking of which, whenever the nurses need to change my dressing Jess and Ben are escorted out by Jag. I insist on it. Won’t let them see what’s under these bandages.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Dr. Reeves tells me I’m healing faster than expected. Says she’s never seen recovery like this.
I laugh. Bitter. “And my money has nothing to do with that, right?”
She just gives me a look. Professional. Unimpressed.
“Your money got you the best care available.” She’s checking my chart. Making notes. “But healing still takes time. Still hurts. Money doesn’t change that.”
No. It doesn’t.
Money didn’t stop that bear from charging, either. Didn’t prevent my face from being torn open. Didn’t keep my daughter from almost seeing her father die.
All that wealth. All those resources. Useless when it mattered most.
Grizzly bears don’t give a fuck how many billions you have to your name.
The guilt is a constant now. Worse than the pain. Because the pain will eventually fade.
The guilt won’t.
I brought them there. Insisted on the trip. Loaded that shotgun. Made every wrong decision that led to this moment.
And for what? To teach Ben some bullshit about respect and courage?
She’s five. She should be coloring and playing with her stuffed snail. Not processing bear attack trauma in therapy twice a week.
When she hasn’t even finished processing the trauma of her mother’s death.
FUCK!
Yes.
I fucked up.
Monumentally.
And now everyone I love is paying the price.
The weeks crawl by. More surgery. More recovery. More morphine dreams where I’m falling into fires that never go out.
Ben brings me drawings. Stickers carefully placed on the blanket. Stories about what Frederick said or did.
Jess keeps the breathing games going. Counts with Ben when the anxiety spikes. Homeschools her in the room down the hall.
She’s holding everything together. The way she always does.
I watch her when she thinks I’m sleeping. The way she moves. Efficient. Purposeful. Like she’s running her own prep station and can’t afford to miss a step.
Beautiful. Even exhausted and traumatized she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The predator in me wants to pull her close. Claim her. Make her mine in ways that have nothing to do with employee contracts and everything to do with possession.
But I can’t. Not like this. Not when I look like something from a horror film and owe her more than I can ever repay.
So I just watch.
And want.
And hate myself for wanting.
Discharge day finally arrives.
I’m almost surprised.
A part of me thought I’d be here forever.
Dr. Reeves signs the papers.
Explains the home care protocol.
Neli will handle the dressing changes. The infection monitoring. The pain management.
“The facial bandages can come off permanently.” Dr. Reeves is watching me carefully. “Tonight when you’re home, you can take them off. The bandages on your shoulder and arm should stay a while longer, though. Understood?”
“No.” The word comes out flat. Final.
“Mr. Fiore?”
“I said no.” I’m not backing down on this. “The facial bandages stay on.”
He studies me. Probably running through his mental checklist of patient psychology. Deciding if I’m in denial or just being difficult.
Both.
Definitely both.
“For now,” he finally says. “But eventually you’ll need to take the bandages off. Process. Accept.”
Accept. Right. Accept that the face I had is gone.
That the man Jess fell for doesn’t exist anymore.
I saw my face in the hand mirror multiple times already, most recently during the last bandage change.
Wasn’t pretty.
So yeah, I’ll “accept” it when I’m ready. Not before.
Jag coordinates the discharge. Service elevator. Covered bay. Decoy wheelchair even though I can walk.
Can’t risk photos leaking. Can’t have Ben seeing her father’s bandaged face splashed across every gossip site in the city.
Filepe runs point. Luis handles the vehicle. The whole operation moves like clockwork.
We make it to the SUV without incident. Jess guides Ben into her seat. Buckles her in. Frederick secured beside her. Probably would have been better to go home alone if we really wanted to avoid attracting paparazzi, but I prefer it this way.
I climb in after. Every movement sends fresh pain radiating through my shoulder.
Worth it to be going home.
Jag takes the driver’s seat.
Pulls out of the bay.
The familiar Manhattan traffic swallows us whole.
I lean my head back against the seat. Close my eyes.
How many weeks has it been? Feels like years.
Jess’s hand finds mine in the space between our seats.
I should feel something. Anything, at her touch.
But I feel nothing.
She squeezes once.
I squeeze back.
We’re going home. All of us. Alive. Together.
It’s not enough. Not nearly enough to make up for what I put them through.
But it’s a start.