Chapter 45 Marco
Marco
Neli doesn’t ask. She tells.
“You’re going,” she says this morning while bringing me my breakfast.
I’m working through my shoulder rehabilitation exercises, and grimace in pain.
“Going where?” I keep my voice uninterested.
“Facial trauma peer group. Church basement in Brooklyn. Seven pm tonight.”
I laugh bitterly. “Absolutely fucking not.”
She doesn’t flinch. Just puts my breakfast tray down on the table and steps back. “Mr. Fiore. You’ve been hiding in this room for weeks. Your daughter cries every time she sees you. The woman who saved your life won’t even knock on your door anymore. You need help.”
“I have help. I have you.”
“I’m a nurse. Not a therapist.” She crosses her arms. “This group is people who’ve been through what you’re going through. Facial scarring. Trauma. Identity shifts. They understand.”
“I don’t need understanding. I need time.”
“Time for what exactly? To convince yourself you’re unlovable? To keep punishing yourself? You’ve had time! More than enough!” Her voice softens but doesn’t yield. “You’re not the first person to lose their face and survive. But you will be the first to waste the second chance.”
The words hit harder than I want to admit.
She gives me an address and a time, and refuses to leave until I enter both into my phone.
After she’s gone, the address mocks me from the phone screen. Some church in Sunset Park. Public transit accessible. Which means normal people. Regular humans who won’t have security teams and decoy routes and enough money to hide forever.
Fuck.
Do I really want to do this?
I could just pretend Neli never gave me the address.
Could go on hiding...
I close my eyes. Sigh.
I can do it.
Need to do it.
I text Jag first. Need advance sweep. Church basement. Sunset Park. Tonight at seven. No cameras. No recordings. Full perimeter.
His response comes back in under thirty seconds. On it.
Then I open the text thread with Jess. We’ve become experts at this. Digital communication. Safe. No chance she’ll see my face.
My fingers hover over the virtual keyboard. What the hell do I even say?
Finally I type: Going to some healing circle thing tonight. Neli’s idea. Wish me luck.
The three dots appear almost immediately. That’s really brave Marco. You’ve got this.
I’m brave?
Right.
The same word I used with Ben before I dragged them both into the woods and nearly got them killed.
I stare at my phone. At her reply.
Her response seemed a little too quick and rehearsed. A little too... unsurprised.
I wonder if she put Neli up to this.
But even if she did, it means she still gives a shit.
I want to text Jess again. Ask her what she’s wearing. What she’s doing. If she thinks about our night in the cabin before everything went to shit.
I pocket my phone and force myself to look in the mirror.
No. She doesn’t think about that night. Can’t. Because she can’t feel any attraction to... this.
I run my fingers across my scars.
What’s the fucking point?
Sitting with strangers sharing trauma like it’s some kind of group therapy potluck. Everyone brings their damage and we all pretend talking about it makes it better.
I don’t need pity from people who don’t know me.
Don’t need their sympathy or their “it gets better” bullshit.
What I need is this face to stop looking like some shit out of a horror film.
The day passes. I work remotely. Neli brings lunch. I barely touch it. She returns with dinner hours later and reminds me about tonight.
“Seven pm,” she says. “Don’t forget.”
“Yeah.” I don’t look up from my laptop. “Got it.”
She doesn’t argue. Leaves the food and goes.
I force myself to eat dinner. Rosa made some kind of Spaghetti all’Ubriaco with a red wine reduction that ordinarily would be to die for, but tonight I barely taste it.
I’m thinking about that fucking peer group.
I don’t think I’m really going to go.
But then half an hour before, I grab my N95 mask and ballcap and suit up.
I fucking told Jess I’m going.
I’m a man of my word.
Besides, Jag and Felipe already cleared the route and performed an advance sweep. I’d hate for their efforts to go to waste.
Though it wouldn’t be the first time, I suppose.
With a sigh, I slide on the N95 mask, pull the ballcap low over my forehead, and I crack open the door and check the hallway.
Clear.
No sign of Ben or Jess.
I move fast. Hurrying down the stairs like I’m sneaking out after curfew instead of just leaving my own goddamn home. Every creak makes me freeze. Every shadow could be Jess rounding the corner with those eyes that see too much.
Pathetic. I’m literally hiding from a woman who weighs maybe 140 pounds and a five-year-old with a stuffed snail.
This is what I’ve become.
