Chapter 10 - Carmela
I'm sore after being thoroughly taken by Van twice in as many days. My body isn't used to this.
The silence in his sterile apartment feels different now—charged with energy. I pad through his space in one of his surgical scrub shirts, my body still humming from the intensity of him.
Van's already left for an emergency surgery—something about a multi-car accident that couldn't wait. Before he left, he kissed me hard, then pressed a credit card into my hands. "Back soon. Buy whatever makes you happy." Then he grabbed his keys and was gone before I could say anything back.
Whatever makes me happy. I think about those words until they merge. When's the last time someone said that to me without adding conditions? Without expecting something in return?
The soft cotton of his scrub shirt hangs to my thighs as I move to the kitchen and look at the credit card, matte black with his name embossed in silver. No spending limit listed.
My chest does this weird flutter thing. I'm making a decision without family approval, without asking permission, without considering what anyone else wants. Just me, claiming space in this sterile apartment that feels more like a medical facility than a home.
Am I actually doing this? Playing house with a man who could break me in half? The thought makes me grin as I go get changed into jeans and a t-shirt.
Two hours later, I'm still humming as I arrange succulents along his windowsills, their bright green shocking against all the gray and black.
My voice echoes off his bare walls—the first music these rooms have heard, probably.
Coffee beans from a local roaster fill a glass jar on the counter, their rich aroma already warming the kitchen.
Throw pillows in bright yellow dot the leather couch.
A philodendron trails from a hanging planter, bringing life to his carefully controlled emptiness.
I'm proud of the plants, excited by my independence, and desperately hoping he'll love what I've done. Or at least not hate it. It feels good to be finally making choices that feel entirely mine.
"I arranged the succulents by light requirements," I tell the empty apartment, practicing what I'll say when he gets home. Do I sound confident? Or like a kid showing off finger paintings?
The yellow pillows catch afternoon light, and I imagine Van's reaction. Will he see them as joy invading his darkness, or territory I'm claiming without permission? The uncertainty makes my pulse race, but I don't remove them. I chose to stay. I chose to build something here instead of running.
I catch my reflection in his spotless windows—small woman in simple jeans and a tee, hair messy, cheeks flushed with accomplishment. I look… happy. When's the last time I looked genuinely happy instead of performing happiness for my family?
The coffee jar gleams on his sterile counter like a small rebellion. I run my fingers along its smooth surface, grinning at how the rich aroma transforms his clinical kitchen into something that breathes.
Van's nightmare starts during his afternoon nap after he returns from the emergency surgery, exhausted from hours of trauma work on top of everything we've been dealing with. I'm repotting herbs on the kitchen counter when I hear the first sharp intake of breath from the bedroom.
Then the thrashing begins.
I freeze, soil coating my fingers, listening to his powerful body convulse against the sheets. This isn't restless sleep. This is something darker.
"No," he gasps, voice raw with terror I've never heard from him before. "I can't choose. Don't make me choose."
My heart clenches. I probably ought to give him privacy, let him work through whatever this is alone. But the sounds he makes—guttural, broken—pull me toward the bedroom like gravity.
He's fighting invisible restraints, his wrists twisting in that specific motion I've seen him make when he thinks I'm not watching. "The patients," he pleads with someone who isn't there. "Which patients do I save? I can't—they're… no…"
Oh God. This isn't just any nightmare. This is the nightmare. The one that carved those rope scars into his wrists.
His body jerks against phantom zip ties, reliving whatever horror stole pieces of his soul. "Choose," he whispers desperately, and I realize this is what lives beneath his careful control. This is why he needs power instead of helplessness.
"Save them," he whispers, then his words trail off into unintelligible sounds.
Watching him trapped in trauma breaks something open in my chest. I don't know what I'm doing, but I can't just stand here while he suffers.
Without thinking, I drop to my knees beside the bed, hands flat against his chest where his heart hammers like it might burst. Something about staying calm, grounding him through steady touch—it flows from some deep instinct I didn't know I had.
"Van," I say, letting my voice cut through the darkness consuming him. "You're safe. You're home."
His thrashing doesn't stop, but something shifts. My voice reaches him even in the nightmare's grip.
I keep my hands steady on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breathing. Am I actually helping, or just playing house like some stupid girl with a crush? 'Local Girl Saves Grumpy Surgeon with Power of Optimism' - what a headline that would make.
The doubt tries to creep in, but I push it away. This isn't about me right now.
"You saved them all, Van. Every patient you could reach. You're not helpless anymore."
My voice becomes an anchor, pulling him toward safety.
"Come back to me," I whisper, leaning closer. "You're not there anymore. You're here, with me, and you're safe."
His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, searching for threats that don't exist. But when they find mine, something settles. His breathing begins to slow, reality winning the fight against memory.
"Carmela?" His voice is hoarse, uncertain, like he can't believe I'm real.
"I'm here." I don't move my hands from his chest. "You're okay. You're home."
He sits up slowly, running shaking hands through his hair. When he notices the transformed apartment for the first time, his gaze moves from the plants to the coffee beans to the splash of color I've scattered throughout his carefully controlled space.
"You stayed," he says, and there's wonder in his voice.
"I chose to stay," I correct, the distinction feeling important. "I chose to build something here instead of running."
He stands slowly, moving through the apartment like he's seeing it for the first time. His fingers brush the soft leaves of the philodendron, trail along the bright throw pillows. When he picks up the jar of coffee beans and inhales, something almost like a smile crosses his face.
"You made it alive," he says quietly.
