43. Adalina
Chapter 43
Adalina
S ilas comes to the house a few days later to check on Dante, Enzo, and me. The security around the Terlizzi compound has increased exponentially. He is stopped at the gate by armed guards who thoroughly search him before allowing him to proceed. When he arrives at the front door, Salvatore frisks him. Then, he’s brought to the kitchen to undergo a third pat down by Dante.
“I don’t mean to offend you,” he shrugs, “but you can’t be too careful.”
The doctor’s demeanor remains unfazed, but a hint of sass creeps into his response. “Do what you gotta do. It’s only your health and wellness check you’re delaying.”
Dante snorts impatiently as he clears Silas to check on Enzo. “I’m healthy, wealthy, and wise, doc. You’re here mainly for these two.”
I straighten my posture, feeling every vertebrae aligning as I draw my shoulders back and lift my chin. I mimic Dante’s confident stance, trying to exude the same aura of put-togetherness. “I’m perfectly fine,” I clarify.
Silas lifts Enzo’s shirt and begins to change the bandage over the gunshot wound the bodyguard took to the stomach. “And how’s your wrist?”
My eyes flicker everywhere but towards my wrist, which is hidden under my long-sleeved shirt. “Perfectly fine.”
“Don’t listen to her.” Dante sits beside me, reaching across the table to grab my casted arm. “She’s complained of some recent throbbing. Do you think you could prescribe more pain meds?”
With a sharp tug, I snatch my arm back, wrenching it from his grasp. My eyes flash with anger as I glare at him for betraying my trust and revealing to the doctor what I had only confided to him in private. “Tylenol works just fine. I don’t need anything stronger.”
“You sure?” Silas tosses a look over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Pain is normal in the first few days of wearing a cast, but ongoing and throbbing pain is concerning. I can prescribe something if it’s serious.”
The last time he gave me pain medication, I felt like I was floating on a cloud. My memories from the night of the break-in are blurred, but I do recall taking a shower and then stumbling into bed with Dante. The rest of the evening is a foggy jumble in my mind. “I don’t want pain meds. I don’t like the way they make me feel.”
“The wound is healing great,” Silas returns his attention to Enzo. “You’re doing a good job keeping the surgical site clean, too.”
Dante leans over and whispers, “If it keeps you out of pain for a few hours, isn’t it worth it?”
For the last few days, Dante has been the epitome of celibacy and gentlemanly behavior. It makes me angry. Every night, we sleep side by side, our bodies barely touching. When I wake up from a nightmare, he holds me and comforts me. But he doesn’t touch me with passion or desire. He treats me like glass that’s about to break. “The pain is a reminder that the man who did this to me is still alive and plotting another attack.”
“Not for long,” Enzo growls through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowing with determination. “We’re going to get that bastard.”
“Enzo,” Dante snaps harshly at the bodyguard. “Not in front of Silas.”
Silas’ lips curl upwards into a patient smile as he stands tall, drawing himself to his full height. “While I’d prefer not to hear anything I might have to testify to in court, your secrets are safe with me, Dante. God knows your family pays me enough to put my neck on the line for you.”
I wonder what the going rate is to have a doctor on the payroll in this line of work. I never thought about it before, but I remember my father had someone like Dr. Stone on call. He only ever came to check on me when I’d been severely beaten. His touch was rough and impersonal, his words callous and dismissive. Instead of providing proper medication, he would simply tell me to toughen up and ice my injuries. It was clear he saw me as nothing more than a nuisance, an inconvenience to his time.
The doctor carefully inspects the plaster cast, running his fingers along the rough edges and checking for any signs of discomfort. With a furrowed brow, he asks me a series of questions about tightness and itching, taking note of my responses. His movements are precise and deliberate as he pulls out his prescription pad, scribbling the word Oxycodone in neat, looping letters. “Get this filled,” he rips off the sheet and hands it to Dante. “You don’t have to take it. It won’t make you feel weird or anything. If you’re talking about what I gave you the other night, it was the sedative that made you feel different. This is just pain medication, and it’ll take the edge off.”
He can call it whatever he wants; I’m not taking it.
“Let me check your stitches.” Silas removes the bandage and inspects his work. “These will be ready to come out next week. You’re healing quite well, but there will be a scar. There are some lotions and creams you can pick up from the store that reduce the appearance of scars. I prefer Mederma, but you can try a few and see what works for you.”
“No.” I reach up to gingerly finger the intricate stitching that laces my skin together. “I-I’m fine. The scar won’t bother me.” I want to tell him that the scar is proof my father tried to break me and failed. I want to explain that the scar is a reminder that I survived and overcame another obstacle meant to kill me. I have dozens of them on my back and thighs, some self-inflicted. They tell my story. They remind me that I am a warrior. They are the roadmap of my past. I would never want to see them fade because every scar was needed to make me the person I am today.
Silas nods his head as if he understands. The crook of his smile tells me that he gets it. Even as he moves on to Dante, checking his stitches to see if they need to come out, I can tell that Silas Stone understands me a great deal more than anyone else in this world. He’s seen things. He’s healed people. He might not fully grasp my needs on a cellular level, but he respects me enough not to argue.