Sneaking through my house like some fucking thief.
I make it to the mudroom without incident. Jag’s already there. Waiting. He doesn’t comment on the mask or the cap or the fact that I just skulked through my own house like a burglar.
Professional to the core.
Jag drives. I sit in the back of the Range Rover watching Brooklyn roll past. Sunset Park is working-class. Brick buildings and corner stores. The kind of area where people actually know their neighbors.
My phone buzzes. Felipe via text: Perimeter clear. No cameras. Team inside ran security checks on attendees. All clean.
Good. The last thing I need is some opportunistic asshole recording my breakdown and selling it to TMZ.
We pull up to the church. Modest. Worn stone steps. A sign out front advertising AA meetings and ESL classes.
I adjust my mask. Pull the cap lower.
“You want me inside?” Jag asks.
Do I want my own security watching me unmask in front of strangers? Watching me admit I can’t handle this shit alone?
Fuck no.
“No. Stay close though.”
He nods. Knows the drill.
The basement smells like mold and industrial cleaner. Old lights buzz overhead. A circle of folding chairs surrounds a full-length mirror propped in the center. A small basket sits next to it.
About a dozen people are already seated. All ages. All genders. All showing their damage.
A woman with half her face reconstructed from a car accident. A guy with burn scars covering his neck and jaw. Another woman whose entire left cheek looks like it was scraped off and put back wrong.
Everyone’s unmasked. Faces on full display like ingredients prepped and ready for service.
I’m the only one hiding.
The urge to turn around and walk out hits hard.
This was a fucking mistake.
I don’t belong here.
These people are survivors.
Fighters.
I’m just a rich asshole who got what he deserved.
But then someone gestures to an empty chair and my feet move before my brain catches up.
I sit. Keep my mask on. Cap pulled low enough that I’m barely visible.
The facilitator is older. Sixties maybe. Her own scars are faded but present. Burns probably. She has that calm energy of someone who’s been through hell and came out the other side without losing her humanity.
“Welcome everyone,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly hard. The kind of tone that doesn’t tolerate bullshit. “For those new to the group, I’m Patricia. We have one rule here. Radical honesty. No filters. No judgment. What’s said here stays here.”
People nod. A few murmur agreement.
Patricia’s eyes land on me. “We have a new member tonight. Would you like to introduce yourself?”
Every head turns. I can feel their attention like heat from a grill too close to my station.
“Marco,” I say. My voice comes out muffled through the mask. “I got mauled by a bear.”
Silence. Then someone laughs. Not cruel. Just surprised.
“A bear?” The guy with burn scars grins. “In New York? That’s metal as fuck, man!”
Despite everything, I almost smile.
Patricia gestures around the circle. “Most of us have stories. Car accidents. Fires. Assaults. Illness. The cause matters less than what comes after. The grief. The adjustment. The rage.”
Rage. Yeah. That tracks.
“Before we start,” I interrupt. “Can I confirm there are no cameras? No recordings?”
Patricia nods. “Phones off or in the basket.” She nods to the basket next to the mirror. “We take privacy seriously here.”
I stand up, pull out my phone. As I walk to the basket, I text Jag one more time: Confirm no cameras on the premises.
His response: Verified. You’re clear.
I drop my phone in the basket. Half a dozen others are already inside.
At least these people follow rules.
I return to my chair. The metal feels cold through my jeans. Everyone else looks settled. Comfortable even.
But me?
I feel like a fraud.
Then again, I always feel like a fraud. Money usually buys enough distance that no one notices. Works in boardrooms. Investor meetings. Michelin star dining rooms where everyone’s too polite to call out your bullshit.
Doesn’t work here.
Here I’m just another damaged face in a circle of damaged faces. No net worth to hide behind. No empire to point to as proof I’m worth something.
Just me. And the scarring.
Fuck it.
I reach up and remove the cap.
The mask comes next.
My face is exposed. Scars and all. Under lights that hide nothing.
No one flinches. No one stares. They just nod like I finally showed up to the party.
It feels strange. Liberating in a way I didn’t expect.
That’s when I notice him. Across the circle. A familiar face.
Nico Rossi.
Dominic’s younger brother. The one who got hurt during a home invasion years ago.
His face has the same reconstructed quality mine does. Scar tissue down the right side.
His smile is crooked but present.
“Fiore,” he says. “Rough deal.”