Pride swells in my chest. "I arranged the succulents by light requirements," I tell him, bouncing slightly on my toes with excitement over my domestic victories. "And that coffee roaster said these beans pair perfectly with morning sunrise."
His careful observation of my nesting behavior makes me suddenly aware of the age gap between us. Where I see small triumphs, he sees deeper patterns. Where I feel pride in simple achievements, he recognizes something more profound.
"Christ, you actually stayed." His voice cracks slightly, like he expected to come home to empty rooms. "You bought coffee. Real coffee."
The raw emotion in his voice catches me off guard. This controlled man, undone by yellow pillows and coffee beans.
"I'm making a home," I tell him, the words feeling more mature than anything I've ever said. "There's a difference between claiming territory and building something together."
His eyes darken with something that makes my pulse race. "Together?"
"If you want that." Suddenly I'm nervous again, young and uncertain despite everything. "I mean, I know I'm young, and I don't really know what I'm doing with the domesticity thing, but—"
He crosses to me in three quick steps, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that carries gratitude and possession and something deeper I'm afraid to name. When we break apart, both breathing hard, he rests his forehead against mine.
"I want that," he says simply.
Van returns from his evening shift at the hospital to find me standing frozen at the kitchen table, photos spread across its surface like a gruesome deck of cards.
Brutal images of Torrino violence—bodies arranged in parking garages, family members who asked too many questions, the specific cruelties they use to send messages.
My optimism crashes against the reality of mafia warfare spread in glossy 8x10 prints. These aren't distant threats anymore. This is what wants to hurt Van because of me, because of my name, because of the debt he owes my family.
"Where did these come from?" he asks. Van's jaw tightens as he takes in the photos scattered across our table—because it's ours now, isn't it?
"Marco had them delivered." My voice stays steady even as my hands shake. "He wants us to understand what we're dealing with."
The images are designed to terrify, to make me run back to the safety of family protection.
Photos of torture, of slow deaths, of what the Torrinos do to people who stand in their way.
I pick up one photo—a woman about my age, bound and tortured for her father's mistakes. She has dark hair like mine.
"They're arranged like a macabre gallery opening," I hear myself say, that inappropriate cheerfulness creeping into my voice when I'm terrified.
"Very dark Renaissance. The Torrinos should really consider better lighting if they want the full dramatic effect—" My voice cracks, and fear crashes through me.
Not just for myself, but for Van. For what they'll do to him because of me.
My breathing gets shallow and quick. The apartment suddenly feels too small, too exposed. What if they're watching right now? What if they're coming for us tonight?
"I can't—" The words catch in my throat. "Van, what if they hurt you? What if I got you killed just by being here?"
These aren't distant threats anymore. This is what wants to hurt the man I'm falling in love with because of my name, because of choices I made without understanding the consequences.
Van's there instantly, his hands framing my face, steel-gray eyes locked on mine with absolute focus.
"Look at me," he commands, voice dropping into that dominant register that makes my pulse skip. "Breathe with me."
But I can't. The photos keep flashing in my mind—that woman's terrified eyes, her bound hands, what they did to her before she died. "She looks like me," I whisper. "She could be me, and then you'd be—"
"Carmela." His voice cuts through my spiraling panic. "You're safe. I'm safe. We're going to handle this."
"How?" My voice cracks with twenty-four years of sheltered innocence finally meeting the reality of what my family name means. "I don't know how to fight people like this. I don't know how to protect you from—"
His mouth captures mine, hard and possessive and grounding. When we break apart, I'm breathing in sync with him again.
"Do you trust me?" he asks, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones.
"Yes." The answer comes without hesitation.
"Then let me take care of this. Let me take care of you." His eyes search mine, and I see something deeper than dominance there. Protection, possession, and something that looks almost like love. "Can you do that for me?"
The request settles something wild and panicked in my chest. This is what we do—he leads, I follow, and together we're stronger than either of us alone.
"Yes," I whisper.
But instead of moving away, instead of making phone calls or planning strategy, Van's hands slide to my throat, fingers tracing where my pulse hammers against my skin.
"You grounded me when I was lost in trauma," he says, voice rough with emotion. "Now let me ground you."
The familiar intensity begins to center me. Van's hands, steady and sure, replacing chaos with control. The fear doesn't disappear, but it transforms into something else—trust, need, the knowledge that I'm safe with him no matter what dangers lurk outside these walls.
"I need you present with me," he continues. "Not lost in what-ifs and terror. Can you be present for me?"
"Better?" he asks, reading the change in my breathing, the way my shoulders relax under his touch.
"Better," I confirm, meaning it.
He guides me toward the bedroom, and I follow willingly, knowing that whatever's waiting for us tomorrow, tonight we have this. Tonight we have each other.
"The photos can wait," he says, hands already working the scrub shirt up my body. "Right now, there's just you and me."
The Torrinos think they can scare me away from him with threats and brutal images. They don't understand that fear only makes me hold tighter to what I'm choosing to protect.
They want to use my terror against me. Instead, I'm going to let Van transform it into something that makes us both stronger.
His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin, and I arch into him with a gasp. My hands fumble with his belt, desperate to feel his cock hard and ready against my palm.
"That's my girl," he growls as I wrap my fingers around his length, stroking until his breathing turns ragged. "Show me how much you need this."
I guide him to the bed, pushing him down so I can straddle his thighs. When I sink down onto his cock, taking him deep into my wet pussy, we both groan at the perfect fit.
This is how we fight the darkness. Together, bodies joined, claiming each other despite every threat trying to tear us apart.