“Rossi.” I nod back. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Been coming for years. It helps.” He leans back in his chair, comfortable in his own damaged skin. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Used to what?”
“The face. The stares. The way people look at you like you’re broken.” His voice is matter of fact. No self-pity. “You’ll love yourself again. Mostly because you’ll get bored of hating yourself.”
A surprised laugh escapes before I can stop it.
“Bored of hating myself,” I repeat. “That’s the bar?”
“That’s the bar.” His grin widens. It’s crooked, but genuine. “Trust me. Self-loathing gets exhausting after a while.”
Patricia clears her throat. “Tonight’s exercise is mirror work. You’ll approach the mirror one at a time. Look at yourself. State three neutral facts. Not judgments. Just observations.”
Neutral facts. Like calling out mise en place before service.
People take turns. Each one stands. Looks. Speaks.
“Skin graft healed pink.”
“Left eyebrow absent.”
“Jawline asymmetrical.”
The words land without emotion. Just data. Information plated and served.
My turn arrives too fucking fast.
I stand. My legs feel disconnected. Like someone else is operating my body and I’m just along for the ride.
The five steps to the mirror feels like fifty.
Finally I reach it, and force myself to look.
The scars dominate everything. The thick ridge from cheekbone to jaw where they stitched my face back together like a torn dish towel. The forehead track that catches the overhead light and throws shadows across my eye socket.
This is what a bear leaves behind when it’s done with you.
This is what I am now.
The Marco from a few days ago would have smashed this mirror. Bled all over the shards. Let the pain on the outside match the guilt on the inside.
But that’s not why I’m here.
Three neutral facts.
Not judgments.
“Left zygomatic ridge... healed,” I say as if by rote, my voice steady. Clinical. “Hairline ridge... present. Eye tracking... normal.”
And that’s it.
Patricia nods.
I return to my seat.
The rest of the session blurs. People share stories. Strategies. Small victories and massive setbacks.
Nico catches my eye at one point. Gives me a nod that says: You did the thing.
The second Patricia says “That’s all for tonight,” I’m moving.
Mask on. Cap pulled low. Phone snatched from the basket before anyone can corner me with their well-meaning solidarity bullshit.
I hit the door like the building’s on fire.
Behind me I hear Nico call out something. Probably “See you next week” or some other optimistic crap.
I don’t turn around. Don’t acknowledge. Just push through into the night air like a man who just barely escaped drowning.
Pathetic. Racing away from the only people who actually understand what this is like.
But I can’t handle their kindness right now. Can’t stomach another person looking at my scar and telling me it’s not that bad or time heals all wounds or whatever platitude they’ve got loaded up.
I just need to get to the vehicle. Get home. Get back behind my locked door where no one can see me.
Jag is waiting by the SUV and immediately opens the door for me.
“Let’s go!” I tell him as I climb into the SUV. The nerve pain spikes as soon as I settle into the seat. It’s sharp and hot like someone’s dragging coals across my collarbone.
All I can do is grin and bear it.
When we’re finally on the road, I grab my phone and text Jess: Made the circle.
Her response comes with a photo attached. A drawing Ben made, taped to the fridge, of a stick figure with a cape. “Daddy Being Brave” is written in wobbly letters across the top.
Something in my chest cracks wide open and I have to look away from the screen before the sudden burning behind my eyes turns into full-blown tears.
I touch the N95 mask at my face. The cap pulled low on my head.
Brave. Not sure how brave I am.
Not yet.
I’m still not ready to show Jess my face.
Not ready to see whatever expression crosses hers when she realizes what I’ve become.
But soon.
Maybe.
And that will be real bravery.
Jess.
The woman who saved my life. Who kept my daughter from seeing me turned into hamburger. Who sleeps down the hall from her taking care of everything while I hide like a coward.
She deserves better than texts and closed doors.
And fuck, I want to claim her. Mark her. Make sure she knows she’s mine. Like I did during the nights we used to have together.
But I can’t. Not when I look like this.
I try to tell myself she was never really interested in my money or my looks.
That she wanted the man underneath.
So the scars shouldn’t matter, right?
Problem is, I’m not sure the man underneath exists anymore.
I stare at the message again. At the drawing of stick-figure me being brave.
Maybe Nico’s right.
Maybe I will get bored of hating myself eventually.
Maybe I’ll even learn to love what’s left.
But not tonight.